The Raccoon, the Prince, and the Spider Lollipop

by aitaii

Summary:

Stelle hides her nobility. He hides his royalty. Their poker-game friendship shatters when she learns he's a prince — devastatingly, not the one her mother will force her to marry.

Chapter 1: The Raccoon and the Gambler

Notes:

hello hi, so, i'm really nervous
it's my first time posting something here or even something in english at all, it's not my first or even second language so PLEASE don't be too harsh on me - i'm trying my best :(((
i just wanted to indulge in my fantasies, that's why i decided to start writing after a really long time of being anxious at a single thought of it....

The Sweet Dreams tavern was unusually crowded and noisy tonight. Judging by the swarm of men coated in coal dust, roaring over jokes about their wives that weren't the least bit funny, and downing the cheapest ale available, the nearby mines must have paid their wages. A pity for the trio of friends tucked into the corner table, who could only sigh each time another wave of slurred laughter erupted from the totally drunk miners.

They stood out against the wild crowd: in the middle sat a girl with pink hair cascading to her shoulders and wide, distrusting blue eyes fixed on the suspicious meat pie dominating the table; a dark-haired young man with a stern expression, nearly glued to his beloved notebook as he scribbled notes, only occasionally glancing up to offer a dry remark; and… her . A girl shrouded in a hooded black cloak adorned with random leather straps and orange accents. Beneath it peeked a plain white blouse, a knee-length skirt neither too voluminous nor too tight, and cream-colored knee-high socks paired with scuffed boots. A turquoise band wrapped around her thigh stood out like a deliberate flourish, while under the hood, silver hair framed delicate features. Her amber eyes, sharp-pupiled and faintly luminous in the shadow of the fabric, gave her the air of a cat peering from the dark.

"Guys, I think it's… alive," said the pink-haired girl, March, prodding the meat with a shaky fork. "Ah! It moved! " She shrieked, nearly knocking the pie off the table had Dan Heng not lunged to catch it.

"Unlikely," he replied flatly, his nose wrinkling. "Unless it's been festering long enough to cultivate its own civilization. Remind me again—whose idea was it to order 'Six Feet Underground'?"

The hooded girl laughed awkwardly, scratching the back of her neck:

"Well… It's the Pumpkin Lantern Festival now! I thought the name was just festive flair! Who'd guess it'd look like someone actually chewed up a corpse and baked it into a crust?"

March sighed, shaking her head with a theatrical slump:

"Let's never let you pick the food again. Like, never in the history of ever."

"Don't worry, Ray," Dan Heng said without glancing up, flipping a page in his notebook. "Statistically, half of humanity has terrible taste. You're in good company."

The silver-haired girl—"Ray"—puffed out her cheeks and crossed her arms, huffing. Oh, sure, blame me. They hadn't uttered a word of protest when she'd pointed at the menu! Now, they acted like they had nothing to do with this tragic choice.

"Fine! You pay next time, geniuses!" She stuck out her tongue before crossing her arms and letting out a quiet "hmph!".

Such lighthearted fights were commonplace among them, but they left a warmth in the heart of the girl whose actual name wasn't Ray—though she sometimes wished it were. Her real identity, Stelle, was a secret locked deep within her. A necessary lie, one that nibbled at her whenever her friends wondered aloud why she disappeared for days without a word.

The hour had long since slipped past midnight. They always met under the veil of darkness when Stelle could slip free from her gilded cage and pretend, for a stolen handful of hours, to be someone ordinary.

"Ray…" March began; she abandoned her fork to swirl her wineglass, her face unreadable. "The festival's tomorrow. You are coming, right? I know you've waited a whole year and all that, but… you're so hard to pin down sometimes."

Her eyes widened, pleading and puppy-like, as if a "no" might kill her. Guilt twisted in Stelle's chest. Oh, how she hated making them worry and wonder about her whereabouts all the time. She wished she could abandon the act and be herself, but for now, "Ray" could only indulge in dreaming about times when it happens.

"Of course!" She ruffled March's pink hair, her smile softening. "I wouldn't miss spider lollipops! Just imagining them—" She licked her lips, a thread of drool nearly escaping. "—that sour punch when you first bite, then the sweet cherry oozing out! And the chocolate legs… It should be considered a crime against humanity that they're only sold during the festival!"

"You'd bankrupt the vendors," March giggled. "I can already picture Ray devouring spiders for breakfast, lunch, and dinner."

"An arachnophobe's fever dream," Dan Heng added drily. "I've got a colony at my place. Need extermination?"

"Ugh, no, thank you! Live spiders are disgusting!"

As if to echo her revulsion, a nearby drunk puked violently. March snorted, jabbing Stelle with her elbow:

"Looks like you've got an ally."

Stelle stiffened. Mocking another's misfortune was unbecoming. She wasn't that sort of person—

Another heave, louder and wetter. This time, a snort burst from Stelle. She clapped a hand over her mouth, murmuring a reflexive "Pardon me" under her breath.

March dismissed it, but Dan Heng's gaze flicked to Stelle, lingering like a blade testing its edge. He turned a page and scribbled faster, the scratch of his pen almost accusatory - it's like telling a joke to a psychiatrist, but instead of laughing, he starts taking notes.

Eventually, the drunk's merciful comrades dragged him outside, letting the crisp autumn air rush in—a relief through the tavern's stench of stale ale, rancid frying oil, and tobacco smoke. Stelle inhaled deeply, the chill finally cleansing her lungs, making her feel born again.

With a slight smile, she carefully picked up a wine glass and took a small sip to check the taste. The girl's nose scrunched up just for a moment: it was bitter and reeked of cheapness. But for a place like this one - it's not surprising. Actually, it's not half as bad as some wine in other taverns. And we're not even talking about the ale those men are drinking... She tried it once and almost puked, not from being drunk but from utter disgust. Even if it's cheap, is it worth it if it tastes like dirt mixed with rotten grass?

Dan Heng kept watching her. She pretended not to notice his lingering gaze every now and then. Once, she'd thought he wanted to say something but was too shy. Now she knew better - Dan Heng is never afraid to share his opinion, not with them. He was an analyst who dissected the world through that notebook. It was weird, but the girls had long since grown accustomed to it and now considered it charming in its own way.

The doors closed soon after—much to Stelle's dismay. It seemed the drunkard's companions, realizing his evening was over, had taken pity and decided to escort him home. A small mercy, at least; no one would further ruin what was already a raucous night. As soon as the miners left, the silence that followed felt like a divine blessing. The other patrons, who hadn't participated in the workers' impromptu revelry, sighed in relief. Only the bartender remained as stoic as ever, betraying neither joy nor disappointment. Nothing seemed to faze him, judging by his eternally stony expression as he mechanically mixed drinks for the guests at the counter.

"Can you believe it? We might actually get to sit and talk in peace now," March sighed, rubbing her temples. "I was starting to wonder what they'd write on my tombstone: Death by miner's breath or Shattered eardrums."

"Try the pie, and we can add food poisoning," Dan Heng shrugged. Stelle burst out laughing—the way he said it with that deadpan expression made it even funnier.

The silver-haired girl glanced around. Now, the tavern resembled the place they'd fallen in love with—soft lighting casting a cozy glow, sturdy wooden tables (some large, some small), plush sofas and armchairs tucked into corner nooks, and walls adorned with patrons' scribbles, cheap auction paintings, and shelves of knickknacks from foreign lands. The large round table at the center, which had recently been occupied by the rowdy miners, was now being swiftly cleaned by a young waitress. Quick as a whip—the men had barely left, and the table already sparkled. Ralph was lucky to have her. The atmosphere lifted immediately; new patrons trickled in—loners sipping solitary drinks while scanning the room, couples lost in their own worlds, groups of friends chuckling over the latest gossip.

Nothing could spoil this night now!—

"Ladies and gentlemen!"

A voice drifted from the staircase—smooth as sinful honey but with an aftertaste of bitterness. Friendly, but only superficially. A veneer of warmth masking mockery. Like a flower luring insects with vibrant colors and sweet nectar, only to snap shut and devour them. Cloyingly sweet, yet poisonous.

The room fell silent, all eyes turning toward the source of the sound. The young man hadn't raised his voice, yet he'd effortlessly commanded attention. Curiosity got the better of "Ray," and she turned to look. The moment her eyes landed on the unfamiliar figure, her heart stuttered, her lips parting slightly in surprise.

The stranger was dressed extravagantly—far too extravagantly for a humble tavern. An emerald-green shirt with gold embroidery at the collar, a daring slit at the chest adding intrigue, and a glittering gemstone nestled just beneath it. A dark waistcoat and jacket with emerald accents, trimmed with white fur. His hands were sheathed in black gloves, the only understated part of his ensemble. Every single element of his outfit was adorned with jewels, as if he were determined to flaunt his wealth. Rings stacked on his long fingers, gold watches and bracelets, straps around his collar, even one around his ankle.

Yet, for all his flamboyance, he exuded mystery. A wide-brimmed black hat with a band of his signature color—emerald—pulled low enough to shade his eyes, which were further hidden behind light-purple tinted glasses. Even the frames seemed to be made of gold. A pendant in the shape of a die hung from his neck, but instead of numbers, each face displayed a different card suit. And on his ears were earrings, asymmetrical ones – one in the shape of a tassel, with a gold frame and an emerald-colored feather; the other was a simple black stud.

His hair was the color of pale wheat, but his eyes remained a secret. The tavern's occupants gaped, silent as ghosts. Only Ralph, the bartender, seemed unfazed, merely glancing over with mild curiosity.

Dan Heng leaned toward the girls, whispering:

"Another merchant with too much money and nowhere to spend it. But this one outshines even the most narcissistic I've seen. I might've heard of him… Let me check."

He began flipping through his beloved notebook.

Stelle, however, didn't share the drunken admiration some of the women nearby were directing at the stranger. She huffed and deliberately looked away. Flashy trinkets didn't impress her—she'd seen enough of them.

"Just showing off," she muttered.

March let out an intrigued "Hmm," a mischievous grin spreading across her face.

"But you have to admit, he's handsome," she whispered, nudging Stelle with her elbow.

"Who let the peacock out of the cage?" Stelle rolled her eyes, ignoring the teasing.

And it seemed the young man reveled in the attention, letting out a playful chuckle as his smirk widened. He took a few steps forward, heading toward the central table. Every eye followed him, glued to his every move.

"I have an offer you can't refuse."

He snapped his fingers, and as if by magic, a dark green cloth spread itself across the table, revealing an array of poker chips, silken pouches, and several gemstones—emeralds, garnets, and a ruby. Stelle's eyes narrowed. Was he seriously proposing… gambling, right here and now, with stakes like these? Most nobles could barely afford games like this, let alone common folk. What could they possibly wager that would match his offer?

"Each pouch holds a hundred gold coins," he declared. "We play All-In—win just a single round against me, and everything you see is yours. Straight poker—no tricks, no cheats. But if you lose…"

Still wearing that self-satisfied smirk, he dropped onto the bench, draping an arm over the backrest and gesturing to the table with his palm:

"You owe me. And how much? That depends on how spectacularly you fail." With two fingers, he plucked a poker chip, flipping it into the air with a flourish. "I'll play anyone—even if you have nothing. I always find a use for losers…"

He caught the chip and, with his other hand, tipped his hat up just slightly, finally revealing a glimpse of his eyes. Sharp. Icy. The kind of gaze that could slice through paper. His smirk twisted into something colder.

"…one way or another."

He opened his palm—where the chip had been a second ago, there was now nothing. His deft fingers moved to a deck of cards, so pristine as if they'd never been touched before, and began shuffling. Even this was a performance—Stelle had never seen anyone handle cards with such effortless skill. He split the deck, tossed halves between his hands as if gravity didn't apply to them, interlaced them seamlessly, and then laid the two halves on the table, riffling them together in one smooth motion.

"Who among you dares to challenge Lady Luck herself?"

For a moment, the room was utterly still. The patrons seemed entranced—by his hands, by the wealth many of them had never seen in their lives, now laid bare before them, taunting them to reach out and take it. People exchanged glances, debating internally. But the blond knew precisely what he was doing, coming to a place where alcohol flowed freely—decisions here wouldn't be nearly as rational as they might be sober.

The most entertaining games were played without limits.

Stelle scoffed, shaking her head. What nonsense. Who in their right mind would agree to such vague terms? He might as well have outright said he'd do whatever he pleased with the losers. Surely no one could be foolish enough to—

"I'll go first, pretty boy!" A middle-aged woman with a sturdy build called out. She'd clearly had more than a few drinks tonight, judging by her glassy eyes and flushed cheeks. "Deal me in."

The blond chuckled, gesturing to the seat across from him.

"Marvelous. I do love bold women."

After a final shuffle, he dealt five cards to each of them facedown. The woman, however, seemed less interested in the cards and more in the man himself, judging by her hungry gaze and the smirk playing on her lips.

"What's your name, boy?"

"Oh, questions already?" He grinned. "First, mine: What's your wager, darling?"

"Cheeky, aren't you…"

Sighing, she reached into the daring neckline of her dress, fishing out a fabric purse and dumping its contents onto the table—a dozen silver coins and a couple of gold ones.

The young man hummed thoughtfully, resting his chin on his hand as he eyed the meager sum compared to his own display. Then his gaze slid over her, pausing on something more interesting.

His playful expression shifted into a more serious one.

"That won't do, sweetheart," he said, narrowing his eyes. "Take off that ring."

The woman blinked, looking down at her hands. There was only one—a wedding band. Probably the most valuable thing she owned: real gold. His eye for such things was sharp.

"Excuse me? My late husband gave me this. It's not for trading."

Silence fell, thick enough to cut with a knife. The tension was palpable—everyone watched, riveted as if this were a staged drama unfolding before them.

The blond slowly lifted his hat. His piercing, glacial stare pinned the woman in place. She shrank back, scowling, a bead of sweat trailing down her temple.

"We play by my rules. No wager, no game. All or nothing."

The quiet was suffocating. It felt like even the woman's nervous gulp and racing heartbeat were audible. Every second under his gaze cranked the pressure tighter. The unease wasn't hers alone—the crowd fidgeted, and Stelle, especially, felt it coil in her chest.

She sensed the danger radiating from this flamboyant gambler. He didn't need to move—his presence alone was a stranglehold.

"Poor thing…" March whispered, frowning. "I think she's about to pass out."

"She knew what she was getting into," Dan Heng said with his usual detachment, though his eyes gleamed with interest. "Did she really think he'd trade fortunes for a handful of silver?"

"You're so cold," March huffed.

"Realistic," he corrected.

Stelle stayed silent. She'd witnessed high-stakes games before—but this wasn't a game. It was a crocodile's maw waiting to snap shut. Anyone who agreed to play had already lost.

The woman finally choked out coherent words:

"Fine... But if I win—I have another condition."

The blond laughed at this bold declaration from someone who'd trembled with fear seconds earlier. Strangely, even his laughter sent chills skittering along the edges of one's soul.

"Now that's intriguing. What condition?"

He idly twisted a ring on his finger. Boredom, perhaps. His practiced smile slid back into place.

"You'll kiss me, pretty boy." She gifted him a hungry grin—likely meant as charming or seductive, but it made even Dan Heng grimace faintly. Thank the gods, she's not aiming at me.

A few patrons snickered; others outright laughed, sharing crude remarks about her with their companions.

The woman wouldn't tolerate it. Her plump face flushed crimson with rage.

"Shut your mouths! Before I rip out your filthy tongues!"

March flinched at the razor-sharp shout.

"She's not joking…" she whispered, clutching her friends' arms. "What a terrifying woman."

The gambler only seemed amused. He chuckled, his smirk taunting:

"Bold. Wonderful. Then we're agreed." He'd acquiesced far too easily.

Is he that confident? Or just insane?

Satisfied, the woman wrestled the ring off her swollen finger and flung it at him— Choke on it written in the motion. Unfazed, he snatched it midair, inspected it, then tossed it toward the gold pouches with an approving nod. The golden band clinked against the wood.

"Splendid." His playful tone returned, that relaxed smile accentuating his handsome features. He definitely was in his element. "Now, the rules. This applies to all who dare play me—listen closely. I won't repeat myself. My time is… prohibitively expensive."

Stelle rolled her eyes. Such a peacock. Everyone was already rapt; he didn't need to emphasize it.

Still, she found herself turning fully now, watching intently. She was 99% certain of this game's outcome. Her mother had adored poker, playing with officials for amusement—or political leverage. Stelle had seen enough games to last a lifetime. As a child, she'd sneak in, mesmerized by those high-stakes performances. Her mother could bluff anyone… and Stelle knew every trick.

But… this blond was different. While the woman's lack of skill was apparent, he radiated overconfidence. Was it a bluff? Stelle's curiosity sharpened. She doubted anyone could surpass her mother, but this might prove entertaining.

The gambler stacked chips into neat towers with fluid motions.

"One deal. Three betting rounds. Chips represent wagers." He slid two stacks of 100 chips—one to her, one to himself. "The goal is simple: leave me chip-less or hold more when we finish. Succeed—take everything."

He swept a hand over the gold and gems.

"But if I…" His fingers lifted the wedding band, spinning it like a prize already claimed. "...win? You'll be grateful your debt ended with trinkets."

The woman swallowed but didn't show it—just nodded. Too proud to admit fear now.

"Game flow: Deal—five cards each. Then, three betting rounds. After each round, you may discard and draw up to three new cards. Finally, the showdown—if no one folds."

He flipped a single chip between his fingers, tossing it hand-to-hand. Explaining rules bored him, but such was the price of playing amateurs.

"Betting rounds: First—I start. Options: Check —pass if no bets; Bet —add chips to the pot; Call —match a bet; Raise —increase it. Understood?"

"I'm not stupid, boy. Get on with it," she snapped, arms crossed. Her expression betrayed she'd grasped half at best. He ignored it. He wouldn't coddle.

"After the first round—draw phase. Discard up to three cards, then draw replacements. Second round— you start betting. After that—another optional draw. Third round—my turn. Then showdown. We compare hands—strongest takes all. I trust you know the rankings? I won't list them."

Stelle tilted her head. Hand rankings were critical—especially in the withdrawal phases. To gloss over them? Unfair, perhaps… yet no one forced her to play. Don't start what you can't finish. It was almost kind that he explained the basics to novices. But therein lay the trap: this game thrived on psychology. A strong hand could be shattered by doubt, luring a player into discarding winners or folding prematurely.

The gambler smiled, but it died before reaching his eyes—still cold behind tinted glass.

"Ah, and my favorite rule: You may fold —surrender your hand. Anytime. But know this…" His voice dripped saccharine menace. "...chips already in the pot? Mine. The longer you hesitate, the costlier cowardice becomes."

The woman balled her fists, jolting upright:

"You calling me a coward?!"

"I implied nothing, darling. But minds wander where corruption festers," he riposted, smirking as his gaze burned through the lenses.

She nearly spat back but bit her lip. Perhaps realizing threats wouldn't faze him.

"Excellent. No more questions." He gathered the deck, fingers poised. "Let's begin."

Finally, he lifted the deck again, discarded the top card, and began dealing. Five cards slid like oil across the green cloth toward the woman, five toward himself. She snatched hers greedily, fanning them to shield them from prying eyes as if they held state secrets. Stelle noted how her heavily penciled eyebrows shot up— a strong hand?

Novices always made the same mistake: they couldn't hide their excitement when dealt high-value cards.

He definitely noticed that… Stelle's thoughts raced. What's your move, gambler?

He barely glanced at his own hand, lifting the corners for a fraction of a second before laying them flat. His face betrayed nothing. Unreadable, as expected. The crowd leaned in—the real spectacle had begun. Potential players finally saw what awaited them.

"First betting round," he sliced through the silence. He took five chips, placing them before him but not yet in the pot. "Bet five." He leaned forward, his glacial stare pinning the woman. "Your turn, darling. Will you check, call, raise… or fold? Cowardice is an option. Still cheap at this point."

She looked ready to wipe that smirk off his pretty face.

"Don't push your luck, handsome. Only the thought of your kiss is holding me back," she shot back, flashing a vulgar wink.

Her opponent only seemed more amused. Chuckling softly, he adjusted his hat, fixing her with an intrigued look.

Before he could reply, she grabbed a fistful of chips—ten—and slammed them into the center. Clatter. "Raise! Stop nickel-and-diming—is your manhood as small as your bets?"

March snorted a laugh. Stelle elbowed her, though she fought her own smile. The tavern erupted—hoots, whistles, applause for her audacity.

The gambler didn't blink. Propping his chin on his hand, he remained unmoved.

"Raise called," he stated flatly. He added five chips to her ten. Pot: 20 chips. "Now, the draw. Up to three cards." He tilted his head. "May your luck prove as generous as your commentary, sweetheart."

She huffed, re-examining her cards. A thoughtful "Hmm" escaped her as she scratched one of her chins.

Stelle sat angled to see the woman's hand: Two Kings—a powerful start. The rest? Garbage: a Two, Seven, and Four, all mismatched suits. Predictably (for a novice), she plucked out the three worthless cards with sweaty fingers and slapped them face down.

"I'm taking three!" she blurted—too loud, betraying her nerves.

He nodded as if expecting this. Discarded the top card of the deck and slid three new ones toward her. She snatched them up, hope blazing in her eyes—until her eyebrows twitched. Disappointment. No miracle: just a Jack of Diamonds, Eight of Clubs, and Three of Spades. Useless alongside her Kings.

"Your draw?" she asked, feigning calm.

The gambler glanced lazily at his hand. What did he hold? No one could tell—he shielded them too quickly. He silently discarded one card, burned another from the deck, and drew a replacement. Barely looked at it before adding it to his hand.

"I'll take one," he said, boredom dripping. His face revealed nothing.

"Second betting round. Your turn." He gestured to the 20-chip pot. "Bet? Or check?"

The woman froze. Two Kings and trash. Even after the draw, nothing changed. Strength? Yes. Guarantees? None.

"I…" She grabbed five chips. Playing safe. "Bet five." She pushed them forward. Her earlier bravado had vanished, laying her weakness bare.

"What's wrong, sweetie? Seems I'm not the only one with… size issues?" he teased. Laughter rippled through the room.

"Shut your pretty mouth," she scowled—but the barb struck home. On impulse, she grabbed five more and hurled them in. "Just wanted to see you squirm, sweetie. Happy now?"

Mistake after mistake… Stelle shook her head, sighing aloud.

"Her emotions just cost her ten chips," Dan Heng murmured. "That could lose her the game." March nodded grimly. Everyone saw it. Even the woman might regret it—but it is too late.

The hatted man hummed a melodic "Hmm," pausing as he studied his own chips. Her emotional imbalance satisfied him. She thought she'd shut him down—her smug smile would soon shatter.

Slowly, he reached for his stack. Not five. Not ten. He began counting out thirty . Methodically. Click. Click. Click. Each chip landed with a soft, deliberate thud . He didn't toss them into the pot. Stacked them into a neat tower. All in tombstone silence—more frightening than any threat.

"Raise." His voice sang the word as the final chip fell into place. His gaze turned predatory. "I see your ten… and raise to thirty." He tapped the table toward her remaining chips. "Your call is twenty-five."

The woman gasped. A buzz swept the room. March and Dan Heng exchanged glances. Stelle's lips parted.

There it is.

The card shark had finally shown his fangs.

Twenty-five. Nearly a third of her chips. The pot now swelled to 55. The woman's eyes darted from her cards to his smiling face to the tower of thirty chips—a silent threat.

"You… you're bluffing," she hissed.

"Perhaps." He shrugged. "Or not. Well? Call? Re-raise? Or…" A weighted pause. "Fold? Think about it well. You'll only lose the twenty already in the pot. Keep sixty for the next betting round. Not too late." His offer sounded like a headsman's mercy.

She clutched her cards. Fire blazed in her eyes—lust, irritation, and greed fused into a hellish cocktail.

"Call!" she exhaled, scraping together twenty-five chips and shoving them violently into the center. Chips scattered; some hit the floor. She didn't care. Pot: 80 chips. She had 60 left. He held 65.

"Accepted." He nodded, eyes narrowing slightly. "Second draw. Up to three cards. Your final chance to turn the tide." His stare pressed down like lead, forcing a nervous gulp.

The woman stared at her cards with such intensity that it seemed she might will them to change—or pray to every god for better draws. She kept the Jack, discarded the Three and Eight, and slammed them face down.

"Change two!" Her voice rasped. She coughed hastily.

A card burned. Two new ones slid toward her. This time, she lifted them tentatively, her face a canvas of naked anxiety. When she fanned them beside her others, her nostrils flared, lips twisting. Her nose twitched and wrinkled.

Pure tragedy.

Her prayers went unanswered—more worthless trash. Arguably worse: Six of Hearts, Three of Diamonds.

This is the end.

The gambler glanced at his own hand, then at her. A smile touched his lips—light, cold.

"No draw." He pushed the deck away and winked. Instead of joy, icy dread washed over her.

The game neared its climax. Breath hung suspended in the tavern. Every eye tracked the card shark's slightest movement, every micro-expression. Was his hand strong? Was it all a bluff? Impossible to tell.

"Third betting round." His velvet voice was a death sentence. "My turn, if I may." He laced his fingers on the table, tilting his head. His gaze slid over her pitiful 60 chips, then locked onto her eyes. She flinched almost imperceptibly but held his stare—pride intact. "I bet…"

A pause. Deliberate. He savored the agony he crafted—the guessing, the dread. His eyes skimmed the room… and lingered for a fractured second on one specific spot .

"He looked at us!" March squeaked, yanking Stelle's sleeve, cheeks flushing.

"You're acting like a celebrity glanced our way," Stelle whispered, giggling.

"Isn't he?" March arched a brow. Stelle just shrugged, offering no contradiction.

The crowd strained. The woman fought to keep her face blank, pretending disinterest. Yet her palms trembled; sweat glistened on her forehead. Her eyes darted from the man to her cards to the chips—searching for salvation.

Finally, the hatted man shattered the silence:

"…Fifty!"

He reached for his stack and pushed forward nearly all of it, leaving only 15 behind. He never broke eye contact, watching her flushed face bleach white. Her lips—once painted crimson, now half-eaten away—parted in silent shock. But the silence didn't last. Her mouth opened and closed like a suffocating fish.

Fifty! She had only sixty left. To call—to stay in—meant betting almost everything. Near all-in.

Stelle narrowed her eyes, lips pressed thin. She guessed his game. A theory, unproven—this was her first time watching him play. She kept it to herself, absently tapping a finger against her lower lip.

"But… but this is…" The woman choked. "What am I supposed to do?!"

The man laughed, leaning back against the bench. He folded his arms, pinning her with a smothering gaze.

"I suggest nothing. Do as your soul desires, darling. Call. Raise. Go all-in. Or…" A loaded pause. "Fold. Now, truly—all or nothing. Bet if you trust your luck… and take everything."

He nodded toward the glittering hoard. So close, yet oceans away. If the ring had consciousness, it would stare at her with fading hope.

"…But if you lose? The debt will be… spectacular. Utter ruin. Fold now, and you lose only the forty-five chips already in the pot. At least you keep fifteen. Though the ring?" He winked. "That's mine, regardless."

Silence. He waited. Patient. Relishing every second of her unraveling. The mask of composure crumbled—raw panic rooted in her eyes, breath ragged as if drowning. His stare was serpent-still. Time oozed like tar. Sweat trickled down her temples; a droplet smudged a card. Pity—the deck was pristine. She stared at her Kings—strength turned straw. At the 80-chip pot holding her 45. At his face—smug, savoring her agony, begging for a fist to shatter it. Fold? Lose 45 chips and the ring? Or bet everything? He must be bluffing! Must!

Her hand shook as she reached for her chips. Nearly all that remained. She grabbed a few… started to seize more…, and then her fingers slackened. Chips clattered back onto her stack.

"N-no…" she whispered, voice breaking. "I can't… I can't do this anymore…" She crushed the cards in her fist, then lunged up, hurling them face down onto the discard pile in one hysterical motion. "Fuck you, fuck this stupid game! Take it! Take your cursed chips, the gold, the ring—I never loved that fool husband anyway!"

The tavern gasped. Sighed. Relief? Disappointment? Pity? She collapsed back onto the bench; the table shuddered. Chips and gems jumped. Head bowed, she heaved ragged breaths. Tears of shame streaked her cheeks.

The gambler didn't move. He watched her unraveling—still. One second. Two. Three. Then, a chuckle escaped him, blooming into low, resonant laughter. Restraint was abandoned, and now the game was won.

He straightened, pulling the mountain of chips toward himself.

The room froze as he reached for his own cards. Patrons half-rose, straining to see the mystery resolved.

Stelle crossed her arms. She didn't stand like March. Something stopped her—a feigned disinterest. She deliberately huffed, tilting her nose away.

He lifted his cards slowly. Paused. Aligned them. Scanned the breathless crowd. Then fanned them face up.

Gasps ripped through the room. Someone yelped. Another swore.

March's blue eyes widened in stunned silence. Half to herself, half to Stelle, she stammered:

"No way…" Her voice cracked. "Two of Diamonds… Three of Clubs… Four of Hearts…"

Stelle frowned harder. 

What...?

March continued, voice trembling:

"Seven of Diamonds… and… Jack of Spades."

That's it?!

Stelle's eyes flew wide. She couldn't help it—she shot to her feet. Impossible. She needed to see. And there they lay: exactly those cards.

A man bellowed from the crowd:

"He won with just a high card? A Jack?!"

"This gotta be a social experiment." a woman yelled from the balcony.

"Won with that hand?!" March squeaked.

The gambler laughed again, unrestrained, as the woman jolted up, clawing at her hair:

"You… You…!"

He tipped his hat, stepping closer. Pure amusement glittered in his eyes. Her meltdown was comedy.

"Apologies, dear lady. It seems you'll go kissless tonight. But we'll add that to the pot—perhaps another lucky soul will claim it. Along with your ring. Congratulations! Your contribution to our future winner's treasury is… priceless."

Steam seemed near to erupt from her ears. She gnashed her teeth, scorching him with a glare meant to incinerate. His words were the final spark. She clenched a pudgy fist, drew back—

Before she could swing, he seized her wrist. She struggled—immovable as stone.

"L-Let go, you stinking cheat!"

She swung her free hand. He caught it before it cleared her hip, wrenching both arms behind her back. Bruises would bloom on her wrists tomorrow. He leaned close, his voice dropping to a marrow-chilling whisper only she could hear:

"I take no pleasure in this, darling… While you can still walk away with just trinkets lost? Don't push me. Or you'll beg coins for your own coffin. Care to test me?"

Her face paled. She fought briefly. His grip tightened—bones creaked. Breakage seemed imminent.

Her resistance died. Jaw clenched, she went limp.

"Damn me for playing with you! Pretty face can't hide your rotten soul!"

He chuckled, releasing her, and adjusted his gloves.

"I never asked for salvation, sweetheart."

She snarled, gathering spit in her mouth—aiming to hurl it. One glance from him froze her. She choked on her own saliva, coughing violently. Hunched and hacking, she turned and fled—not daring to meet the eyes watching her like a circus animal. Mocking. Disgusted.

Pure humiliation.

"Well played, sweetheart! Come play again!" he called, arms crossed.

The door slammed in reply. Glasses rattled on the bar. The ceiling shook. Bald Ralph, the bartender, sighed. Another door needing repair. How many is that now?

Tombstone silence hung over the tavern. No one dared move, only exchanging uneasy glances—until one man shouted, "Now that's a show!" Applause erupted. A welcome reaction; sometimes, winners face threats purely for daring to win. But Sweet Dreams had always drawn good-natured regulars.

Someone whistled:

"Sign me up!"

Cheers and eager shouts followed. The blond closed his eyes and smiled. With one hand behind his back, he bowed to his impromptu audience, the other holding his hat in place.

"Such bold patrons you have, Mister Ralph," he called to the bartender, who responded with his usual stoic nod. "I approve."

He sank gracefully back onto the bench, crossing his legs as he surveyed the excited crowd. Only one figure refused to look his way: the girl in the dark hood—Stelle.

Thoughts raced through her mind. Her theory had been correct. She'd dared suspect his hand was weak, that he'd exploited the drunk woman's inexperience and impulsiveness to break her psychologically. Simple, yet brutally effective in this setting. He knew his craft—but was he truly skilled at reading people, or had his first victim just been transparently unstable?

Did luck favor you… or did you know the ending from the start?

She recalled how he'd barely glanced at his cards. He'd drawn one replacement early, then stopped. Why hadn't he tried to improve such a wretched hand? Playing with only a high card was reckless—one misstep meant ruin. Fool or genius?

And why discard one card? For realism? He couldn't have hoped for improvement—even a duplicate card wouldn't have saved him. Unless… he'd tossed a good card. To make his victory more humiliating.

If true, this man is genuinely dangerous.

No… Too soon to tell.

Reluctantly, she admitted her fascination. What came next? She glanced at her friends. March watched with naked curiosity. Dan Heng had set his notebook aside, arms crossed, one hand propping his cheek. His pensive expression gave nothing away.

Dan Heng met Stelle's gaze and mirrored her tilted head:

"Thoughts, Ray? I noticed your… interest in the game."

She startled, yanked from her thoughts. Her eyes darted away.

"Not interest. Just nothing better to do."

March made a stone-faced "Sure" expression. Dan Heng raised a brow. They exchanged a look.

"Oh, absolutely. And you didn't leap up like struck by lightning just to see his cards," March teased. Stelle huffed, yanking her hood lower.

"I wanted proof that someone could win with garbage."

"Which is interest," Dan Heng deadpanned.

"Not even close!"

March rolled her eyes. Once Stelle dug in, no force could move her. Pointless. But they didn't need confirmation to see the truth.

"Why be ashamed? It's harmless," March pressed.

"I just hate his arrogance," Stelle hissed, flicking a dismissive glance toward the gambler. "Acting like we're all beneath him. Swagger in, clean out drunks, swagger out."

"Hmm…" March scratched her neck. "Maybe. But it's entertaining. We're not playing."

Dan Heng and Stelle locked eyes. He chuckled, turning to March:

"Funny. Someone recently called me 'cold-hearted.'"

"I'm not cold—I'm realistic," March retorted, sticking out her tongue and shoving his shoulder.

These lighthearted squabbles always lifted "Ray's" spirits. This was why she risked everything—sneaking out, enduring her mother's disapproval and punishments. For nights like this: carefree, ordinary, free from the weight of her family's expectations, her clan's honor, her inevitable future. She knew it was irresponsible. Knew adulthood loomed. But not yet.

Suddenly, March gasped:

"Look! Another victim approaches!"

She bounced in her seat, boots tapping the floorboards. Stelle sighed—but smiled. Fine. Maybe I care a little.

And so began the gambler's gauntlet. Stelle studied his every move—his reactions to cards, opponents, bets—but learned little. Only this: he was lethally competent, utterly fearless, and reveled in emotional manipulation. No hidden techniques emerged. Each defeat felt unique. High-stakes aggression balanced by cautious plays. He tailored tactics on the fly. But one constant chilled her: his unreadability . That ever-present smirk only shifted to a smile, laughter, or icy seriousness—never revealing whether his cards soared or cratered. Terrifying.

But was he better than her mother? As games piled up, he inched closer to that caliber—yet Stelle remained convinced he fell short. Bias? Perhaps. But the impression held.

The "treasury" swelled with diverse wagers. The gambler didn't keep them—he added each to the glittering hoard, promising everything to whoever might finally beat him. Soon, the table groaned under coin pouches, loose coins, rings (many wedding bands, some engraved), silver and gold earrings, lockets (one held a tiny portrait), and… two gold teeth from the last brave soul.

An impressive haul. Most losers fled immediately, but a few stayed, curious: would anyone claim their lost treasures tonight? Or would the gambler pocket it all?

After a dozen games, the challengers dried up. The remaining patrons exchanged glances—earlier interest now snuffed by his unbeaten streak. Why gamble when defeat felt inevitable? Despite the glittering prize, silence reclaimed the room.

A full minute passed. Only whispers broke the quiet—including from the corner table:

"Total annihilation… Is he even human?" March whispered, shaking her head in disbelief.

"Predictable," Dan Heng said. "Combine all poker experience in this tavern, and it'd still pale next to his. He reads them like open books. Only fools play on."

Stelle chewed her lip. He's right. Luck became irrelevant when you controlled minds. And fate loved this man—twice, a single higher card had snatched victory from near-certain loss. As he'd boasted, playing him was challenging Lady Luck herself.

Another silent minute. The gambler sighed, leaning back against the bench. His bored gaze swept the room.

"Seems our bold souls are spent. Pity. I was just warming up."

He reached for his chips—then paused:

"Last chance. Trinkets not tempting enough? Win this, and you will live comfortably for years."

A gambler's final lure.

"Greedy much?" March muttered, arms crossed. "How much gold does one man need?"

"Not greed," Dan Heng countered swiftly. "He savors the humiliation. Loves watching hope shatter."

Stelle didn't answer immediately. Her eyes narrowed. Softly, almost to herself:

"No… That's not quite it, either. He…"

Her gaze brushed the brim of his stylish hat.

"…I think he wants to lose."

"Huh?" March arched a skeptical brow. "Then why try? Losing's easy—just throw good cards away!"

Dan Heng stayed silent, waiting for Stelle's reasoning.

"Not like that." She shut her eyes briefly. "He doesn't want to just lose. He wants a thrilling game. To be barely beaten by an equal." Uncertainty crept in. "At least… that's my impression. This isn't greed. I think…"

March remained unconvinced. She frowned, studying the gambler as if debating internally.

"Dunno… He's too strange. Can't figure him out."

Another minute crawled by. No takers. Even the initial lure of "easy riches" now felt like fool's gold.

He sighed, the sound steeped in theatrical disappointment, and began gathering chips.

"W-Wait, please!"

A bright, girlish voice rang from the kitchen entrance. Every head swiveled—making the speaker shrink back.

Ralph's young waitress, Bella, stood trembling but resolute, her eyes fixed on the gambler. Ralph's stoicism cracked—eyebrows shooting up, wrinkles deepening on his forehead. He stopped mixing a drink.

"Bella, what're you doing?" he asked, disbelief raw in his voice.

She ignored him. Wouldn't even look. Too ashamed, Stelle guessed, to have everyone witness this recklessness.

"I… I'd like to try. Please—allow me one game!" She fought to sound confident, but her quivering voice betrayed her completely. Clutched in her hands: a handkerchief bulging with coins. Her life savings, scraped from wages. Ralph knew she starved herself—he'd slipped her extra food often.

The card shark instantly leaned back from his chips, disappointment vanishing into keen interest. One eyebrow arched as he tipped his hat fractionally higher. An intrigued smirk touched his lips, his penetrating gaze dissecting the girl.

"Oh? The fawn proves boldest of all. How curious." A low chuckle escaped him. "I'm intrigued. And you came prepared too—good girl." His praise felt like silk over steel.

Bella swallowed hard, her eyes lingering on the handkerchief holding her hard-earned savings. Doubt warred in her expression, but gritting her teeth, she thrust it toward the relaxed gambler. He squinted, his smile widening predatorily. He snatched the bundle, peeked inside for barely a second, then deftly retied it and tossed it onto the glittering hoard.

Gasps and murmurs rippled through the room. No one expected this turn—everyone knew diligent Bella. The tavern shone from her relentless scrubbing; orders arrived swiftly, always delivered with a shy smile. Gambling? What could drive her?

Stelle's eyes widened. She exchanged stunned glances with her friends. March covered her mouth, eyebrows nearly disappearing into her hairline. Dan Heng's frown deepened.

"This is madness! She has no money!" March exclaimed, shaking her head.

"Bella, have you lost your mind?!" Ralph's voice cracked—the first time they'd ever seen him truly agitated.

He wasn't alone. A regular patron who often exchanged pleasantries with Bella shouted, "Don't do it, lass! He'll devour you whole!"

The blond watched the unfolding drama with palpable relish, his Cheshire Cat grin widening. His eyes flickered between the distraught crowd and the trembling girl, noting how she hunched, hands pressed to her chest, gaze darting helplessly.

"Why are you doing this?" Ralph's words tumbled out—he'd spoken more in these seconds than all evening. A bead of sweat traced his furrowed brow.

"I…" Bella seemed overwhelmed, choking on the attention. "I need the money for my mother!" Her voice rose, fraying at the edges. "She's worse, sir Ralph! The doctor said… if I don't pay by month's end, she won't…" Tears welled, glistening. Stelle's own brow furrowed in genuine sympathy.

Poor thing. Utterly desperate.

"It takes me a year to earn that much—even with tips!" Bella's voice pitched higher, hysterical. "If I lose her…" A sob threatened to escape. She choked it down, collapsing onto the bench opposite the gambler, staring fixedly at the table. Her calloused hands twisted the hem of her apron, her knuckles white. "There's no point going on without her."

The gambler remained silent, arms crossed, an observer awaiting the climax of a tragic play.

"So… please," she whispered, as if convincing herself, "if you respect me… don't stop me. My mind's made up." Bitterness etched her downcast eyes.

Ralph visibly fought the urge to argue further, his jaw clenching. He knew her quiet determination. She pushed through everything.

The crowd exchanged worried glances. The friendly patron ground his teeth, fists clenched as if ready to physically drag her away.

As the protests died into uneasy quiet, the gambler smiled, tipping his hat again for a clearer view. Unusual-colored eyes glinted coldly.

"Well then? Your final answer?"

Silence descended. A collective, unspoken hope hung heavy—please, change your mind. Eyes pleaded with her. But Bella drew a shuddering breath, lifted her chin, and met his gaze squarely.

She filled her lungs.

Parted her bitten lips.

And—

"I shall play in her stead."

A decisive voice cut through the silence. A figure rose from the corner table, turning to face the room.

The tavern froze. Jaws dropped. All eyes snapped toward the bold speaker.

The gambler's smile faltered. His expression cooled instantly, a frown creasing his brow as he scanned the newcomer. Who dares interrupt?

"R-Ray?! What are you doing?!" March stammered, waving her hands frantically before grabbing Stelle's wrist. She forced an awkward laugh, addressing the room. "My friend's joking! She didn't mean it! Ha-ha!"

"Ray," Dan Heng interjected, his gaze boring into her, sharp and urgent. "This is profoundly unwise. I understand your compassion, but this is a terrible idea." His voice was low and intense as if he were willing to reason with her.

But Stelle shook her head, tugging her hood lower. She gently disengaged March's hand, silently apologizing. Her amber eyes locked onto the gambler's as she approached the table.

"Will you accept my wager if it surpasses hers? Allow me to play in her place?" Her voice was controlled, belying the knot of anxiety tightening in her stomach.

His eyes, barely visible beneath his hat and tinted glasses, radiated an unsettling scrutiny. The air grew colder.

He remained silent. Bella shook her head frantically:

"Miss, please don't. My decision stands. Thank you, but this is my burden."

Stelle ignored her. Before the gambler could dismiss her, she reached into her cloak pocket, seeking the one thing that might sway him. His expression remained an unreadable mask—cold, yet not refusing. Merely waiting, eyes narrowed.

She carried this item daily, removing it only for these secret meetings. Today, she'd forgotten. Fate's cruel favor.

Will Mother ever forgive me if I lose them?

Her mother had called her "my little star" since she was a child. These earrings were a physical manifestation of that love—priceless to her heart, painful to remove. A relic from a time before conditional affection.

Compressing her lips, her fingers closed around them. Her hand trembled as she slowly withdrew the delicate gold. She stepped closer; the scent of his expensive cologne pricked her senses. Extending her closed fist toward the blond, she hesitated only a heartbeat before dropping the earrings into his waiting, gloved palm.

Her star earrings. Solid gold, set with citrine stars and diamond accents—a constant reminder she was Stelle, her mother's "little star." She didn't know their monetary worth, only their irreplaceable sentiment.

Their hands brushed for an instant. Stelle recoiled, turning away to yank her hood forward. Her heart ached; fists clenched until her knuckles bleached white.

The crowd leaned forward. The gambler lifted the earrings toward a lamp, examining them with increasing interest. He whistled low:

"I don't deal in stolen trinkets, little mouse." His gaze snapped back to her, sharp and accusatory. The room buzzed with whispers. March and Dan Heng exchanged baffled glances. "Return these to the noble lady they belong to."

Stelle flinched. Seeing her friends' confusion, her heart stalled. Suspicion radiated from every stare. Bella shook her head slowly. Eyes burned through her hood.

Dread took root. The gambler watched her like a thief caught mid-theft. Why? Even March looks doubtful...

Compose yourself, Stelle…

She drew a steadying breath. The earrings were hers. But how do you prove it without exposing everything? Damn it, why didn't I anticipate this?

"I… understand how this appears," she managed, voice betraying a tremor. "But they are mine. A thirteenth birthday gift from my mother."

Pure truth. Yet why would they believe a hooded girl in a tavern? She bit her lip.

The gambler remained unconvinced, one eyebrow arching skeptically. He scrutinized the gems anew, his assessment clinical:

"High-purity gold. Twenty-millimeter citrines, approximately ten carats. Surrounded by pavé diamonds—too numerous to count easily." His expertise was a curse. "Who is your mother to gift such treasures? Do I look like a fool, little thief?"

His contempt was scalding, his certainty infectious. Patrons now eyed her like a criminal. Her concealing hood only deepened their doubt.

Think, Stelle, think…

The accusations spun in her head. March and Dan Heng sat frozen, expressions inscrutable yet radiating tension. They wanted to believe her.

Seconds stretched into hours. The world tilted; the earlier chill gave way to suffocating heat. Her jacket felt like a shroud. She might faint. Pathetic—trying to save someone only to drown yourself. As always.

Her mother's face surfaced in her mind. Disappointed. Disgusted. If she learns…

Stelle stumbled backward, knees weakening.

Then, the vision shifted. Mother's revulsion melted into the tender smile she'd reserved for Stelle as a child—the very smile she'd worn when giving the earrings. A warmth long absent.

Her mother's lips moved, forming silent words. What had she said? The memory drowned in static—drowning the vital phrase that could save her.

"Stelle..."

Stelle...

Stelle?

Yes! The answer had been before her all along. Her eyes flew wide. Downcast gaze snapped upward. "Ray" stepped forward again, a faint smirk playing on her lips. The panic vanished as if it had never been. How could she have forgotten?

Mother hadn't mentioned it in years. Long enough for Stelle to overlook what had become mundane. Her very name came from the stars—the celestial body present at her birth. That was why Mother called her "little star." Why she'd gifted these earrings.

The blond man huffed, tilting his head:

"Seems I've cornered the little mouse. Folding before the game even starts?"

A chuckle escaped him, cold enough to make souls shrivel.

But Stelle didn't retreat. She smiled. Her fingers flew to the buttons of her blouse. She had to do this. Shame was preferable to accusations of theft, which would drag her family and friends through scandal.

Admittedly, the gambler's reaction was satisfying: his smug facade cracked into genuine surprise. His lips parted slightly, eyes widened behind his glasses. He pushed them down his nose—revealing irises of an impossible, mesmerizing hue. Outer rings of deep amethyst bleeding into inner pools of teal. She'd never seen such eyes. Never imagined they could exist.

They captivated her. Her hands stilled on the third button.

Why am I noticing a peacock's eyes now?

This was not the time.

Stelle didn't unbutton fully—only the center, exposing the skin above her sternum to the distinct, star-shaped birthmark hidden there.

"Wait, kitten. If you think flashing skin will—"

His words died. He choked as the grey-haired girl boldly pulled the fabric aside, carefully shielding her breasts but baring the mark. Heat flooded her face beneath the hood as his heavy gaze settled on her chest. Thank god she had a hood - she wouldn't want to give him satisfaction for making her blush.

Her priority wasn't the crowd—yet as adrenaline faded, their reactions registered. A sharp whistle cut the air. Women clapped hands over their companions' eyes, blushing furiously. March turned the shade of a ripe tomato. Dan Heng, ever the gentleman, averted his gaze—though Stelle couldn't see the faint pink dusting his usually pale cheeks.

The moment stretched. Agonizingly.

Is he having a revelation or giving birth to a thought?!

Stelle pressed her lips thin and squeezed her eyes shut. If I see no one, no one sees me. Flawed logic but comforting.

The gambler's brows shot upward. Recognition—pure and stunned—flashed across his face.

"Impossible…"

A strangled laugh escaped him. Then another. Then genuine, rolling laughter. He clutched the earrings, bracing an elbow on the bench back, pressing two fingers to his temple as mirth threatened to overwhelm him.

Stelle flushed crimson, hastily covering herself.

Through peals of laughter, he managed:

"Stars above… Your birthmark is the spitting image of the citrine in these earrings." He wiped a nonexistent tear. "Bravery award goes to you, kitten."

March's eyes went saucer-wide—shock melting into a radiant grin. She squealed and crushed Dan Heng in a hug so tight he gasped. A buzz of astonishment swept the room. Ralph shook his head, a rare smile touching his lips. Bella's face was a masterpiece: flushed, bewildered, then dawning comprehension, shaping her mouth into a perfect "O."

Stelle cleared her throat, fumbling with buttons. She smoothed her blouse as if ironing out nonexistent wrinkles.

"A-Anyway!" Her voice betrayed every ounce of embarrassment. "I assume the matter's settled? You'll play me?"

"Sweetheart, after that? You don't even need to ask."

His gaze lingered on the earrings one last heartbeat. Then drifted—deliberately, teasingly—back to Stelle's chest. She whirled away, arms crossed protectively. With a flourish, he tossed the earrings onto the glittering hoard.

Her heart gave a sickening lurch. Seeing her most precious treasure dumped beside gold teeth and strangers' wedding bands… It was visceral. If she lost, she'd betray Bella and sever her last tangible link to Mother's unconditional love.

No. Don't think like that.

She clenched her trembling hands.

It has to work.

"Apologies, deerling," the gambler purred towards Bella, not sounding sorry at all though. "But you'll yield your seat. Pray her luck matches her… persuasive talents."

Stelle's eye twitched.

We'll see who laughs last, peacock.

She cleared her throat, approaching Bella's vacated bench. Her gaze locked with the waitress's.

"Forgive my interference. But trust me. Please."

Hesitating only a heartbeat, Stelle placed her hands over Bella's work-roughened ones, offering an encouraging smile. Bella turned away, lip caught between her teeth. Discomfort radiated from her stiff posture.

"I don't understand why you're doing this, miss…" Bella whispered voice frayed. "But… do your best. I'm… counting on you."

With a resigned sigh, Bella stood. Stelle gave a final nod before sliding onto the worn wooden bench. Only then did she register the man opposite—his gaze fixed on her with such intensity she nearly flinched.

Has he been staring like this the whole time?

Icy fingers traced her spine.

His eyes dissected her. Like a rare artifact under glass. As if he could peel open her ribs and read the headlines of her heart. She wouldn't let him. She tugged her hood lower, folding her hands primly on the table. Focus. Remember Mother's lessons. Recall every trick he'd used tonight. Steel herself against taunts and mind games.

He'll weaponize what I just did.

He'll dredge it up to rattle me—make me slip.

The gambler's smile was cloying honey, radiating toxic charm. He watched her like a connoisseur sampling a new vintage—testing her flavor, her composition.

You'll get nothing.

Mother's training was her armor. Stelle had never beaten her, but every loss taught strategy. Every cryptic hint was a treasure.

Losing now meant failing Bella. Failing her friends. Failing Mother—even if she'd never know.

A plan crystallized. High risk, but victory demanded boldness. All-in.

From the corner of her eye, March flashed a tiny, fierce fist— We're with you. Dan Heng's subtle nod spoke volumes. Their belief was a lifeline.

Stelle scanned the tavern one last time. No distractions now. One stray glance, one micro-expression could unravel everything.

This man's perception was terrifying.

And she'd turn it against him.

Notes:

fun fact: originally the 1st chapter had to contain multiple important events but i got carried away with writing and didn't finish even the first one and left it for the second XD

Chapter 2: Racoon the Gambler

Summary:

Stelle and a mysterious gambler play a game - one of life and death, quite literally.

Notes:

hi hi hi!~
thank you all very very much for all the support in the comments, I'm really happy that I managed to get so many people interested in my humble little fic haha
i will do my very best to deliver the best food i can!!
little remark: Texas Hold'em is mentioned here despite this being a different world. I used the same terminology just for convenience, to avoid overexplaining the rules and the origin, I'm sorry if it hurts your eyes haha

Bella sat at the nearest table to the action, her face twisted with anxiety. Trembling hands clutched her already crumpled apron; bitten lips bled faintly from the force of her gnawing; stray curls escaped her tight bun, clinging to her sweat-dampened temples. Right now—without exaggeration—more than her own fate hung in the balance. This was a gamble straddling life and death for her mother. Honestly, she didn't believe the hooded girl could win. Resentment simmered beneath her fear. Had she played, Bella would've controlled her own destiny. Even clueless about poker, the responsibility would've been hers. Now, she'd entrusted her mother's life to a near stranger—a thought curdling her stomach. Who was this girl? Why hide her face? The question haunted everyone who'd ever seen "Ray." No one glimpsed her uncovered; no one knew her true features. Only March and Dan Heng could vaguely describe her—eye color, hair shade—but not her hairstyle. How could she trust someone who trusted no one? Maybe the birthmark was a coincidence. Even if it was real—it didn't mean she wasn't a criminal.

Yet despite the distrust festering in her chest, she'd accepted fate. Deep down, a sliver of hope remained. The demon on her shoulder had spoken; now the angel whispered: She must have experience with men like him. Luck could still turn. Even he can't defy bad draws. Unlikely, given his flawless streak—but possible.

Many shared her doubts. Heavy glances crisscrossed the room; disapproving whispers hissed like steam. Noble gesture? Yes. Reckless? Absolutely. If she lost, hatred would follow. Bella might've won if you hadn't stolen her chance.

A timid voice snapped Bella from her thoughts. March stood before her, offering an awkward smile.

"Sorry—could we join you? She's our friend. We'd like to watch closer."

Dan Heng nodded beside her, reinforcing the request. Bella's lips parted. She looked from them to Stelle, then the empty chairs. After a pause, she forced a smile—claws scraping her heart.

"Of course!"

March returned a thin smile. Fake. Anyone could see. But she didn't pry. Instead, the pair sat opposite Bella, exchanging tense glances. If he's being honest, Dan Heng despised Stelle's gamble. The stakes were catastrophic: failure meant ruin for Bella and Stelle's reputation. She might've made everything worse. Lips pressed tight, he reopened his notebook. His earlier notes dissected the gambler—but "Ray"? A mystery. He could only rely on knowing her character: she wouldn't act without some confidence. She must believe she can win. That's what he wanted to believe. Squinting, he scribbled:

"Hypothesis: Ray possesses poker experience substantial enough to challenge the 'undefeated' gambler.

Probability: 45%."

The silver-haired girl stayed silent, studying her opponent. She willed herself to read his eyes—catch a flicker of emotion. But tinted glasses and his hat, pulled low to reveal only slivers of his face, made it impossible. However, he won't be able to read Stelle as easily, thanks to the hood. The thought kindled hope. Right now, she wished her hood were larger, enough to cover half of her face without a need to pull it down each time.

Each dragging second amplified her nerves, but she fought for calm. Rule one: never lose composure. If you couldn't stay ice-cool, poker wasn't your game. She needed focus.

Pretend this is practice. Playing Mother like always. Losing means nothing—just another lesson. No one watches. No responsibility. Just play. Use everything she taught you.

Nothing is happening.

She closed her amber eyes. Blocked the tavern's buzz. Convinced herself they were alone—this game meant nothing. She'd done this before.

Mother had once shared a trick for nerves—back when Stelle was still green at this. It became her anchor. Worked every time. Against anyone but Mother, it never failed.

Stelle smiled, memory washing over her. The first time Mother mentioned it, she was just a child. Yet she recalled it vividly—just as sharp as yesterday. Ah, how she missed that tender smile, once unconditional, and genuine laughter.

 

They'd sat at a pristine white table in the conservatory. Mother's prized roses bloomed around them—including the custom-bred amethyst hybrids, perfect against her hair and violet eyes. Little Stelle adored her, desperate to be just like her someday! The girl wore a knee-length, puff-skirted, crisp orange dress with matching patent shoes. A flower-crowned headband tamed her silver curls.

Though her feet barely brushed the floor, she clutched playing cards intently. Teacups sat beside a three-tiered dessert stand—cake slices, biscuits, petit fours. Any child would've eyed the sweets, but young Stelle stared only at Mother, nodding gravely at her explanations.

"You're improving, my little star," Mother's voice was honey-warm. A comfort Stelle never wanted to leave. "But you hesitate. You fear. I understand—I was once you. I overcame it… so I'll share a secret."

She winked conspiratorially. The girl tilted her head, lashes fluttering.

"Stuffy uncles and aunts? Ugh, tedious! Know who really rules any game?" Mother smoothed Stelle's hair, smiling.

The child pondered, taking it totally seriously. After a moment, she declared:

"You rule, Mama!"

She jutted her chin, hands on hips. Proud of her genius answer.

Mother laughed, covering her mouth elegantly.

"Thank you, darling. But no."

Stelle jolted. Not Mama? Who else?

The mother leaned close as if sharing state secrets. Her voice dropped to a theatrical whisper:

"The raccoon rules."

The girl gaped.

"R-Raccoon?"

Mother nodded gravely.

"Here's the secret: When scared, tell yourself—I'm not Stelle. I'm Clever Paws! Queen of the Dumpsters! Striped Poker Genius!* These grown-ups?"* She gestured dismissively at imaginary opponents. "They think they're playing cards… but we know the truth."

Stelle giggled. Mother kept a straight face—as if she believed every word.

"Treat them like trash bins blocking your treasure hunt. Their labels tell you everything. See that stern man in the expensive suit?"

The child nodded, enthralled.

"Hazardous Waste Container—looks scary, smells worse. But bluff right…" Mother mimed tiptoeing. "...and maybe something shiny's inside."

Stelle snorted.

"And that ice queen with perfect hair? Clearly a Glass Recycling Bin. Fragile. Loud if bumped. Might hold pretty things…" Mother's eyes glinted. "...but useless to you. Pick your battles!"

Young Stelle couldn't stop giggling but memorized every word. It would stick for life.

"Your mission, my little thief…" Mother drew her close, cheek to cheek. Stelle beamed, arms locking around her neck in a fierce hug. "...is to sneak past, sniff out, and crack these bins with clever bets. Steal their sparkles. Remember—they're just bins. You hunt them." She booped Stelle's nose, making her scrunch it adorably.

"...and whatever you do—"

Another wink.

"—don't laugh picturing Aunt Marta as a 'Fragile Ego' bin. That's our secret."

 

Stelle muffled a chuckle at the memory. Her heart pinched—Mother never laughed like that anymore. Why must we grow up? She'd give anything to be that little girl again—to see that softness in Mother's eyes just once more.

She shook herself. Focus.

So… what bin is this peacock?

Stelle rested her chin on her hands, studying the blond. She squinted, head tilted, emitting a thoughtful hum. Impeccable hair—artfully messy, surely styled (no way it obeyed gravity so perfectly). Unlike Stelle's thick hair, which had to be thoroughly styled each time to look that pretty. His wheat-blond strands looked feather-soft, begging to be touched. Honestly, everything about him was polished: clothes tailored to hug his frame, jewels color-coordinated like a painter's palette. Yet the effect wasn't, as some might suggest, effeminate—broad shoulders, strong arms, and sharp features balanced the glitter. Gloves added flair; rings and earrings were icing on the cake. God, even the hat and glasses—indoors!—somehow suit him. Every gesture—adjusting his hat, touching his glasses, shuffling cards, smirking—screamed charisma. Objectively undeniable. No wonder March was impressed. But her mind rebelled. She'd seen too much theater to be dazzled.

Still, trash-bin labels bloomed in her mind. Across his forehead, bright, giant letters flashed with every color of a rainbow:

"CIRCUS PROP: keep away from children."

A grin spread across Stelle's face. She barely stifled a snort, slapping a hand over her mouth and yanking her hood lower. Don't look insane—laughing when lives hang in the balance!

The gambler's voice shattered her thoughts. She jumped. Right—poker. Mother's strategy works too well.

"So you can smile. Lovely." He winked, propping his chin on his hand. A deliberate provocation. But Stelle won't allow his sharp words to control her mind, as he did with others. "So, Miss, have you finished preparing yourself for a heartbreaking defeat?"

"Of course," she replied, sweetly contrary to his expectations. "But first—a proposition."

"Oh?" His brow arched. He spun a ring idly but held her gaze. "Make it worthwhile. I despise poor investments."

"That is exactly what I wanted to fix, dear gambler. I assumed you might have gotten bored; please correct me if I'm wrong..." She kept her tone smooth, palms flat on the table. "I am concerned that traditional poker may become dull after having to play it for such a long period. So, I shall propose to play Texas Hold 'em instead. More thrilling not only for us but also for other guests. I'm convinced you know about this type of poker."

Not a whim—a trap. He'd grown predictable. Texas Hold' em—with five community cards and only two hole cards per player—leveled the field. More strategy, less luck. Make him rethink. It might grant her a sliver of advantage… or backfire catastrophically. Luck was his mistress—Lady Fortune herself kissed his brow. But Stelle has to turn her favor towards herself, at least this once.

Silence. Patrons looked confused—Hold 'em was rare outside noble circles, where high stakes justified complex games. Imported, obscure. Mother's circle knew it; tavern visitors didn't, unsurprisingly.

The gambler hummed, fingers drifting to his hat brim. He lifted it slightly, scrutinizing Stelle. She didn't flinch—just tilted her head curiously, waiting.

"Intriguing. And… unexpected." His lips curved, and that smirk made her want to gag. "Haven't played Hold 'em in years. Didn't expect to find a connoisseur here."

He narrowed his eyes. Is he getting suspicious? Possible, but hard to tell for sure. Commoners still could know this game, after all. It was rare—but not exclusive.

He paused, scrutinizing her. Then his signature smirk returned. Amused. Arrogant. Obviously, he still thought he would win. Fury prickled her skin. Why must he look down on everyone? That is precisely the reason her brain rejected him that much.

"I accept, sweet thing. But if you think this rattles me…" He leaned forward, voice dripping condescension. "...start plotting your next trick."

Now, that's not good at all. The girl couldn't let him think she specifically planned it to increase chances. She has to play dumb, let him underestimate her.

So Stelle beamed—bright, artificial—and clapped her hands with performative glee:

"Hooray! Then I don't have further questions."

"One here," the young man plucked a chip, rolling it between his fingers. "Why not remove your hood before we start? I'm sure everyone's dying to see your charming face in full view."

Of course. The request took suspiciously long to arrive—she'd almost dared hope he'd skip it. But she had her counter ready:

"Then why don't you introduce yourself before we start?" She deliberately mirrored his phrasing, offering a faint smile. "I think everyone's far more curious about who you are, Mister Mysterious Poker Legend."

As if confirming her words, whispers erupted around them. Several earlier players had asked his name, only for him to deflect or invent reasons to avoid answering. If he dodged again now, Stelle would count it a win—he likely wouldn't revisit the hood. But even if he pressed… she had a stronger card. Demand she remove her hood? Then he'd have to shed his disguise, too.

Her retort amused him. A soft chuckle escaped as he tossed the chip skyward.

"You may call me Ace." He caught it mid-air and flicked it onto the pile, his smirk radiating pure mockery as his gaze locked onto hers—Didn't expect that, did you?

He was right. Stelle's eyebrows shot up. She hadn't expected him to yield so easily on the first ask. What's his game? Why evade others before if it wasn't a secret? Just showing off? Building mystique? God, he's infuriating.

A new trash-bin label flashed in her mind, perfect for this peacock: "DEMO MODEL 'ALPHA': Requires constant audience attention recharge to prevent self-esteem system crash." The thought formed, and Stelle snorted, hastily turning away and burying her face deeper in her hood to hide it. She composed herself fast—a deep exhale, then turned back. The smile refused to fade. One glance at Ace and her inner voice replayed the genius label.

His eyes narrowed slightly behind the glasses. Her erratic behavior—first trembling with fear, then erupting into unexplained laughter, now accompanied by an oddly cheerful smile—was baffling. Was this a bluff? A strategy? What is she plotting? His face didn't reveal his racing thoughts.

"My sweet girl, what about that hood?" Ace winked, propping his chin on his hand. "I haven't changed my mind. I'm sure you've nothing to hide."

Ah, for some reason, the way he called her just now made her stomach feel weirdly ticklish; her heart missed a beat. Somehow, that sounded a lot more personal than the usual 'darling' he called every other opponent. Her cheeks flushed faintly, but the hood successfully hid that from everyone's eyes.

Stay composed!

The girl exhaled deeply, throwing all concerning thoughts about this womanizer in a big trash can. These nicknames meant nothing to him other than mockery toward the other person and a way to throw them out of the flow.

Tilting her head slightly, she replied smoothly:

"Sir, sitting indoors wearing a hat and sunglasses seems far stranger than a simple hood. I'm merely cold, that's all." She layered her tone with earnest innocence.

Remember: Play the fool. Be leagues beneath him intellectually.

She needed to sound dumber. Gritting her teeth, she forced a brighter, more vacant smile, fluttering her lashes:

"I'd love to see your handsome face, too. Oh, but wait—" She feigned sudden remorse, covering her mouth with a hand. "—better not. I fear the ladies' hearts might fail, and I still need to play against you."

Beneath the hat's brim, she caught the faintest twitch of his brow. He hummed, squinting thoughtfully. Then came the familiar, grating chuckle.

"Poor thing, freezing. Let's hurry then so you can scamper home to your warm bed." Sarcasm dripped from every word.

He didn't buy it.

She bit her lip subtly and nodded. Time to begin. Delaying served no purpose. Even if Ace saw through her act, she'd stalled him. Turnabout is fair play.

He adjusted the hat and straightened his posture—a habit Stelle had noted. He always did it before dealing or placing a bet. A mischievous thought sparked: Mirror him. See if he notices.

She reached up and casually adjusted her own hood. Posture was never an issue—Mother's brutal month-long corset punishment had cured that slouch permanently. Still, she sat even straighter, propping her head on both hands and swaying it gently from side to side.

No reaction. Unfair! Try spotting half a face behind that getup!

Fine. Let him puzzle over her motives. That was the plan.

After rifling through the chips, he found two marked "BB" and "SB."

"I'm the dealer. You're the Big Blind." Ace slid the "BB" chip toward her, keeping "SB" for himself. No explanations—her Hold 'em proposal implied her knowledge. Better this way. Still, the role surprised her.

Stelle accepted without protest, placing her chip neatly in front of her.

Ace took the deck, shuffling with mesmerizing skill—even more impressive up close. Every move radiated effortless grace as if born with cards in hand. Stelle had seen many styles, but he surpassed them all. Expected for a "Demo Model' Alpha'." Her lips twitched, but this time, she stifled the laugh. This peacock would die without getting the audience's attention for five seconds.

Shuffle complete, he set the deck down. Counted the chips, split the stack evenly, and slid half to Stelle. She nodded gratefully, smiling as she arranged them into tidy towers.

"Small Blind: 10 chips." He tilted his head, tinted glasses flashing under the lamp as he pushed the chips into the pot.

The Small Blind acts first pre-flop. The Big Blind had no choice—she must post double his bet. Without comment, she calmly slid 20 chips into the pot.

Pot: 30 chips. A solid start—higher than previous games' opening bets. Risky. Why this amount, Ace?

The blond burned the top card and dealt one card face down to Stelle, then one to himself. Repeated. Two hole cards each. The critical moment. Nerves tightened her throat.

She immediately scanned her opponent, seeking a new label.

Hmm...

As expected, his eyes remained hidden—cursed lamp glare on those glasses! Was the hat not enough? Irritation prickled, but she kept her mask. He probably didn't even try to look unreadable. The disparity maddened her. From the corner table, she'd seen his micro-expressions clearer than now—absurd, yet logical. His poker face was for his opponent, not the crowd. Clever bastard.

Inspiration struck:

"OVERFLOWING VAT OF SELF-ADMIRATION: Caution - Toxic to normal humans." Very overflowing.

He still hadn't looked at his cards. Stelle couldn't see his gaze, but the prickle down her spine screamed he was staring. Waiting for me to look first? Toying with me?

Not happening. The ember-eyed girl reached up, twirling a strand of hair, gaze drifting aside as if lost in thought. You look first. Blind play tricks wouldn't work on her.

She hoped for a reaction. Silence stretched. One second. Two. Thirty. A full minute. Bored of hair-twirling, she swung her legs under the table. Still nothing.

Too good at this. Why? What did he want? Why the stubborn silence?

Yes, his mocking voice was infuriating, but this heavy, silent scrutiny turned out to be worse.

Stelle sighed, crossing her arms. She glared back, smile fixed. Kept swinging her legs. Now, her boot toe barely brushed his shin under the table.

Come on. Show me an emotion. I need a crack.

Patrons exchanged bewildered glances. March and Dan Heng shared a look. "Did they freeze?" March whispered, scratching her head. "What's happening? They're just… staring."

Dan Heng shrugged. Their entire interaction defied logic. Ten minutes since Stelle sat down, and they hadn't even touched their cards.

Suddenly—as Stelle's boot grazed him again—Ace clamped her ankle between his. Steel. Unyielding. He leaned forward, bracing his chin on his hand. No lamp glare now—his hidden gaze felt intense, physically heavy, making something inside her heart squeeze—again—which she instantly dismissed. Stelle's eyelids flickered in shock, trapped. She tugged—immovable.

Damn, he's strong.

But—still a triumph. She'd provoked a reaction. Tested the waters. So he could get rattled.

Enough stalling. The preparation is taking way too much time - they had to get over it sooner or later. Fine, you win this time, gambler. She reached for her cards—surrendered with a sweet smile, never breaking eye contact. Lifted the corners just enough to see: Ace of Hearts. King of Hearts. A powerhouse start—suited connectors, flush potential. At worst, high card dominance. Face impassive, she set them down, folded her hands under her chin, and rested her head on them. Her face showed nothing - no excitement, no disappointment.

"Pre-flop, dear Mister Ace," she chirped, saccharine-sweet, shattering the prolonged silence. "Since it's my turn, I'll begin."

Pre-flop betting—before the first three community cards. As the Big Blind, she acted first in this round. Options: Check, Bet, or Fold. Ah, no, fold wasn't an option.

"By all means, dear Miss Ray," he mirrored, squinting slightly. Still hadn't looked at his cards!

He's mocking me. So confident he'll win blind?

Infuriating. Reading him was impossible if he didn't know his hand! Worse—his ankles still imprisoned her foot. Oh, dear God! If she struggled now, would he deduce a strong hand? There is a possibility he would, considering his exceptional perception. She gave up and let her foot rest between his, feeling like a caged bird. But self-control is the key. He wants irritation. Confusion. And what do we call such conceit?

Another label arrived:

"OVERPUMPED RESERVOIR OF SELF-LOVE: Risk of seam rupture upon critical loss of pretentiousness."

Smiling came easier, picturing that on his forehead. The anger faded—why waste emotions on a trash bin? Unpleasant to dig through, yes, but treasures lurked within—including a piece of her soul in those earrings. She would reclaim them.

Still, caution ruled. Stelle'd already lost 20 chips pre-game. Even a monster starting hand could crumble post-flop. My cards mean nothing yet. His could match them. After a brief pause, she stated calmly:

"Check."

Ace's smile widened—more a predator's grin than warmth.

"How unexpectedly modest. Very well…" He paused, toying with a lone chip. "...Check."

Huh… Had he noticed her mirroring earlier? Payback? Or just playing cautiously? Unreadable. For now.

The silence stretched unnervingly as the young man burned the top card and laid three cards face down in the center of the table. Stelle's heart clenched with anticipation—this was the critical moment. True, the final two community cards could change everything, but these three could win the game outright with luck. She shifted her gaze from the cards to her opponent, tilting her head expectantly.

The girl braced for drawn-out theatrics—some infuriating quip. But nothing. No hat adjustment, no glasses fix, just a flat:

"Flop."

Before flipping the first card. Stelle swallowed hard as her eyes landed on the revealed card—her heart gave a painful squeeze. Ten of Hearts! That was the third heart toward her Flush. Plus, it opened a Straight path if a Jack and Queen appeared. And if they were hearts… No, unlikely.

The second card flipped open immediately after: Seven of Hearts.

One more heart for the Flush… but… Unease prickled. The Straight potential favors him, not me. And no paired cards yet.

Stelle kept her face impassive, hands resting calmly, folded on the table. Not a muscle twitched. Ace's expression, predictably, was unreadable.

Time for the final flop card. Her pulse hammered, that annoying lump tightening her throat again. His deft fingers pinched the card—the moment of truth.

Eight of Hearts.

She fought to keep the surprise off her face.

Flush. Already in her pocket.

Joy warred with caution. Could he have hearts, too? Unlikely… but possible. Or maybe he's closer to a Straight? If he hits a Straight Flush… Game over. Only four hands beat a Straight Flush—and it's the same one, just of different suits. The odds were vanishingly small. Thankfully, a Royal Flush—the Ace-high Straight Flush—was impossible for him now; she held two key cards. At best, he could get a Straight Flush. But that meant nothing yet—the sequence wasn't on her side.

Her gaze flicked back to the card shark. Ace looked almost… bored. Neutral stare, no trademark smirk, posture slumped slightly over the table—elbow propped, head resting listlessly on his hand. His other hand tapped a slow rhythm, as if killing time.

He's never acted like this—even with novices, he seemed engaged. Ace barely glanced at Stelle. Does he not care? He hadn't looked at his cards, hadn't tossed out a single taunt.

Now, it was his turn to bet.

Usually, he'd stage a grand performance or at least linger. Now, he just stopped tapping, reached for his chips, and threw some into the pot. He never throws chips.

"Bet ten more," was all he said, the playfulness gone from his voice as if it was never there.

Don't show surprise. Don't react. This had to be a new strategy—one the grey-haired girl hadn't witnessed yet. Is he trying to panic me by being unreadable? Now, he was impossible to read—ignorant of his own hand, playing cautiously. What's wrong with him?

Stelle hummed thoughtfully, tapping a finger against her lower lip.

Her other hand drifted to the chips—this time, she took more than he had, pushing her stack forward with deliberate care, unlike some.

"Raise to thirty."

"Call." His reply was curt, unprecedented, as he tossed twenty more chips into the pot.

Fine. Stay silent. It only helps me. Stelle wouldn't let his indifference manipulate her.

Now her turn to reveal the next card. She reached for the deck, burned the top card as usual, and laid the next one face down beside the third.

"Turn," she announced evenly, flipping it.

This time, she couldn't suppress the slight lift of her eyebrows. Jack of Hearts?! She couldn't believe her eyes. Fate smiling? Or setting her up for a crueler fall? Losing outright might be better than losing one card from victory. A single card—the Queen of Hearts—guaranteed her win. But if anything else… a high chance existed that he could land a Straight Flush, crushing her mere Flush as she had no pair for the backup. In other words, absolute annihilation. Dread coiled deep in her gut—a physical knot. Her throat constricted, threatening to choke her. The tavern felt stiflingly hot; sweat pricked her skin beneath her jacket, making her desperate to rip it off. Her heart pounded like never before. She was one step from the greatest victory of her life… or the most devastating defeat. Stelle hid her hands under the table—no one could see their uncontrollable trembling now. Even the trash-bin labels failed her. She tried picturing one on Ace's face, but the letters refused to form words, and even if they had—they brought no laughter. Realizing her fail-safe trick had failed—panic sank its claws deep.

Get a grip. I have to bet first now…

His eyes locked onto her, expectant. Damn it, he'll see my nerves instantly! What now? Raise? He'd interpret her agitation as excitement over strong cards. Check? He'd sense fear and raise himself.

Can't think too long—that's suspicious too.

Pressure mounted. The amber-eyed girl's heart felt crushed in a vise, ready to crack. Though she held her expression, some things couldn't be controlled—the involuntary swallow bobbing her throat, the sweat beading her brow (thankfully shadowed by the hood), her fluttering lashes. Her voice emerged almost steady:

"Raise another ten." She pushed a small stack into the pot.

It was the safest option. Checking would signal uncertainty; a bigger raise would scream overconfidence. Maybe now he'll finally look at his cards? Is even this beneath his interest?

The man shifted his gaze from her to the chips. Counted out the required amount.

"Call."

Another ten joined the pot.

Unbelievable. He's deliberately trying to infuriate me, to make me crack. He'd never played so… passively. If anyone else acted this timidly, the girl would suspect a weak hand. With him? All she could do was rack her brain and curse him silently. Damn him.

And just like that, another betting round ended—absurd. How had their preparation lasted longer than the actual play? The pot felt laughably small compared to his earlier games. She hadn't expected the final card to arrive so swiftly—she wasn't prepared for this at all!

All of a sudden, the weight of every gaze in the tavern pressed down—a thousand stones crushing her shoulders with responsibility. It was suffocating—reduced to relying on pure luck. This man couldn't be bluffed into folding; he hadn't seen his cards, making psychological warfare pointless. Stelle hadn't anticipated this. She'd been ready for his strategies, ready to shatter his facade, armed with witty retorts for his taunts… and he'd backed her into a corner.

I underestimated him.

Underestimated him gravely. Assumed his flamboyance was innate arrogance, not a deliberate tactic or persona. And she'd been proven wrong in the cruelest way. It felt so banal, so simple—she felt like a complete fool. The girl had steeled herself for any tactic he might deploy… except this. Except for the absolute absence of tactics. None of the strategies in her mental arsenal fit. Her brain strained to crack him, working feverishly—futilely. Does he even know what's going on in his own head?

More than ever, she wanted to shake him by the shoulders and beg him to revert—to call her "darling," as he usually did with others, smirk, or at least hold her gaze for longer than two seconds. Lost in the whirlwind of thoughts, she committed an unforgivable lapse: bit her lower lip and dropped her gaze to the hands. A second later, Stelle realized her mistake and regained composure. God, he'll read me like an open book now. But when she dared look again, his gaze turned out to not be on her at all—it rested idly on the cards. It didn't seem like he'd looked away at the last moment. He's not even interested in watching my face? Am I… that insignificant of an opponent?

No… No, he must be doing this on purpose—he wants me to feel exactly this way.

Despite reason's whisper, her heart screamed otherwise: he was genuinely bored. And that somehow felt infinitely worse than any tactic. Why does this make me sad? What's wrong with me?

Dan Heng, watching every micro-movement with intense focus, narrowed his azure eyes. He'd noticed Stelle's composure—so carefully maintained until now—begin to fray. Others might miss it, even March, but he saw details: the slight tremble of her hood, how she leaned fractionally closer to the table, how her hands, resting calmly moments before, now betrayed subtle tension. Does she have a bad hand? That bad? The tension in the room thickened, unbearably stuffy—it pressed down on him. How must Stelle feel? She bore responsibility for a life—two lives, really—not to mention her own reputation. She'd be crucified the moment she stepped outside—and not just by those present here. Rumors, especially of this magnitude, spread like wildfire. The girl wouldn't dare show her face anywhere. It was terrifying to imagine what they might do if she tried.

The dark-haired young man clenched his fists, lips pressing into a thin line. It was agonizing to watch her unravel—he wanted to intervene, to help somehow—but he knew he was powerless in this situation. And hated himself for it. No one could help now. Only luck, however unreliable it is. Ah, how guilty he felt for not doing everything possible to stop this madness before it was too late. If he could turn back time, he'd have dragged both girls away before Bella even appeared. Yes, it would be cruel to the waitress, but at least someone could have been saved—and "Ray" mattered far more to him, harsh as it sounded. It was the truth.

Now, all he could do was watch as a sickening, thick anxiety coated his soul, his heart aching. Just believe in her. And he did. Even as his mind clamored with statistical probabilities, he forced them down.

The moment arrived for the final community card—the last hope for compassion from the merciless Lady Luck. Stelle could do nothing more. The only solace, the only thing convincing her she could exert some control, was a silent prayer:

Please, help me. I'll never win again in my life, just this once.

In the tomb-like silence of the tavern, Stelle was certain everyone could hear her ragged breaths and her heart hammering against her ribs as if trying to escape. Her palms were unpleasantly slick with sweat, refusing to stay still—she clutched the skirt under the table, desperate to hold her expression.

Everything unfolded in unbearable slow motion. The moment Ace reached for the deck, burned a card and drew the one that would seal her fate felt like an eternity. Her gaze never left the card, willing it—hypnotizing it—as if to change its suit and rank.

The card landed face down on the table. Stelle's body betrayed her with a loud swallow. It felt like a thousand needles were piercing her core, driving deeper, radiating a dull ache that resonated in every fiber of her being. She was burning, unbearably hot—Is this how witches felt burning at the stake?

Gloved fingers touched the card—this time, he hesitated before flipping it. Just a second—but it was maddening. Part of her wanted it over with; another part wished he'd never flip it, sparing her the reckoning for her recklessness.

"River." His announcement of the last phase sounded like a death sentence from the High Court.

She wasn't ready—would she ever be? But the moment had to come sooner or later. The final card was turned. And there is no way back.

As much as she wanted to squeeze her eyes shut—to hide, pretend this moment didn't exist if she couldn't see it—Stelle couldn't afford such childishness now. She knew it.

As the mystery dissolved, Stelle's heart plummeted. Her brows and eyelids twitched; she exhaled sharply through the nose. The gray-haired girl froze—transformed into a statue. Her lips parted involuntarily. She shook her head faintly, a denial she didn't consciously command.

No, no, no… It can't be…!

She tried to hold back—truly, with all her might. But her body rebelled—tears welled in the corners of her eyes. The girl blinked them away immediately. No, I can't...

Though, what difference does it make now?

It was over either way.

She furrowed her eyebrows, gripping the skirt as if it could save her. Stared at the final card with fierce intensity—maybe it was just an illusion. It will vanish! Or at least change!

But no matter how hard she stared, nothing happened. The trembling worsened.

She refused to look around, retreating deeper into the hood.

This time, after a brief pause, Ace finally lifted his own hole cards. An impulse? Or had he planned all along to look only once all community cards were revealed? The latter made perfect tactical sense—it denied her any read until the very end. Clever. Of course. He was obviously older than Stelle by a couple of years—even if he'd started playing at her age, he simply had more time. And with luck like his, the game was never fair—she should have factored that in earlier. Too late now.

He barely glanced at them before setting them back down—his face remained perfectly neutral, flawless composure contrasting sharply with Stelle's visible shattering. Mother would be so disappointed—Thank God she doesn't see this. All those years of training… wasted.

Time for the final betting round. It felt almost pointless—unless a miracle occurred and the gambler folded, which everyone knew he wouldn't. He acted first. The young man adjusted his hat, tipping it slightly—his gaze brushed hers briefly before settling on the chips.

"All-in."

Stelle's eyes widened. Silent all game, playing passively… just to do this at the end? Did he have an unbeatable hand? Or was this a terrifying bluff designed to scare her into folding?

The crowd whizzed—to Stelle, it was like flies buzzing relentlessly in her ear at night, grating and disruptive.

All of the gambler's chips slid into the pot. Ace leaned forward slightly; his glasses flashed under the lamp. Claws seemed to rake down Stelle's heart, tearing deep, ragged wounds.

Her voice trembled as she reached for her chips. The head was slightly bowed, the hood mercifully shadowing her eyes. She parted lips bitten raw:

"All-in." The bank now held every chip, just like before the deal.

Winner takes all—in every sense. All the chips, all the gold, every precious trinket people had wagered… and all respect.

For the first time that entire game, a smirk illuminated his face. He narrowed his eyes and folded his hands on the table.

"Showdown."

Without waiting for the girl's reaction, Ace picked up his cards with two fingers, flipped them over, and tossed them onto the table before him.

People jumped up to see – and a wave of frightened exclamations, gasps, and profane curses instantly swept through the tavern. Bella stood, but, seeing the cards and the others' reactions, she immediately collapsed back onto the bench, her knees giving way. She hugged herself tightly and began to tremble, her eyes wide open – whether from fear, despair, or everything at once. A quiet sob escaped her lips, and Ralph dropped everything, strode over, and placed a rough palm on her bowed head. He said nothing, but his bitter expression spoke louder than any words.

March shook her head, disbelief etched on her face at what she was seeing. Her shoulders trembled; she covered her mouth with her hand, her eyebrows shooting up.

Dan Heng paled, his tombstone expression making it clear things were dire.

Stelle couldn't bear it – too much stimulation around her, too many voices. Someone was already cursing and berating her, and Bella's sobs shattered her completely. She clenched her teeth, dropping her head low and covering her face with her hands. She barely held back tears. Her hands shook uncontrollably, unable to withstand the nerves. Her ragged breath burned her palms.

But why?

All because Ace's hand, when arranged into a combination, contained these cards: Six, Seven, Eight, Nine, and Ten – all Hearts. A Straight Flush right before their eyes. The second strongest possible hand. How was such luck even possible? He hadn't even needed to try. Hence the reaction; this was unbeatable unless Lady Luck favored someone other than her own darling.

The girl slumped over the table, burying her head in her arms. She wanted to crawl into some corner and disappear. The roar grew louder – everyone understood what had happened.

"Don't be upset, my dear," his pitying tone sounded especially cruel at that moment. "I'm very interested to see your cards. You didn't use your right to Fold, after all."

But Stelle only burrowed deeper into her arms; a soft groan escaped her. She shook her head. Revealing them felt shameful – what was the point?

The blond sighed, shaking his head:

"I feel like the villain now. Apologies, darling, but you knew what you signed up for. Usually, I wouldn't do this, but this time, if you'll allow me..."

He rose slightly from the bench to reach for her cards. Interpreting her lack of resistance as consent, he didn't hesitate. He flipped her cards over.

Silence fell first. Everyone needed time to combine the girl's cards with the community ones.

The gambler's unusually colored eyes widened. He flinched, the glasses slipping slightly, revealing his eyebrows twitching in shock. Ace reached for his hat, lifting it as if needing to see better. His smile vanished, replaced by parted lips:

"Well, I'll be damned..." escaped him in a hushed whisper.

Her hand, formed from the community cards and her own hole cards, presented itself in the perfect combination: Ten, Jack, Queen, King, and Ace – all Hearts.

"... Royal Flush." He sounded as if he was trying to convince himself it was real.

It seemed the entire world froze, suspended in time – no one could even move, struggling to comprehend what was happening. Eyes were as wide as saucers.

Stelle broke the motionless spell. She suddenly lifted her head towards Ace, a genuinely happy, radiant smile lighting up her face. It seemed sparks and roses danced around her; the whole world brightened around that smile:

"Surprise!"

Her cheeks were flushed, and the tears weren't from despair at all – she merely couldn't believe her own luck. The girl giggled and stuck out her tongue:

"Lady Luck chose me tonight, dear Mister Ace!"

The entire tavern erupted in squeals and ecstatic howls; they shouted so loudly one wanted to cover their ears. Applause and rapturous cheers followed swiftly. March squealed and began jumping up and down. Even the usually composed Dan Heng looked stunned, but an unusually warm smile touched his lips – a rare sight. Bella threw herself into Ralph's arms, weeping even harder – but now for a different reason.

The guests chanted "Ray's" name, making her blush, grow flustered, and giggle awkwardly as she glanced around. Relief flooded her soul, deeper than ever before – an indescribable euphoria. She wanted to scream, cry, laugh, and hug someone — anyone — tightly. But she didn't have to – her friends were already running over. The dark-haired young man hugged her first, squeezing her so hard it felt like he wanted her to burst. March immediately joined, embracing her from the other side:

"I just can't believe it, Ray! You won! I'm so happy; you have no idea!" March laughed.

Stelle laughed, too, and hugged them back, pressing her cheek against Dan Heng's shoulder.

"Never do that again," Dan Heng's voice was low and serious, but Stelle knew his concern was genuine, and deep down, he was profoundly relieved.

"Exactly! No more gambling, got it?!" March chimed in, puffing out her cheeks.

And Ace stood leaning against the table, arms crossed, watching Stelle from under his hat. Despite the loss, his gaze was gentle, lips spreading into a smile. He didn't take his eyes off Stelle as if trying to sear this moment into his memory. Her smile was so dazzling, so mesmerizing, he wanted to admire it longer. He wasn't angry or sad – quite the opposite. He was delighted, even awestruck – no one but himself had ever managed such a hand against him, and she'd even tricked him into thinking she'd lost. An astonishing girl.

Stelle, disentangling herself from the hugs, approached the table – or rather, the treasures that now rightfully belonged to her. Passing the gambler, she glanced briefly at him and started – Has he been looking at me this whole time? The intensity in his half-lidded gaze sent an unexpected tremor through her. Why is he smiling like that? She felt suddenly awkward, remembering her unrestrained display moments before... Her cheeks flushed crimson, and she quickly turned away, hiding deeper within her hood. Stelle's face lit up when she spotted the precious earrings – she immediately plucked them from the pile of trinkets and hurriedly put them on. There was no point hiding them now; everyone had seen them, and she had justification. Relief washed over her feelings immediately. Everything was back in its place – the hollow ache in her ears vanished. A heavy stone lifted from her heart.

The grey-haired girl turned to the crowd and announced loudly so all could hear:

"Those who played earlier, you may reclaim your valuables. Just don't take what isn't yours and leave the money."

Some exchanged doubtful glances, but many surged towards the table without delay. Ace chuckled, raising an intrigued eyebrow – How intriguing. Won't she keep anything for herself?

Stelle watched everyone's actions closely – she wouldn't allow anyone to take accessories belonging to those who hadn't stayed until the end. However, the crowd was large, and frankly, she couldn't remember what specific items belonged to whom. Fortunately, Ace proved more observant. One man grabbed a chain and a ring, but the gambler's hand clamped firmly onto his shoulder.

"Cheating a kind-hearted girl isn't nice. Put the chain back. Now." A shiver ran down Stelle's spine from the icy edge his voice acquired by the end of the sentence. It instantly reminded her of the voice he had while accusing her of theft – not exactly a pleasant memory.

The man scowled and pursed his lips – clearly displeased at being caught. Clicking his tongue, he tossed the chain back, and only then was he released from the gambler's grip – or rather, Ace allowed him to go. The blond brushed off his palm as if touching dirt, throwing a final cold look at the retreating figure.

The silver-haired girl watched the scene unfold in surprise. Why is he helping me? His part in this game is over – he shouldn't care who gets what now. Yet he was proving more dignified than he appeared. A faint smile touched her lips, and she nodded to him, silently offering thanks. He mirrored her smile, brought his hand to the brim of his hat, lifted it barely a centimeter, and then inclined his head in a subtle bow.

Seeing that trickery wouldn't work, the others behaved more civilly – no one else drew Stelle or Ace's scrutinizing gaze. Once she confirmed everyone still present had reclaimed their belongings, she gathered the remaining valuables – a bracelet, a chain, the teeth (picked up with particular disgust), and a few rings, including the one belonging to the first woman. She might have been unpleasant, but she deserved her ring back – a memento of her dead husband. The silver-haired girl turned to Ralph:

"Could you return these to their owners when they come back?"

The bald man nodded approvingly, accepting the jewelry and moving behind the bar to store them safely. Stelle smiled – Now everything's settled. Only the most crucial thing remained, the very reason she'd agreed to this madness.

Sweeping the chips aside, she bundled the thin green tablecloth into an impromptu sack – there were too many coins to carry in her hands. I hope Ace isn't too offended that I'm taking his cloth. She offered him a slightly awkward, apologetic smile in her thoughts. The weight was surprisingly substantial, she had to admit. Soon, the makeshift sack was offered to Bella, who looked bewilderedly from Stelle to the money.

"Miss Ray, I... I don't know how to thank you." Her voice trembled as she reached for the sack, hesitating briefly before finally taking it. "Thank you so much. I'll pray for your well-being for the rest of my days."

A blush spread across the amber-eyed girl's cheeks. She fidgeted, averting her gaze. She felt she didn't deserve such profound gratitude, considering how recklessly she'd gambled on Bella's behalf.

"It's alright, truly. I actually wanted to apologize to you..." Stelle began.

Bella frowned, staring at her as if she were an alien.

"...It was presumptuous of me to decide your fate like that. It worked, but it was pure chance. I'm truly sorry I made you worry like that. I wanted to help, but I might have only hurt you more in the end."

In response, the waitress shook her head and closed her eyes briefly. A gentle smile touched her lips:

"Honestly, I was angry at first too. I didn't believe you could win. I hope you can forgive my lack of faith as well."

"Then I suppose we're even."

A soft chuckle escaped both girls simultaneously. March watched the scene, a little teary-eyed and sniffling. She wiped away a stray tear like a proud grandma:

"So touching... My sweet girl became a hero."

Bella thanked Stelle profusely one last time, bid farewell, and bowed. She needed to leave long ago to care for her mother – and now, finally, had good news to share. The trio of friends simply waved goodbye as she practically vanished into thin air.

The remaining patrons also began to disperse, the spectacle clearly over. The tavern should have closed hours ago, but Ralph, understandably, had had little choice but to let the game conclude. Gradually, the number of guests dwindled to zero, leaving only the three friends and Ace. Ralph excused himself for a moment, saying he'd just step out to say goodbye to Bella properly. Most of the actors had already taken their final bows, except for...

The amber-eyed girl turned. Ace hadn't left his claimed spot – he seemed to be waiting patiently. The moment their eyes met, her heart skipped a beat. Her stomach twisted into a tight knot. She swallowed, suddenly awkward, and looked away. Heat flooded her cheeks again, damn it!

The young man lowered his eyelids almost imperceptibly and took a few steps towards Stelle.

"Finally, it's time for Your Humble Servant, Lady Ray." His playful, teasing tone was back, and strangely, it didn't annoy her like before. She realized she definitely preferred this persona to the silent ice sculpture he had been during the game.

She smiled, nodding, and managed to force herself to look at him. She'd thought her earlier reaction was some physiological glitch, but her heart clenched again. Instead of bristling, she decided to joke back. Her mood was excellent, her spirit light. It came easily.

She clasped her hands behind her back, tilted her head up slightly to meet his gaze directly, and gave him a bright smile. Her yellow eyes sparkled under the tavern's dim lamp light.

"Thank you for waiting, my Loyal Servant Ace."

A low chuckle escaped him, suggesting he was amused. Stelle's heart skipped another beat – Why does his voice sound so different now that we're not opponents? Maybe he wasn't quite as awful as she'd thought.

"Very noble of you to give it all away. No regrets?" the blond inquired.

"I got my earrings back, and I helped Bella – I need nothing more." The girl shook her head. It was pure truth. She hadn't played out of greed. Money comes and goes, and others' trinkets held no interest for her. The girl had plenty of her own. But human lives... those couldn't be regained. The mere thought of being in Bella's shoes – her mother being on a deathbed – made Stelle's blood run cold.

The blond nodded, a thoughtful hum escaping him. He seemed to ponder the girl's approach, not quite understanding it. After a brief pause, he began:

"Regardless, for such a game... you deserve a memento..."

He extended an open palm towards her. Stelle stared, dumbfounded, at the gloved hand, then back up at the young man in confusion. Her body seemed to move of its own accord – without thinking, she reached out her own hand, stopping a centimeter short as sudden shyness gripped her. Their palms didn't touch but were close enough for Stelle to feel the warmth radiating from his, even through the glove. His larger hand gently enveloped hers. Her breath hitched, and she bit her lip without realizing it. A wave of warmth washed through her.

Stelle dared a glance into his eyes – a bad idea. Her cheeks burned crimson. She couldn't explain what it was about him that provoked such unnatural reactions. His entire aura, every glance, every touch felt intensely amplified; she felt him with her whole being. It was as if his energy crashed directly into hers, overwhelming her defenses. She'd touched Dan Heng many times – accidentally and intentionally. Nothing like this had ever happened. Get a grip, Stelle!

Her frantic thought shattered against his following action.

His other hand moved towards the one holding Stelle's. Only then did he reveal the ring between his fingers – she recognized it. It had been on his little finger earlier. When did he take it off?

Lifting her hand slightly, he slid the ring onto her finger – it fit suspiciously well on her ring finger.

Wait just a minute, what in the world is happening?!

March squeaked loudly, watching the scene unfold, and peeked at Dan Heng to see if she was overreacting. But his expression said it all. He radiated a dark aura, his gaze sharp enough to kill. His lips were pressed into a thin line, and his arms crossed tightly over his chest.

Stelle flushed to the tips of her ears – even her hood was little help now.

"Wh-What are you doing?" Her voice pitched high with nerves, earning an internal curse.

Her obvious fluster amused him – he was doing it on purpose! Teasing her, this devil! Was this the reaction he'd been aiming for?

"A humble gift. You managed to defeat me, a feat of rare occurrence. You deserve more than mere thanks from a waitress."

The ring was indeed gorgeous – slimmer than his other rings, silver with a green stone set in the center. The hooded girl examined it curiously, then asked:

"What stone is this?"

He still hadn't released her hand despite the ring being on, making it incredibly hard to maintain composure.

"Ah, that..." His tone sounded deliberately dismissive. "...A rather mediocre stone – Aventurine. I hope you can forgive me; it's not a diamond like the ones in your earrings."

Of course. How could she not know? It was the stone so similar to jade. Why would he be so modest about the stone's value? It was nowhere near mediocre. Stelle immediately started shaking her head:

"Aventurine, huh... No, no! This is far too expensive of a gift for someone like me! I can't accept this!"

"What a modest soul you are…" he murmured in a lower, quieter voice that made her swallow. "I don't accept returns. Throw it away if you wish. It's yours now."

Stelle fell silent. What could she possibly say to that? She'd never discard something so valuable. If he insisted… so be it. He wouldn't miss a single ring. Warmth slowly spread through her chest, replacing the guilt.

The ember-eyed girl gifted him yet one more smile. She might have said more, but Dan Heng's stern voice yanked them back to reality:

"Let's go, Ray. It's time we headed back."

The silver-haired girl jolted. She noticed the dark-haired young man already turning towards the exit. March glanced from Stelle to Dan Heng and followed him. The pink-haired girl knew Stelle would join them shortly.

Panic settled in - this is not good at all!

"Oh… Well then, Ace, I'd better go. It's so late, and…"

She pulled her hand free from his grasp. Dan Heng was acting strangely; normally, he'd wait – but now he'd practically run away. She didn't want to be left behind, nor did she know the way back alone.

Stelle waved a rushed final goodbye to Ace and turned to follow her friends. The blond, however, had other plans for her. With a sigh, he added in a hushed voice:

"Not so fast. You've forgotten the final prize in the pot."

The girl barely had time to ask what he meant. The hand she'd just used to wave – the one that moments ago had been in his grip – was caught again. He pulled it sharply, throwing her off balance. Stelle stumbled forward, crashing against his chest. Her captured arm reflexively hooked around his neck for support, the other hand gripping his shoulder. Falling wasn't a risk; his free hand, which had first moved towards his glasses, swept them off in one smooth motion, tossing them carelessly onto the table behind him. That hand now slid around her side, pulling her close against him before slipping beneath the girl's favorite jacket to encircle her slender waist. His other hand cradled the back of her head, tilting her face upwards. Flashing one last flawless smile, captivating her with those mesmerizing, deep eyes that threatened to pull her into their endless depths, he leaned in. His hot breath ghosted over her soft lips a split second before his own claimed them.

Every touch sent unbearable heat radiating through Stelle's body. Her mind couldn't process the onslaught – she barely registered what was happening before his lips were on hers. Instinctively, her hands clenched the expensive fabric of his shirt where they pressed against his chest, the other gripping his shoulder. Electric shocks were jolting through her – her heart hammered harder than ever, harder even than at the peak of their poker game. His hands seemed large, overwhelming against her more petite frame, making her tremble under their insistent pressure. The gambler's body heat was scorching. Or maybe it just felt that way. His lips were firmly pressed to hers – she forgot how to breathe. Her body hummed, a thick, viscous warmth pooling low in her belly, sending tingling pulses down her legs. Stelle was on the verge of losing her mind from sensory overload. A lump formed in her throat; her heart squeezed in a vice. She never dared imagine a man would touch her like that so soon. But she was wrong. He stopped merely pressing his lips to hers and began to kiss each of her lips – slowly, deliberately. The hand cradling her head pulled her impossibly closer, eliminating any space between them.

It was too much. A fresh wave of unbearable heat, electric impulses, and throbbing warmth, even in places Stelle was too shy to acknowledge, even in the wildest dreams, flooded her. Every brush of his lips, every little squeeze he gave to her waist, every brush of fingers against it sent thousands of butterflies to flutter violently in her stomach. She felt an almost ticklish sensitivity on the inside of her thighs, radiating towards the lower belly. Her sanity slipped away at a dangerously high pace. She'd never drunk liters of wine at once, but this must be how that intoxication felt.

Her knees betrayed her, but the gambler's arms held her firmly – preventing her fall. The girl's eyelids fluttered – as did her entire body. The hands she'd tried to push him away with lost their strength against the solid wall of his chest. Useless; he wouldn't budge. A soft chuckle vibrated against her lips – the deep resonance sent a tremor through her very core – something clenched low in her belly.

Stelle had gathered all the will left inside her rapidly emptying brain and barely wrenched her lips away from his, gasping for air. Her dazed eyes, just slightly open, lifted to his. Her ragged breath brushed his skin; unconsciously, she licked her own upper lip just with the tip of her tongue. The blond's enchanting eyes, which now seemed darker than ever, flashed with something primal – something Stelle wouldn't have dared imagine before. The next instant, he surged forward again – catching her delicate tongue, intertwining it with his own. Stelle let out a faint, stifled moan, her fingers digging into his shoulder as she squeezed her eyes shut. Her mind shattered completely – the girl's brain was boiling and bubbling. The kiss was deep, greedy – forced lungs to refuse oxygen, but she didn't care. The silver-haired girl didn't understand what he was doing. Didn't understand what she was doing.

No, no, this is wrong… Stelle tried pushing harder against his chest, but he intercepted her hand, pulling it away. Her brows trembled – the air crackled with unbearable heat – she longed to plunge headfirst into a cold autumn lake.

Through the haze, she barely registered approaching footsteps. Slowly, the blond man's lips began to retreat from hers – and she hated herself for the impulse to chase their warmth. Just for a second…

She forced her heavy eyelids open. The hatted man's voice slid unusually low, a stark contrast to the usual tone, and it immediately sent another wave of shivers through her:

"Your bodyguard is returning…"

The arm supporting her waist loosened its grip, finally releasing her entirely. The other hand snatched the glasses off the table, returning them to the blond's face in a fraction of a second – before Stelle could properly register their color. She swayed, barely able to stand. Suddenly deprived of his warmth, the air felt chilling. Her cheeks still blazed; her heart threatened to burst from her chest. The girl wanted to demand answers – what, why? – but Dan Heng's voice jolted her awake. She jumped, snapping ramrod straight:

"Ray, why didn't you follow us? What if I hadn't noticed in time?"

Stelle turned towards him but couldn't meet his eyes – shame seared through her. Reason was returning, bringing no comfort. She knew her own thoughts would torment her forever! Gods, what have I done… No, what has he done?!

The blond showed no visible remorse – he smirked, crossing his arms and meeting Dan Heng's gaze in as bold of a manner as ever. His smug face betrayed nothing – of course, his poker face was a default setting at this point. Stelle could use some training in that skill herself…

"Ah, apologies, friend. We just got... a little carried away with talking." His fox-like tone hinted at something only Stelle, hidden deep within her hood and turning towards the exit, could decipher. She didn't know how to react, what to do. She wanted to run, hide, and never show her face ever again. Who could have imagined her first kiss would be stolen by some pompous gambler in a tavern! How romantic and totally fitting for a noble lady! Fantastic job, girl! Mom would be proud.

Stelle wanted to blame only him, to curse him, to hate him – but couldn't. She knew she could have stopped it – or at least stopped it from escalating that far. The truth was…

No! Enough thinking!

She won't acknowledge it.

"We're done talking! Let's go, Dan Heng!" she blurted out hastily. The girl strode towards the doors first, deliberately avoiding Ace's gaze.

Dan Heng held the gambler's stare for another moment longer – his gaze sharp and suspicious – but the smile on the blond's face didn't falter. Finally, the dark-haired man gave a dismissive huff and, frowning, followed his friend. She waited for him in the doorway, afraid to go alone. As soon as Dan Heng caught up, she fell into step beside him, but…

Something so stupid inside her forced her to steal one last, sneaky glance back at the blond – and her heart plummeted. The man tipped his hat by the brim, narrowed the eyes slyly, and winked at her just before Dan Heng guided Stelle away.

The damned gambler left her with more than just a ring. He branded her with the memory of her first kiss, a mark of shame she'd carry forever. And as proof, her heart still pounded loudly in her ears, her cheeks, ever the traitors, all flushed – mercifully hidden by the moonlight.

Notes:

is it just me or is it hot in here

Chapter 3: Raccoon's Struggle

Summary:

Even craziest nights eventually come to an end. Stelle is left to face the feelings she's not ready for, she's scared of. And she has no one to tell this about - has to go through the day as usual, while her body keeps betraying her. But the sparkle of excitement still lingered - the festival is tonight - and Stelle is not missing it.

Silence—familiar when Dan Heng was nearby. He was never one for idle chatter, always choosing his words carefully after considerable thought. Stelle knew that and usually took it upon herself to initiate conversations—or simply stayed quiet beside him. That silence never bothered her. On the contrary, sometimes it was exactly what she needed: a calming pause in good company, the kind that helped one recharge, relax, and feel not alone.

But this time, something was off. The silence weighed heavy, suffocating. The crisp autumn air brought no relief. It was hard to breathe. The anxiety had crept into her chest uninvited, whispering that something was wrong. After what happened, she expected at least some form of scolding for falling behind. Dan Heng was walking ahead of her, and she kept watching his back. That wasn't like him—he always adjusted his pace for others.

She hadn't seen his face once since they left, so she couldn't tell—was he disappointed? Annoyed? Angry? From his perspective, nothing terrible had happened—she just got delayed. Sure, that was bad, but it wasn't the first time she'd gotten distracted and lost track of her friends. Usually, he'd lecture her about being irresponsible—but never like this. And March was nowhere to be seen either. Where had she gone? She could've saved her from this awkward situation just by being present. As always—nowhere to be found when needed most.

Stelle bit her lower lip and picked up her pace to catch up with him, hoping to walk side by side. But he quickened his step, too, and the distance between them stayed precisely the same. That wasn't a coincidence—now she was sure. She slowed down again. Dan Heng didn't. As if he'd stopped noticing her at all.

No. This had gone too far.

She had to jog to catch up, and this time, she broke the silence. But instead of calling him out directly, she decided on something neutral. Maybe he really wasn't doing this on purpose? Perhaps he was still mad she'd taken Bella's place?

"Where did March go?" she asked, trying to keep her tone calm. It came out higher than she'd intended.

His reply was instant. Sharp—like lightning splitting the sky.

"Not far."

Dan Heng practically spat the words. Cold. Enough to send shivers down her spine. Silence fell again, but at least now they were walking side by side. She glanced at him a few times, trying to read his face, but found nothing—just a blank expression. Except he never once looked her way. That said enough. Only then did she notice—he wasn't carrying his notebook. Not in his hands, not in his pockets—nowhere.

Strange.

Was this even Dan Heng? Maybe it was his evil twin.

Panic shoved aside all thoughts of that damn gambler. Or maybe she herself had locked those memories away. Why think of someone who had so shamelessly violated her boundaries? Who touched her with those vile hands that fit her waist too perfectly, slid that ring onto her finger with revolting ease; who stared at her with those pitiful eyes that stirred only disgust and nothing more, whose voice grated on her nerves with its smug sweetness, whose lips left her own still burning, remembering every awful detail, every trace of warmth—an unbearable feeling. She wanted to erase it from her mind. Toss out her brain, douse it in bleach, scrub it, and hang it out to dry. Nothing else could save her now! Who would ever marry her after this? Her mother would be furious! Everyone would immediately see what she'd become—just some filthy girl who lets herself be used at first glance. It was written on her forehead. Perhaps that's why Dan Heng was acting this way.

Oh god, what now...

"Dan Heng, I wanted to—"

Stelle tried to apologize, even if she wasn't sure for what exactly. Tried to ask what was wrong. But just as she started, a familiar voice cut in, louder than hers, and oh so welcome:

"Ray! Dan Heng! I was starting to think you'd forgotten me here!"

March stood, hands on her hips, clearly annoyed. In one hand, she held Dan Heng's notebook, and Stelle's eyes widened—he never gave that to anyone. Not unless it was absolutely necessary, and even then, only a page or two. And March was just swinging it around?!

This has to be some parallel universe.

Dan Heng said nothing, simply held out his hand, and March immediately understood. But instead of handing it over nicely, she smacked him on the head with it first. He hissed, wincing. Only then did she toss it into his hands and huff:

"I barely caught it when you tossed it and ran off. Didn't even tell me where! Just a 'Wait by the town hall.' What are you, our commander, now? I wanted to go after Ray, too, you know. Now, it just looks like I didn't care. What's gotten into you?"

Silence. Again. Dan Heng had looked at March several times now but still hadn't once glanced at Stelle—this was just cruel. Couldn't he at least say what his problem was instead of sulking like a child?

March sighed heavily, giving up. She shook her head, then turned to someone who might actually respond:

"Why did you fall behind, anyway? I thought you were right behind us."

Amber eyes darted away, and Stelle tried to put on the most neutral face possible. No one could discover that shame. How would she ever face them again?

Think, quick...

"That gambler started talking to me. He said he liked the game and wanted to play again sometime. I told him I hoped not, and then Dan Heng showed up. That's it."

She kept her voice as steady as she could. Even forced herself to look March in the eyes—avoiding eye contact would be too suspicious, right?

March squinted, tapping her chin as if analyzing a crime scene. Then shrugged:

"Fair. Yeah, no more poker for us. My heart nearly stopped."

Stelle exhaled in relief. Thank the stars March believed her so easily. Guilt gnawed at her anyway—but she told herself she had no other choice. At least the subject was closed. No more dwelling on that awful misunderstanding!

Then March's eyes lit up with a mischievous spark.

Uh-oh. That never led anywhere good.

She sidled up to Stelle, bumping her shoulder, eyes half-lidded and voice low, teasing:

"Hey... show us the ring. I bet it's worth a fortune. Oh, the way he looked at you—you should've seen it. I thought he was going to burn a hole through you when you were talking to Bella."

Stelle flushed, turning away and disappearing deeper into her hood. Her heart picked up pace—damn it! Calm down! But her body didn't listen. Traitor.

"You're exaggerating..." she muttered. March didn't wait—she grabbed Stelle's hand and lifted it.

A squeal:

"Ooh, it's gorgeous! Did he seriously pick the one ring that fits that finger? How did he know? Gosh, you're so lucky!" she squealed louder than Stelle ever had. Honestly, she was more excited than the girl herself.

Stelle gave a sheepish smile in return. She didn't feel lucky. If not for that ring, she might still be... unkissed. March's words made her think, though. Why that finger? He had to know what people would assume. Unless… that bastard did it on purpose. Just to mess with her. Make her think he meant something by it. Damn it, all men just want to toy with you—first Ace, now Dan Heng ignoring her like she was nothing.

"I'm not lucky. Now I feel like I owe him something for this ring." With a snort, she crossed her arms and looked away, lips pursed. "He pisses me off."

But March wasn't done. She nudged Stelle again with that all-knowing grin and a glint in her eyes:

"You like him."

Stelle nearly jumped out of her skin. She stared at her friend, dumbstruck. Her cheeks burned.

"W-What kind of nonsense are you spouting?! I was barely holding back from spitting in that pretty face of his!"

March didn't buy it. Her grin widened like a fox catching its prey.

"So you admit he's 'pretty'—but weren't you the one saying he wasn't attractive?"

Stelle started to shake with indignation. Why was she picking apart her words like this?! And anyway, no, he wasn't good-looking. She'd never liked the overly polished type. Honestly, she wasn't into anyone, really. Well, her father had been handsome. But that didn't count. He was nothing like Ace.

"I don't admit anything," Stelle stuck out her tongue. "I said that because everyone else seemed to think so. Just for context, alright?"

"Mhm. 'Just for context,'" March echoed sarcastically. At that moment, Stelle felt the urge to smack her. Lightly. Just a bit. "You were smiling at him like a lovestruck fool. Only forgot to flutter your lashes."

March demonstrated—exaggerated lips, fast blinking.

Stelle puffed up and stomped her foot in protest, shaking her head furiously:

"Ugh, I would never do that in my life!"

"Oh, sure. We totally believe you. 'Mister Ace, won't you show us your handsome face? Ah, no, no—my poor heart won't take it!'" March began mimicking Stelle's words from before the game, clutching her chest dramatically. Stelle let out a groan of anguish—it had taken all her willpower to say something that dumb, and now March was pouring salt on the wound.

"It was strategy! Stra-te-gy!" Stelle broke it into syllables, sticking her tongue out.

"And does your strategy include post-game pleasantries, too?"

Stelle nearly growled like a real raccoon. She was always way too easy to bait, which only encouraged March to keep poking fun. It might've gone on forever if Dan Heng hadn't finally shown signs of life—he decided to speak at last.

"It's late. Let's get Ray home and head back."

Once again, no waiting for an answer—he just started walking. March frowned, her usually playful expression fading into something more serious.

"He's acting weird… Why would he just leave like that after almost losing you?"

Stelle shared her frustration. She nodded slowly, brows drawn tight. The irritation she'd felt was giving way to guilt and worry. Her lips pressed together, and something twisted in her chest. Dan Heng had never behaved like this before—and not knowing why made her feel utterly powerless.

March slipped her hand around Stelle's, clearly not planning to let her fall behind this time. Together, they hurried after the dark-haired boy. March, never shy, wasted no time confronting him.

"Hey, what's going on with you? Cat got your tongue?"

No reply. One second, two, three…

March's patience had a limit—and it was far behind them. She smacked him on the back with a sharp, high-pitched yell:

"I'm talking to you!"

Dan Heng's patience, on the other hand, was practically saintly—he didn't even flinch. Instead, with unnervingly calm composure, he replied:

"I'm just tired. Sorry if my behavior offends you."

Stelle bit her lip. His tone, his words—they could've convinced anyone who didn't know him. But both girls sensed it instantly: he was lying. Dan Heng didn't want to talk. They'd seen him deflect before, yes—but never like this. Not so directly. Or maybe…

…is it just me he's avoiding?

He'd at least looked at March. Spoken to her. And sure, they were closer—attending the court academy together, living in adjacent rooms. They saw each other nearly every day. Stelle, on the other hand, appeared like lightning from a clear sky—and vanished just as quickly. It made sense he'd trust March more.

But this didn't feel like just that.

The girls exchanged troubled glances. Even March, for all her boldness, recognized there was no point pressing further. Dan Heng's detached answer had made it clear—he wouldn't say another word.

They walked in silence after that. With March by her side, it wasn't as uncomfortable for Stelle. At least she wasn't alone in her confusion. The two of them kept exchanging worried looks, but neither dared break the silence again.

It was already the second month of autumn—and it showed. The crisp night air carried the scent of damp, fallen leaves. Some rustled underfoot. The temperature had dropped further, and the exposed parts of Stelle's legs, not covered by stockings, prickled with goosebumps. Thankfully, the rest of her was protected by her jacket and hood. The cold didn't bother her—in fact, it felt invigorating. These quiet moments, walking through the peaceful city with the cool breeze against her skin, were the times she truly felt alive. No mansion walls closing in. No crushing expectations or duties. Just her.

Dawn came later these days, but even so, the sky was already lightening—not quite the deep night blue anymore. They must have spent far longer in the tavern than planned. The festival would start again that evening, sometime after ten. Just thinking about it sent a flicker of joy dancing through her chest. She felt jittery in the best way.

But the flip side? She'd barely get any sleep. Her wake-up call was always at eight sharp—which, frankly, was lenient. It used to be seven. And in harsher times? Six. Her only hope was to snatch sleep in the breaks between tasks—after lessons and assignments were done. If she managed to finish early or cut corners, her reward was sleep.

The city was still asleep. Only the lamplight lit their path and the pale stone-paved sidewalks. They passed tidy storefronts, all dark behind their windows, only reflections of the lamps gleaming off the glass. Florists, toy shops, bakeries, confectioners, teahouses, the central library with its shelves for every taste and fancy, the art museum preserving the city's cultural heritage—everything the heart could desire, but only in daylight. For now, all they could admire was the silhouette of the town hall receding behind them.

Tall and elegant, Stelle could easily recognize the baroque style from her architecture lessons: curved lines, spiral columns, ornate detailing, tall windows framed with carved reliefs, and wrought-iron balconies adding refinement. The central tower housed a massive clock. Its domed roof was crowned with a sculpture—like the cherry on a cake.

The bells chimed.

4 a.m. exactly.

Beside them stood the magnificent Cathedral of the Saintest Xipe, built in classical Gothic style—massive stone walls supported by flying buttresses and counterforts that gave the illusion of weightlessness. At its heart, a vast nave stretched out beneath lofty pointed arches and stained-glass windows that bathed the interior in a mystical glow. The main entrance was adorned with carved reliefs and spiraled gates, and above it, a rose window—a symbol of divine enlightenment. Towering spires and steeples completed the majestic silhouette.

Opposite, on the other side of the square, stood the crown jewel of the city—a towering, regal theater in the Rococo style. It stunned all who passed with its elegance and unapologetic opulence. Its facade, decorated with ornate bas-reliefs and gilded accents, spoke of refined sophistication. Lights adorned not only the surrounding street but the building itself, bathing it in a glow that brought its every detail to life. At night, the theater revealed its full splendor, creating a warm and magical atmosphere. Statues graced its structure, finishing the look with grandeur.

This was where the nobility gathered for plays, operas, and orchestral performances—tickets priced accordingly. The Gabrielle Wood Imperial Theater was the pinnacle of refinement. Even the worst seats at the least popular plays started at a hundred gold. At the same time, special occasions demanded thousands, even tens or hundreds of thousands, for front-row access. Commoners could only dream of stepping inside. Actors who performed there—noble-born or not—were held in high esteem and frequently invited to galas. The Royal Orchestra also played here, conducted by none other than Crown Prince Sunday himself. Only the wealthiest could afford such a luxury, and yet, the halls were always filled to the brim. Tickets were best purchased well in advance—or received by personal invitation.

Stelle had had the honor of attending a few operas and plays but never a performance by the orchestra. Though she longed to. She had never seen anyone from the Royal Family either, despite her clan's close ties to the Crown—her debut had yet to happen. But it will happen very soon. Her birthday was in a week, and with it, she would officially come of age and become heir to her house.

Still, just the thought of it made her tremble. She had been trained for this moment her entire conscious life, yet she still felt far from ready.

I'm not sure if I ever will.

They were approaching the train station, where the stables were located—and where her horse waited patiently. Shame tugged at her chest—she'd kept the mare waiting far too long. Thankfully, the animal had food, water, and a comfortable spot to rest. It wasn't even her personal horse since a more expensive breed would have drawn attention. This one was shared—sometimes used by servants or guards from their estate. Still, Stelle had grown attached to her. So far, no one had noticed—or at least not mentioned—that the horse disappeared some nights.

Her name was Apple because she adored apples more than anything in the world. If she saw one, she wouldn't settle until she got it. Most horses liked apples—but this one loved them with a passion. She was petite and had dark brown hair.

As expected, she was dozing peacefully on a small pile of hay, and Stelle exhaled in relief. Good. She was safe. Each time Stelle came to retrieve her, she somehow feared that something might have happened to her.

The mare perked up at the sound of approaching footsteps. Lifting her head, she recognized the silhouette. She rose to her hooves, snorting cheerfully and tilting her head in a request for affection. Stelle smiled softly, reaching to gently stroke her head and thick mane, just how she liked.

"Hello, beautiful. Sorry, I took so long," she whispered. The horse, as if understanding, nudged her hand in forgiveness.

"So, what about the festival?" March piped up, warily eyeing the horses nearby. She was afraid of them—though trying hard to hide it. Her voice, however, betrayed her with a slight tremble. "When and where are we meeting?"

"When would you prefer?" Stelle replied, untying Apple's reins. Truthfully, she'd given up hope that Dan Heng would take part in this conversation, so the question was primarily directed at March.

"The festival starts at ten, but I think we should be there a bit earlier. We can meet near the market. Dan Heng and I will wait for you," March suggested, glancing toward the aforementioned boy. He pretended to be thoroughly interested in the empty horse stall across the way.

He gave a simple nod. Well—at least he was listening. That alone brought a wave of relief. Stelle was worried he wouldn't even want to attend the festival anymore, as upset as he seemed to be. Maybe, by then, he'd cool off enough to at least explain what this was all about.

I hope so.

Stelle gathered up the hem of her skirt and gracefully mounted Apple. Of course, riding in a skirt wasn't the most practical—but she simply liked them more. Besides, she'd long since mastered the art of getting on a horse without revealing anything improper. Such things were absolutely unacceptable for a young lady.

"Then it's settled," the silver-haired girl nodded, smiling warmly. Even though Dan Heng was still ignoring her, she kept looking at him, hoping he'd at least say goodbye properly. But with every passing second, the hope withered, replaced by a dull ache. It hurt—hurt more than she'd expected—to watch one of her closest friends, along with March, grow distant from her. And she couldn't do a thing about it. She wanted to cry, to scream—but she held herself together. Furrowing her brows, she went on:

"I'll see you tonight. Have a good day, both of you."

Her voice betrayed her—a note of sorrow slipped through.

March smiled in return and waved, though she jumped back from the horse like lightning. Was she afraid of getting trampled? Who knew—fear didn't always obey logic.

"Bye-bye, sweet Ray! And don't be late, you hear me?"

"Of course!" Stelle nodded at once and gave a playful two-fingered salute.

She was just about to ride off when she froze. A brief pause settled in the air, and she looked at her male friend with a puzzled expression—eyes wide and vulnerable, like a kicked puppy.

"And… take care of yourself, Dan Heng," her voice dropped to barely a whisper, uncertain, as though she feared the words weren't wanted. "I don't know what you're upset about, but… whatever it is—please forgive me. I value you deeply. And I miss your rare comments… and your glances."

The last part barely reached a whisper, like she was hoping he wouldn't hear. When no response came right away, she let out a heavy sigh.

Well, what did you expect? That a few words would fix it?

She tightened her grip on the reins. Apple had already taken a step forward when suddenly—Dan Heng stepped into her path, arm outstretched. Both horse and rider flinched. Her eyes flew wide open, and her hood shifted slightly, letting more of her bangs fall into view. The lamplight caught in her eyes, making the amber glow even more radiant.

And only then—finally—he looked at her.

She hadn't realized just how much she'd missed those aquamarine eyes, sharp and quiet, filled with a mix of sternness and care. But this time… they held something she couldn't quite name. The depth of his gaze startled her—she would never have believed it, but it felt deeper than usual.

Her brows lifted in surprise; the girl was staring as if seeing him for the first time.

Dan Heng seemed about to say something. He opened his mouth, only to bite his lip and look away just as abruptly as if he'd caught a flash of something too bright. The moment of joy vanished as quickly as it had come—just like that. Again.

And only after averting his gaze did he manage to speak:

"I… I'm not angry with you. I promise," he said softly, quieter than usual, his voice roughened just slightly. "I can't explain it… but believe me, I'd never hold a grudge against you. Don't apologize."

There was something in his tone that made Stelle swallow hard. Heat rushed to her cheeks, unprovoked. She fluttered her lashes and reflexively shook her head, letting the hood fall forward to hide her face—and her flustered expression. But inside, joy bloomed. It was a pity he couldn't yet trust her enough to say more—but she knew, somehow, that he wasn't lying. She could feel it.

And with that, a sigh of relief escaped her lips. Only now could she truly smile again. Stelle nodded to him:

"All right, then I won't. But you should know—you can always tell me what's bothering you. I might not always be able to help, but I'll always listen."

Dan Heng gave a quiet nod.

That felt more like him.

Now, she could ride away with a lighter heart. With one last farewell and a wave to her friends, Stelle guided Apple down the path toward home. Home—that place that stifled her yet was dear to her soul. Where responsibility waited once again. Where she'd have to return to the real world.

Her heart ached at the thought that this might be the last week she could still slip away freely. After that…

No. I won't think about that just yet.

***

The road back to the estate had become so ingrained in both Apple and Stelle's memory that the mare needed no direction—she carried them along the familiar path all on her own. They took the longer route, avoiding the main road in case someone might recognize her. The trail, though narrow and winding, was well-trodden by now and easy to follow. It cut through woods, then fields, and eventually, the estate came into view.

A lump rose in her throat, making it harder to breathe—anxiety tightening its grip. Coming back always carried the risk of being seen by the wrong person, of having her entire plan shattered. Worse yet, what if her mother caught sight of her? Or someone had already noticed her absence and was just waiting for her to return, ready for a very serious conversation. The thought alone sent a stampede of goosebumps down her spine.

She shook her head and focused on the ride. The wind of freedom kissed her face, and each jolt in the saddle sent a strange flutter through her stomach. When you're galloping like this, it feels like the whole world is within reach—like you could ride across the entire country, answerable to no one. It's an illusion, of course—but sometimes illusions are the only thing that keep her from suffocating under the weight of expectations. She drew a deep breath of the cool morning air and closed her eyes, losing herself one last time before returning to reality.

They arrived quickly—too quickly, she thought.

Dismounting, Stelle glanced around carefully near the back gate, hidden behind a dense maze of hedges. No guards in sight. She pressed a finger to her lips for Apple to be quiet—as if the mare could understand—and gently led her by the reins toward the stables, eyes scanning every shadow.

Fortunately, the stables were near the gardens. All Stelle needed to do was slip past quietly and tie Apple back where she'd been. Now was the time to be especially cautious. It wasn't as dark anymore, and more guards would be waking and taking up posts. She managed to sneak the mare into her small pen without incident and began fastening the reins.

She always did this with a heavy heart—the estate felt suffocating to her, so how must it feel for a horse? All they could do was stand quietly in their little boxes and wait for someone to use them. The common horses—those not personally owned by someone of rank—had no excitement in their lives beyond food and water. Their only view is other equally bored horses doing precisely the same.

What a sad existence.

Maybe she was projecting, but Stelle could swear Apple's eyes held a soul—and right now, a sadness. She smiled softly and stroked her head one last time. The mare snorted contentedly, a sound quiet enough to not raise any suspicions.

Stepping out of the stable, Stelle pressed herself to the shadow of the wall and paused. To her left lay the garden—carefully pruned alleys, benches, splashes of early-blooming flowers. To her right, the path led to the central courtyard with its fountain. She couldn't go that way—at this hour, someone would surely be inspecting the area.

Her goal lay beyond the garden, near the western wall: the balcony of her room. It stood above a narrow, disused side structure, once a winter passageway to the greenhouse, now long abandoned. There were barely any lanterns over there—perfect.

The hooded girl crept along the hedge, sticking close to the tall peony beds for cover. But as soon as she cleared the first row of bushes, she froze.

A crunch of gravel echoed ahead—heavy, measured footsteps.

Her heart pounded faster.

Footsteps.

Damn it. A patrol.

She darted sideways, but the bushes there were sparser. Thinking fast, she slipped between two decorative columns topped with stone vases, flanking the entrance to a small ancestor statue alley. One low pedestal supported a statue of a long-dead duke, and behind it—a recessed alcove in the brick where a lantern once hung. Now, it offered nothing but shade. Stelle pressed into the niche, covering her mouth to quiet her breath.

The path the guard took ran right along the hedge and led to the rear yard. He moved unhurriedly—until he paused. A faint rustle of leaves had betrayed something.

Stelle went completely still, tense as if she were trying to melt into the wall.

The guard turned. His armor clinked. Slowly, he scanned the bushes and path. Her heart thundered like a war drum.

Please, she begged silently, let him think it was just the wind and walk away. But no—he was drawing closer. Each step matched the pounding in her chest. Her palms grew clammy. She pushed herself flat against the bricks as if she could phase through them.

She buried deeper into her hood and jacket. At least they were dark—offering what little concealment they could.

His silhouette now blocked the narrow space between the bushes. He was nearly at the turn by the columns—less than two meters from Stelle's hiding spot.

She was a breath away from being discovered.

This day had already given her more drama than an entire year deserved. And now this? After all these years of successfully sneaking around, would she really get caught like this? Just like that—so stupidly?

Suddenly, a voice called out from the far end of the garden:

"Hey! Where'd you get stuck? Your shift changes in five minutes!"

The man froze at once. He cast one last look toward the hedge, frowning. Eyes narrowed, he scanned the area thoroughly. Then came a sigh.

"I'm coming. Just… the wind, I think. Rustling around."

The other guard rolled his eyes—clearly not as cautious. On the one hand, that was bad—this was their job, after all. But on the other… right now, Stelle wanted to kiss her unexpected savior.

Once the footsteps faded and silence returned, she allowed herself a breath. Her mind was blank—only her pulse thudded in her temples. She leaned against the cold stone wall for a moment to keep from collapsing.

That was close. Too close.

She had to move fast.

Very soon, the light would grow strong enough for someone to spot her even from afar.

Summoning the last reserves of her strength, the amber-eyed girl slipped from her hiding place and, as quietly as possible, dashed toward the old wing. A path hidden between hedges and a low wall led to her balcony. At the base, in the shadows, stood an old crate that had once been used for storing garden tools. She always used it to reach the eaves.

Now, with everything quiet again, she jumped—caught the ledge—and, with a full-bodied heave, barely managed to pull herself up. One hard tug and she was on the balcony, nearly slipping in the process. One more second, and she might have fallen back down.

But luck was on her side.

She was safe.

She took off her boots, carrying them in one hand, and carefully opened the balcony door. Then she slipped inside, closing the glass behind her.

The room greeted her with familiar warmth and quiet. No one had waited up—meaning, most likely, no one had noticed her absence.

It welcomed her like a sanctuary. Unlike the rest of the estate, which loomed with shadows and grand, suffocating majesty, her bedroom felt like its own little world—light and delicate, as if explicitly crafted to let one breathe within the palace's web of stone.

The walls were painted a soft cream, adorned with lavender vines and wispy, translucent designs that wove into near-invisible filigree. The furniture, carved from whitewashed wood, bore intricate patterns—but still hinted at her family's crest: tiny spiders and threads delicately etched into the table legs and the headboard of her bed.

The coverlet was embroidered with silk flowers, carefully laid out—the same one her mother gave her when she turned twelve. By the window stood her vanity, complete with a gilded mirror, a porcelain jewelry box, and a half-used bottle of perfume—sweet and floral, with a cool aftertaste.

Along one wall stood a bookshelf, cluttered with textbooks, poetry collections, and old magazines—some still marked with folded corners. On the windowsill, a potted violet sat, a little faded but still alive.

Near the door, an armchair draped with a blanket and a small round table where a forgotten teacup rested—its contents long cold.

There was no grandeur here—only personal touches. A faint hint of lavender lingered in the air, and the stillness made the room feel almost enchanted. It was the only place in the entire estate where Stelle could truly breathe. The only place where she didn't have to pretend.

For a fleeting moment, she let herself relax, a wave of calm washing over her. Despite all the pressure, despite always feeling like a bird in a gilded cage, she still loved her home deep down. Especially this room. It didn't fit the rest of the mansion's decor in the slightest, but her mother had allowed her this one indulgence. And for that, Stelle was deeply grateful. The soft colors made even the walls feel less oppressive.

And finally, finally, she could take off the hood that had bothered her all night. Stelle hated having to sneak around like this, but she hadn't found a better solution yet. At least the cloak preserved a little anonymity. She inhaled deeply and shook her head, setting her hair free—grey, straight, and thick, it spilled over her shoulders in a tangled mess. But she didn't mind.

The jacket was the next to go, tossed onto the armchair. The weight lifted from the girl's shoulders, and a cool draft wrapped around her like a gentle embrace. Stockings, skirt, garter followed. Her slender fingers hastily unfastened the buttons on her pale blouse. Exhaustion had claimed her—her eyelids grew heavier as if dusted with sand. She couldn't hold back a yawn, covering her mouth out of habit even though she was alone.

The thin fabric slipped down her skin, and she caught the blouse before setting it with the rest of her clothes. Now she stood almost completely bare—only her underwear still covering her.

The mirror on her vanity reflected her form—smooth curves at the waist, hips slightly rounder than they used to be just a few years before. With each breath, her ribs would rise faintly, and her usually flat stomach softly rose and fell, just the curves of her bare chest. The sudden chill had brought a blush to the tense rose buds. Her collarbones stood out in sharp relief, and her slender neck was framed by her tousled hair.

For some reason, Stelle found herself staring at her reflection as if seeing someone else in there. Her gaze drifted to a birthmark—just slightly darker than the rest of her skin—and she reached out, tracing its outline gently with the pads of her fingers. Her lips parted slightly, and a soft sigh slipped out.

An unwelcome memory intruded without warning.

How recklessly she had volunteered to help Bella, only to end up taking the fall herself—accused of theft. Her eyes flicked to the earrings resting in their rightful place. A small smile touched her lips. She had been seconds away from losing her most treasured accessory.

So foolish.

And yet, even with that awareness, she didn't regret it. She was genuinely glad she'd been able to help Bella's poor mother—and Bella herself—even if it had cost her a decade's worth of nerves. Good thing her hair was already grey—no one would notice the silver strands she was surely earning.

But along with the memory of the accusation came other aspects. Blond and very irritating ones.

Her heart, no matter how sternly she ordered it to behave, skipped a beat. Without even realizing it, Stelle bit her lower lip. She tried to banish the memories, but they refused to obey. And there it was again—that arrogant face, those eyes she'd glimpsed when his glasses slipped right when she boldly showed him her birthmark. The expression he wore at that moment was priceless—gone was the usual smug smile she always wanted to slap off his face. In its place was a genuine surprise.

Her heart fluttered as if it had grown wings and was ready to take flight. A blush bloomed across her cheeks, soft and pink.

That gaze—so heavy, so intense, so piercing—it was as if he could see right through her. As if he could've seen her naked body even through a hundred layers of clothing. Like he could read her soul at will.

And she hated—despised—the heat that pooled in her body just thinking about it. Her breathing was no longer even, and she swallowed the knot in her throat. The room, which had once been comfortably cool, now felt stuffy and stifling. Her mind replayed the gambler's voice with perfect clarity:

"My sweet girl…"

She knew—knew all too well—that those words meant less to him than a crushed ant underfoot. Knew he probably said sweet nothings to everyone he met. But none of that changed the tight twist that returned in her stomach, the way her breath caught again. A tickling wave rolled through her lower belly—strange, unfamiliar, but… not unpleasant.

Ace's voice echoed inside her head like a stuck record. The next memory her mind conjured was his deep chuckle, the vibration of it reverberating through her when he laughed—right into her lips.

And just like that, the feelings struck her again—like lightning.

Thoughts couldn't be stopped now, no matter how hard she tried.

She couldn't forget the way her chest had been pressed against his burning torso, how his hair had brushed the sensitive skin of her face, how his breath had scorched her, how his hands gripped her waist with such firm control as if he had every right to. And his lips—just thinking of how they met her own made something twist deep inside her again, made her press her legs together tightly. The way his tongue moved with hers, teasing, doing whatever it pleased—owning. The way he cradled the back of her head, pulling her closer, full command in every touch.

Stelle had been powerless then—Ace had enchanted her, pulled her entirely out of reality.

When she had managed to pull away for a breath, there was a flash in his eyes—something Stelle didn't understand, couldn't name. Still, it sent a spark exploding low in her belly, scattered her thoughts like leaves in the wind, and made her head spin. And when he had pressed his lips to hers again with the hunger of a feral animal, she honestly thought her brain got thrown away. Stelle's body felt like it stood on the edge of death—no one should be able to feel everything all at once, so violently, so vividly.

Her lips still burned even now, as if aching for more. Every patch of skin that these strong hands had touched now tingled, recalling each second of contact like it had only just happened. Stelle wrapped her arms around her shoulders, not recognizing the face staring back at her from the mirror. What was this flushed expression? These swollen lips, bitten pink? These half-lidded eyes filled with something even she couldn't place?

It frightened her—truly.

It felt as if someone had stolen control of her own body. As if it had lost its mind and chosen to betray her entirely, from head to toe. Now, staring into her own reflection, she wondered—was it visible? Could people tell that she had become… this? So shameless, so tainted?

Would her mother see it?

Would others?

A wave of shame hit her like cold water. Her mother's face came to mind at once—that sharp, icy gaze of violet eyes, the one that missed nothing. If she even suspected…

Suddenly, it felt disgusting to keep looking at herself.

Stelle spun away from the mirror and made a beeline for the wardrobe. Her fingers closed around the first thing she saw—a nightdress—and she pulled it on in a flash as if hiding her body might also hide her disgrace.

She quickly folded her clothes and shoved them into the wardrobe—she'd toss them with the laundry herself later, just to make sure no one noticed an outfit she hadn't worn the previous day. Then she threw herself onto the bed with more force than necessary, as if the mattress were to blame for her emotional state. A groan escaped her lips as she dove beneath the soft covers. Wonderful—less than three hours until she had to get up, and she was only just now getting into bed. Morning and lessons were going to be… interesting.

A wave of relief swept through her body—the kind only blankets could bring. The soft mattress and pillow seemed to embrace her from behind. She instinctively curled into a cocoon, pulling the blanket around her, eyes fluttering shut.

Finally, sleep. Finally, peace. No more foolish thoughts.

She buried herself deeper under the covers, trying to warm not just her body but her mind—will it into stillness. For a few seconds, it almost worked. Sleep hovered just at the edge of her reach… but the moment her body began to relax, her brain surged back to life. She rolled over. Then, onto her back. Her stomach. Back again. The pillow suddenly felt wrong—she flipped it over. Then again. And once more, the cool side up. She pulled the blanket tighter around her like it could shield her from her own traitorous heart, only to toss it aside when the heat became unbearable.

It didn't help.

Her heart pounded, threatening to break out of her chest.

"Come on… sleep…" she muttered, pressing her cheek to the pillow.

Another ten rounds of restless shifting later, she even tried visualizing sheep—one, two, three, leaping over a fence. One wore a ribbon. Twenty-four… twenty-five… twenty-seven… thirty-two…

With a sigh, Stelle opened her eyes and stared up at the ceiling. Every sheep turned into a fluffy white shadow. Like clouds over the city. Like… his hair.

Damn it.

The girl groaned again, louder this time, and shoved her face into the pillow.

Sleep fled entirely—as if it had never even come close. Thoughts ricocheted through Stelle's skull like sparks. Flashes of memory snapped together like shards in a kaleidoscope: burning lips, that scorching stare, and that one word that wouldn't stop echoing in her head—"mine."

Her heart struck her ribcage like a hammer. She pressed a fist to her chest as if it could calm the madness. But her body wasn't listening—it burned from the inside out. The more she tried not to think, the more she thought. Morning loomed. Lessons. And the festival.

A disaster.

The longer she lay there, the more she wanted to get up, move, punch something. But she refused to give in—kept her eyes closed, stubbornly clinging to the hope that sleep would return. But anxiety, and something even more dangerous, gnawed at her with every second of silence.

Can I trade this body for a better one somewhere?

She wanted to growl, scream, swear, or just jump out the window. All of it at once. Frustration turned into fury—at herself, at her rebellious heart, at the tingling crawling through every limb… at him.

It was too hot. Unbearably hot. She flung the blanket off. A minute later—too cold. But not quite enough to cover up completely. She settled with it halfway over her, leaving one leg out in the open.

Better.

Some amount of time passed. It could've been a minute or two hours. Stelle had no idea. No matter how much she wanted to sleep, it was as if slumber had forgotten her address and gone on a world tour. All that was left was Stelle—alone with her anxiety, her shame, and her humiliating memories. Even keeping her eyelids shut became an effort. With a long sigh, she opened them wide, staring at the canopy above like it was the most riveting painting in the gallery. The folds in the fabric twisted into vague shapes—a grumpy old man's face, a cute kitten. She reached up, tracing them in the air. Her gaze followed her finger—but she could never quite touch the right spot. The shapes melted away.

Of course, even this doesn't work.

Then something caught her eye. Something very specific.

Light from the window glinted off silver—a ring.

It had decided to shine as if to remind her of its presence. As if the air wasn't stifling enough already.

She'd forgotten to take off the devil's gift.

How? She'd looked at her hands countless times—how had she not noticed? As if she'd been wearing the ring forever. As if she were already used to it.

The heart clenched. Her breath caught midway.

The ember-eyed girl had completely forgotten about it—like it had become part of her. And now that she'd noticed, she couldn't look away from the hypnotic green shimmer of the stone. Stelle's gaze locked on it as if entranced.

Slowly, the girl brought her hand closer, lips parting in quiet disbelief. Her fingers traced the soft edges of the gem, memorizing every curve, every glint of light. Studying it as though she were seeing a piece of jewelry for the first time in her life.

As much as she didn't want to admit it—the ring was beautiful. Elegant.

Cursed.

It dragged her back into memories that were already too vivid. The weight of a confident hand, much larger than her own. That radiant, smug face. And once again, that infuriating heat climbed into her cheeks. Her heart thudded somewhere in her throat.

And here it was again…

God, when will this stop?

"Get out of my head!" she snapped—and then screamed.

In one furious motion, she yanked the ring off and hurled it toward her vanity. It struck the wood with a loud clink and bounced off into some unseen corner of the room. She didn't care. Not at all. Absolutely not.

She rolled over, turning her back to it, burying her face in the pillow, and letting out a low growl—muffled and broken—like it might banish the image or at least quiet the rage in her head.

But the emptiness on her finger reminded her that some things don't leave that easily.

And now, she had two whole hours left to be alone—with all of it.

***

She barely managed any real sleep. Only in the final half-hour before dawn did she drift into a light, fragile doze. She was in a state of semi-consciousness, so the moment she heard a pair of soft knocks on the door, her eyes flew open—as if she hadn't been asleep at all.

"Lady Stelle, it is time to rise," came a gentle voice. In the next second, the door creaked open, and two young women appeared in the doorway—her personal maids. Stelle harbored no resentment toward them; they'd been with her for several years now, and at times, she even felt they were nearly friends. She'd long since grown used to their unceremonious morning entrances.

One of them—Elia—was tall, with light brown hair pulled tightly into a neat bun atop her head. Her kind grey eyes radiated warmth and sincerity. The other—Lizzie—was shorter, with chin-length dark hair and matching eyes, which often carried an air of indifference or chill. But that was just a first impression. In truth, she, too, was kind, simply more reserved than her counterpart.

Stelle sighed and sat up, thoroughly disheveled—like someone plucked straight from a drawer of wrinkled clothing. Her hair stuck out in every direction, and the dark circles beneath her amber eyes made it obvious she hadn't slept nearly enough.

Both maids jumped at the sight, and Elia couldn't suppress a gasp. They exchanged glances as though something miraculous had occurred. With a curious tilt of her head, Stelle raised an eyebrow.

"What is it? Have you seen a ghost?" Her voice was rough with fatigue, and she cleared her throat quickly to correct it.

"L-Lady…" Elia began hesitantly, stepping closer. "Is that truly you? Are you feverish?"

She reached out to touch Stelle's forehead. The silver-haired girl stared at her with a dumbstruck expression. What on earth…?

"Remove your glove, you silly thing," Lizzie sighed, coming nearer. "My lady, are you quite well?"

Even her eyes, usually unreadable, were filled with confusion and concern.

"What are you two going on about? Why wouldn't I be?" Stelle huffed, furrowing her brows.

Elia waved her hands dramatically, her voice high and flustered.

"You woke up as soon as we entered! Throughout my years of service, I've never seen anything like this. Normally, we have to drag you out by the ankle! We were prepared to yell that breakfast was starting without you, just to get you up."

"Or that Her Grace was on her way," Lizzie added.

Stelle crossed her arms with an indignant huff. "Cruel women, the both of you. What kind of jest is that?"

"An effective one," Lizzie said with a shrug.

"I'll have you know I'm not so hopeless as you claim," Stelle replied with forced dignity. "People can change, you know."

Even she didn't quite believe it, but she clung to the hope they wouldn't press her further. Of course—they did.

"Are you certain you slept well?" Elia asked, narrowing her eyes and studying Stelle's face like a painting. The scrutiny made her look away uncomfortably. "You appear tired, yet your face is… glowing. That's rather odd…"

The maids exchanged a silent glance, clearly wondering the same thing. Then Lizzie continued, gesturing toward her lady.

"Your eyes are weary, but your face shines. And you sprang up the moment we arrived. Has something happened? Are you worried about something—or perhaps… expecting something?"

Must they be so observant?

She wasn't in the mood to invent convincing lies, so she said the first thing that came to mind:

"My birthday is near. It shall be the most significant event of my life thus far. Naturally, I am both apprehensive and expectant."

Elia's lips formed a perfect 'O' of realization. She bit her lip and looked away, suddenly shy.

Lizzie exhaled quietly, her brow furrowing. For some reason, both their expressions turned mournful—as though they were the ones facing the burden, not Stelle. She didn't understand it. Nothing ought to change for them. So why…?

"Ah… of course. How silly of me not to realize at once," Elia muttered, laughing awkwardly. Her smile was stretched thin—anyone could tell.

Silence fell. The maids avoided her gaze now, only fueling her suspicion. But before she could ask what was going on, Lizzie broke in—more loudly than usual:

"Oh, goodness! It's already late! We must hurry—there's little time before your lessons. The bathwater's cooling—we should go at once."

Even her tone sounded off. Forced. It made Stelle frown, eyeing them both warily. But she allowed herself to be led toward the bath, and her usual morning routine began.

She wasn't in the mood to pry today.

The marble bathroom greeted her as always with soft, golden light—sunlight filtered through sheer curtains over tall windows, casting gentle gold across the floor. The bath waited in its deep oval basin, the surface steaming and sprinkled with white jasmine petals and a few rosebuds. The fragrance was delicate—barely there, like spring's breath.

Lizzie handed her a thick robe, casting Stelle's night dress into the laundry basket in one swift motion.

"The temperature is ideal," she remarked dryly, stepping aside.

Stelle lowered herself into the water slowly, with the grace bred from years of training. The heat enveloped her skin, easing the tension in her shoulders, chasing away the remnants of sleeplessness more effectively than any words. Elia soon brought a tray bearing moisturizing cream and a pale wooden comb but left it on the shelf for now. She knelt beside the tub and spoke softly:

"Allow me to wash your hair, my lady. I believe peach kernel oil would suit today—it will restore its natural sheen."

"Do as you see fit," Stelle replied with a sigh, closing her eyes.

Warm water poured down her back, flowing along her spine. Elia's fingers moved gently, massaging her scalp with practiced precision, lathering soap without letting a single drop stray to her face. Meanwhile, Lizzie silently cleansed her skin with an herbal tonic that smelled faintly of wormwood and linden blossom.

All proceeded as it always had. And yet—Stelle couldn't shake the feeling that something, somewhere, had already changed.

"Eyes red, but the skin is clear…" Elia murmured to herself, not waiting for comment from her mistress.

Her hair was rinsed thoroughly—twice, as always. Then came the mask, left in for precisely five minutes. Elia never once looked away—she timed everything to the second. Stelle only rose from the bath when the water had just begun to cool—never before.

She was wrapped in a thick towel, pre-warmed by the hearth. Lizzie gently dried her neck and shoulders, checking whether she'd caught a chill, while Elia was already combing through the damp strands, dividing them into even sections.

They returned to the bedroom, where the wardrobe stood open and ready. The maids began their work in silence. On the vanity, everything was already in place—slender bottles with fine brushes, jars of mineral powder and pastel lip balm, moisturizing creams, and a bundle of silver hairpins.

"We'll highlight the neckline today," Lizzie said thoughtfully, reaching for the comb. "I'll do a loose bun with curls and leave a few tendrils by the face."

"Just… not too tight, please," Stelle murmured as she eased onto her seat, stretching out her limbs.

"Of course, my lady," Elia replied, retrieving a vial of light essence scented with cloves. "But it must hold through fencing."

"Oh…" Stelle drew in a breath. That's right—an entire day of lessons awaited her. And fencing was one of them. Usually, she looked forward to it, but today, the thought alone made her wince. She already felt too clumsy, off-kilter even in stillness—under a wooden blade, she might not survive. "How kind of you to remind me of the tortures ahead. What else is on the schedule today?"

Lizzie, always perfectly prepared, had clearly been waiting for the question. She recited the list as if from memory:

"Vocal training, piano, calligraphy, history, and fencing. There is little time between calligraphy and history, so you will need to manage your time wisely."

Stelle sighed deeply, her shoulders dropping. Of course. The three most demanding subjects—fencing, calligraphy, and history—all crammed into one day. And today, of all days. Fate did have a sense of irony.

"May I return to the bath, please? I suddenly feel a desperate desire to drown in it."

"Don't say such things, my lady!" Elia exclaimed, puffing up indignantly and planting her hands on her hips. "What would we do without you?"

"Oh yes, of course," Stelle muttered with dry sarcasm, rolling her eyes. "Society must have its heiress."

"At least you'll have that singing master—the one with the mustache who always looks like he's just bitten a lemon," Elia added with a grin. "Isn't that something to look forward to?"

"He loathes my breath control," Stelle said flatly, crossing her arms. "And he nearly fainted once when I attempted a high note."

Elia burst out laughing. "Oh, I can imagine! At least it was amusing."

"Well, amusing for some. For me, it was nearly a charge of attempted murder on a senior citizen." Stelle pouted.

"At least the piano lesson will be a respite. The instructor adores you," Lizzie offered, trying to inject a bit of optimism.

Stelle paused, then gave a slight nod.

"That's true. You'd have to really love someone to patiently endure them fumbling notes and stumbling over their own fingers."

"I'm certain it's not that bad," Lizzie said gently.

Stelle laughed—short, almost involuntary. How naive. Still, the light-hearted exchange eased something in her chest. The tension of the morning began to melt somewhat. For a moment, it felt like the day ahead might not be as tragic as she'd feared. That was what she cherished most about her faithful maids—the ease of their company.

Realizing they'd gotten carried away, the maids snapped back into professional rhythm.

The makeup was light but precise. A pale, porcelain-finish foundation. A touch of corrector beneath the eyes. A delicate pink flush across her cheeks to imitate natural warmth. A soft peach gloss on her lips. Nothing garish—everything refined, understated. No one would ever guess that she—Ray, as she had been less than ten hours ago—had played poker in a tavern that reeked of alcohol, weathered a storm of emotions, and very nearly lost her mind under the weight of it all.

"There," Elia said, setting the mirror a little closer. "Have a look."

Stelle glanced at her reflection. They had worked wonders—one would never guess their lady had slept so little. The bath, the oils, the makeup... all had done their magic with remarkable precision.

"Attire," Lizzie said curtly, and the maids moved to retrieve the gown.

It was already waiting on the perfectly made bed—folded with the care of a master artisan. Mint-green silk, delicate gold embroidery, a snowy white lining, and sleeves that fell in gentle, layered waves. The bodice featured soft pleats that flowed into ribbons, secured with a silver floral brooch.

"This is from Master Xue's new collection," Lizzie reminded her, helping guide her arms through the sleeves. "Completed only a week ago."

"Hold your posture, if you please," Elia added gently, adjusting the underskirt. "There are three layers—we need each to fall precisely."

The fabric whispered as it settled around her like petals forming a shield. Stelle knew: in this dress, she appeared refined, composed, untouchable. Of course—this was their duty: to ensure that she looked exactly so. Otherwise, they'd have long since been dismissed, like the previous maid—whose name Stelle could no longer recall. That one had been clumsy. Even after a year of service, she brought wrinkled gowns and botched hairstyles with strands slipping loose.

"All done," Lizzie said, stepping back. A faint smile tugged at her lips, and she nodded with approval. "You're radiant. Better keep an eye on that mustached instructor—he might swoon from sheer beauty this time."

Stelle allowed herself a soft smile, a little bashful. Surely an exaggeration.

She stepped toward the mirror to view herself in full. Studied carefully. Intently—checking that every detail was in order. If fate led her to cross paths with her mother this morning, everything would need to be flawless. She turned sideways. Shoulders squared. Gaze steady. Each fold in place.

A suitable appearance for the future heiress…

And yet, deep down—somewhere just beneath her sternum—there remained a faint sense of dissonance. The memory of the night's escapades now felt foreign, as if they belonged to someone else. As if she had become an entirely different person, and those events had taken place in another lifetime.

"It's time," she said, cutting off her own thoughts before they could drag her too far into introspection. It's best to stay focused and get through the day quickly.

"We'll escort you," both maids replied at once.

They exited the room together. One maid opened the door for her; the other closed it behind them.

Today was simply another day. One of those in which she was once again Stelle—the duchess's future successor—not Ray, a simple girl who roamed city streets with friends.

And yet, deep in her eyes lingered a glimmer of the girl she'd been last night. Her truest self? Or perhaps this version, so polished and composed, was the real one? She no longer knew. And her mind, fatigued as it was, could not begin to answer such existential questions.

Her steps echoed softly—measured, deliberate, like everything else in her life. She walked through the Corridor of Doom—that was what the servants called it. Not because it was frightening, no. Because here, all things human were left behind. Here, one forgot oneself.

The high arches did not threaten—they bore down with dignity, like a crown upon a monarch's brow. The plasterwork curled overhead in spirals as if fate itself had tried to etch its patterns into stone. Her gaze drifted upward—and caught a line of the family crest: the spider. A small detail, yet her heart gave a faint jolt. The mark of her house. A symbol from which there was no escape.

On either side, the walls were lined with mirrors. Dozens of versions of herself walked beside Stelle, imitating every step she took. The candelabras reflected in the glass, scattering warm golden light across the marble. The glow caressed, but it also warned—she was always being watched.

Portraits of her ancestors gazed down—some with cold detachment, others with proud severity. They observed her as if waiting, wondering whether she would falter on the silken rug, whose pattern never repeated, just like the path of every woman in her bloodline.

None of them were given second chances. And Stelle—least of all.

Her eyes lingered for a moment on one portrait: a woman garbed in black and gold, staring forward as if through the centuries. The very same great-grandmother who had commissioned chandeliers shaped like spider swarms. Who had commanded armies while men argued over taxes.

Stelle did not wish to become her. And yet… with each passing day, she saw more of herself in that stern face.

The corridor was, as always, longer than it seemed. It stretched onward, and each meter whispered its reminder:

You are not here by accident. You are blood, expectation, and design.

You are a link in a chain.

And it is not yours to break.

***

Breakfast passed in silence—as always. And as Stelle had come to expect, her mother did not grace the table with her presence. Though this was her routine, some small ember of hope still flickered in Stelle's chest each morning. That perhaps today would be different.

And each morning, that ember was extinguished—snuffed out against the cold stone wall called disappointment.

The door to the vocal chamber closed behind her with a soft click. Despite the room's grand scale and high ceiling, it felt almost intimate. Thin walls draped in fabric softened every sound, creating an acoustic space where even breath was audible.

In the corner stood the grand piano, its blackwood inlay glinting faintly beneath the overhead lights. The lid was raised. And beside the music stand stood Master Brinolf himself.

His frame, tall and narrow as a musical staff, was always straight. Perched on the bridge of his nose were round spectacles that guarded two sharp, ever-watchful eyes. And, of course, the mustache—massive, grey-black, possessing a life of its own, as though it had strong opinions on every misplayed note.

He glanced at her over his glasses.

"You are once again on the verge of being late, Lady Stelle."

"But not late," she replied coolly, dipping her chin in faint acknowledgment.

He didn't respond. Only pointed toward the center of the room.

"Warm-up. Range drill, with transitions. B-flat to second octave C. No distortions."

She moved into position, shoulders squared. She inhaled deeply, just as she'd been taught—stomach, ribs, chest. But her body resisted. Her chest felt tight, her breath uneven.

She began. A simple "ahh," moving from low to high.

The first phrase was strained—her voice wavered on the transition between registers, her throat not yet open. She could hear it herself. Her eyes narrowed slightly as if she had physically felt the fault.

"Again," Brinolf said sharply. He didn't lift an eyebrow. He didn't need to—his tone had said it all.

On the second attempt, the tone was smoother. But on the high note, the girl overcompensated—the sound snapped like a taut string.

He exhaled through his nose.

"You do not pull a voice, Lady Stelle. It is not a corset to be tightened at a whim. It is cloth. Strain it, and it tears. Again. This time, listen to what you are singing."

She forced herself to focus. Closed her eyes. Breathe. Stomach. Support.

Again.

The notes became more pliant, but each still carried a trace of effort. The ember-eyed girl tried—but it was as if she were moving through molasses. Her fatigue betrayed itself not in weakness but in tension.

"That will do. Sit."

He scribbled something into his notebook, then looked up at her again.

"I understand—there are days when the body refuses to behave as an instrument. But you are an heiress. You do not have the luxury of 'some days.' Especially not in your voice."

She sat at the edge of the bench. Back straight. Hands resting on her knees. She didn't argue.

He has a point.

Vile truth, but truth nonetheless.

"Now," he said, lifting a sheet of music, "the aria of Queen Lotharia. From the middle—' My people, like drops of rain.'"

This passage required more than technique—it demanded presence. Stelle would need to breathe the words and stretch them across the notes like a vow spoken aloud.

She stood. First measure—introduction.

She began.

"My people, like drops of rain…"

The first line landed—firm and clear. But the second came too early. The octave jump carried a trace of sharpness. A few more phrases followed, and then her breath faltered. She stopped of her own accord.

Silence.

He folded his arms.

"You know what you did. I won't repeat it."

"Yes," she said simply. There was no use pretending.

"And yet," he added, "your breath support has improved. Keep your chest grounded. It matters. Your timbre is rare. But it will slip away if you do not master it."

He stepped forward, sliding the sheet to one side.

"We'll leave the aria. It's too fragile. Let us return to the resonance exercise—lip trill. Jaw relaxed. Let the lips vibrate. Focus not on the result, but on the process."

She began: "brrrr," then added notes. "Brrr-mi, brrr-sol, brrr-si…"

Five minutes passed with those ridiculous sounds. And strangely enough—they were the most effective. They brought Stelle back into her body. Into herself.

At last, he waved a hand.

"That is enough. You are like a broken violin—still tunable. But today, I would not place you on a stage."

Stelle nodded. She did not take offense. It wasn't cruelty.

It was honesty.

"Until next lesson, Master Brinolf," she said, composed, as she took her leave.

The door clicked behind her once more.

The piano lesson was next.

Perhaps it would be easier.

Then again… who was she fooling?

That awful, heavy feeling had returned—like a stone sitting over her heart. Once more, she was failing everyone. Especially her mother.

And her mother would be most displeased. Not with her progress—no.

With her lack of perfection.

***

The piano room was far cozier than the vocal chamber. Spacious, yes—but not grand. Less gold, more wood. The air held the scent of fresh ink, old sheet music, and the faint floral lotion Madame Freya always wore.

Madame Freya was already waiting—an elegant woman in a dress the color of smoky lavender, her eyes gentle, her smile eternally warm. The moment Stelle entered, she looked up and offered a kind nod.

"Lady Stelle, good morning. How is your voice?"

"A bit unsteady but intact," came the dry reply.

"As it is with the heart," Freya smiled. "Today, I thought we might return to Master Elerino's Prelude in D minor. Do you recall beginning it two months ago?"

"I remember," Stelle nodded, approaching the instrument.

She took her seat. The grand piano was old, its keys warm to the touch—polished smooth by the hands of many pupils. It seemed to breathe beneath her fingertips. The first chords—slow, like the beginning of a conversation with someone long missed.

Her fingers moved. The left hand kept a solid, grounding rhythm; the right danced, leading the melody. She knew this piece. It lived beneath her skin.

And yet…

…on the third reprise of the right-hand theme, where the melody should have lifted, something went wrong.

A small but jarring mistake. The note missed. Off-key.

Madame Freya didn't flinch, but Stelle's jaw had already tightened.

You know this. It's simple. You've played it a hundred times…

And still, she knew what had happened.

The moment her right hand rose, a face had flashed before her eyes. Unfairly handsome. That smug, infuriatingly gentle smile. His fingers, clasping hers… The slide of the ring against her skin. His breath against her lips.

She stopped abruptly.

"Apologies," she exhaled. "A mistake. It won't happen again."

"It's quite alright," Freya said gently. "This is not a royal performance. Breathe. Inhale. And let go."

Let go, she echoed silently.

She placed her hands back on the keys. Closed her eyes. Exhaled. Without him. Without memories.

Just notes.

Just the wood beneath her fingers.

And began again.

Slowly. Steadily.

By the time they had finished, Madame Freya clapped her hands together.

"There. Not perfect, but sincere. You weren't playing—you were speaking."

"Let's hope no one heard what I said," Stelle murmured under her breath.

"Pardon?"

"Nothing," she said, rising, smoothing the folds in her skirt. "Thank you, madame. Until next time."

Freya nodded, offering a small, wistful smile—the kind worn by those who could read people but never voiced what they saw.

As Stelle stepped out once more, her footsteps rang across the marble floor. And in her mind, she struck Ace's face from the score.

Like an unnecessary note in a musical phrase.

I can't.

***

The air in the study was steeped in ink, rice paper, and the sharp scent of sandalwood—a smell so persistent it felt as if discipline itself had been steeped in patience and left to dry. The large windows allowed in a steady, diffused light—ideal for writing. No glare, no dancing shadows. Everything was built for control.

Laid out before her were the tools: brushes of varying thickness, a porcelain inkwell, a scroll stand, and an open box containing model samples. Today's task: the formal script of the Wen dynasty—elegant, elongated characters, where each line was more than a stroke; it was a breath.

The instructor, old Master Yu—with a face like wrinkled parchment but hands carved from stone—approached from behind and gave the slightest nod.

"Today is about stability. No flourishes. No improvisation. Only repetition. Structure. Control."

Stelle returned his nod. She picked up her brush.

From the first stroke, it was clear: today would be difficult.

She began carefully—light pressure, gentle turn of the brush, release. The first character—acceptable. The second—is already off. The upper line quivered as if her hand had faltered on an exhale.

Steady. Breathe evenly, Stelle reminded herself.

She continued. A tingling crept into her fingers. The muscles in her palm cramped from tension, and her shoulders still ached from holding posture at the piano. By the fourth row, her hand began to tremble—not much. Almost imperceptibly. But not to her.

And then it came—again. The thought. The face.

He had held her wrist. Large fingers—warm, firm. He caught her hand with ease as if she were not delicate but obedient. His gaze—heavy. Far too close. Breathing against her lips. He—

"Lady Stelle," Master Yu's voice cut through her like a blade. "What is this?"

He gestured to the character. Twisted, crooked. Indistinct.

"Looks like a fish. We may value freedom in life, but not in calligraphy."

She remained silent. The brush was still in her hand. Ink clinging to the bristles, ready to fall.

"Are you present, my lady? Or have you had a divine vision showing you how to write?"

"I simply lost focus," she replied evenly, shoulders straightening. "It won't happen again."

He said nothing. Merely shook his head and walked on.

Her breathing was even. But inside—still that itch. Muscle memory guided her hand, yet everything inside pushed against it. She began again. Stroke. Pause. Stroke. Angle. Curve. Error. Again.

At one point, the brush wavered and dropped a bead of ink onto the lower edge of the scroll.

She clenched her jaw. Blot it—quickly—before it spread.

Only in the last five minutes did her hand regain some semblance of steadiness. The final character emerged clean. Restrained. Without flourish. As it should be.

At least one thing had gone right.

She folded the scrolls. Cleaned the brush. Rose and bowed low. The instructor did not stop her.

The body forgets slower than the mind, she thought as she stepped into the corridor.

***

The history study was housed in one of the estate's oldest wings. The wooden walls were a deep, cherry-red, exuding the tart scent of time—dust, wax, aged paper, and ink. The air here was denser, the silence heavier. Everything whispered: be worthy of the past.

By the window, sunken into a deep armchair, sat old Master Merlin—her instructor. His silver hair was slicked neatly back, his vest buttoned all the way to the collar, and his hands—bony yet steady—held a folio dusted with age.

"Today," he began without preamble, "we shall discuss the final crisis of the Eastern Protectorate. The one resolved by the Velen Charter and the return of Fort Krayar to the throne's jurisdiction."

Stelle nodded. She knew the subject. She had read it. Had even written an essay on it.

However, the knowledge did not translate into focus.

She seated herself at the desk, straightened her spine, and opened her notebook. Her quill—slender, black, tipped in gold—rested in her fingers. The ink was already poured. Everything was as it always had been.

Except herself.

Master Merlin's voice droned on in the background. His velvet cadence, usually steadying, now felt like a lullaby—one she listened to as if through glass. Through water. The words blurred at the edges.

"…Marshal Serren breached the truce by dispatching covert envoys to the Brison family, thus…"

Her gaze drifted toward the window. A single droplet slid down the glass. Beyond it—the garden, where a breeze lazily stirred the leaves. Her fingers unconsciously twisted… nothing.

No ring.

She was turning air between her fingertips.

Heat crept up her cheeks, though not from warmth. In her mind—his hot breath against her lips. His voice low, heavy, a vibration more than a sound. That smile of his, lazy and assured, as though the world belonged to him.

"My sweet girl…"

"Lady Stelle."

She flinched.

Merlin had raised a brow.

"Tell me why the failed mission on the southern coast became the catalyst for internal reform within the Treasury Council."

She remembered. Of course, she did. It was not a difficult question.

"Because…" she began, but her voice faltered, "the diplomatic failure undermined trust in direct resource governance and exposed a network of corruption that…"

"…led to proxy officers aboard merchant vessels," he finished for her. "You know this. But your eyes, just now, were in another century."

"I apologize," she said, lowering her gaze. "Today has been… difficult."

He studied her for several seconds. Too many.

"In your life, every day is difficult, young lady. That is what makes you who you are meant to become."

She held back a sigh. Who you are meant to become. Not who you wish to be.

For the next twenty minutes, she listened intently—or at least appeared to. She asked occasional clarifying questions and jotted notes. But in her mind, his laughter still echoed. Like poison. Like perfume.

When Merlin finally closed the folio, the relief hit her with surprising force.

"That is all for today. Next time, we begin the transition to modernity. Prepare accordingly."

"Yes, Master Merlin."

He rose, offered a curt bow, and departed, leaving behind a trail of dust, knowledge, and the stern weight of legacy.

Stelle remained seated. She didn't rise immediately. The quill was still in her hand. Though now, her fingers trembled ever so slightly.

Next—fencing.

She stood. Slowly, with measured strain.

Just a little longer, and the day would end.

Just a little longer—then she would be alone again.

But first—the final battle.

***

When she entered the hall, the air felt heavier than usual—cool and damp, as if the walls themselves breathed weariness alongside her. It smelled of metal and wax, wet cloth, and the dust of blades. A weighty, honest scent. No frills.

The tall windows high near the ceiling diffused a pale gray light—not to illuminate, but merely to underscore the shadows. The entire room seemed woven from anticipation.

Master Tevan was already by the rack, inspecting the blades. His back, as always, was perfectly straight. He gave her a silent nod upon her entrance and asked no questions. And that, in itself, was a mercy.

She changed without a word. The light practice armor consists of a vest, wrist wraps, and a waist brace. She tied her hair back with a tight ribbon. There was no elegance in it, no nobility. Only function.

"Warm-up." Brief. No glance.

She took her stance. Began the familiar drills: lunge, step back, guard, counter. Her body moved, but more stiffly than in the morning. Every joint throbbed as if she were wading through water.

Her muscles were not merely fatigued—they were sullen. Her left arm failed to raise the blade to full height on the first try. Her right trembled slightly after each strike. Her foot turned wrong on a pivot. She corrected. Then erred again.

He said nothing. Just observed.

"Partner drills," he said at last. "Five series. Light contact. Don't evade—use your core."

She nodded. Took her position.

First strike—blocked. Second—late. Third—too soft. The teacher increased pressure. She parried but lost balance.

Another strike—and then her body flinched. A sudden recoil. Her chest seized. In her mind, not a sword but a hand. Her wrist, held in his fingers—firm, possessive. His breath at her neck. His laugh. His words. Again.

The butterflies. Not just in the stomach—everywhere. Blood thundered in her temples.

She was too slow.

Tevan's blade struck her side. Right under the ribs. Not with real force, but enough to let the sound echo across the hall.

Stelle choked, staggered, the breath punched from her lungs.

"You're here now," he said dryly. "Welcome back."

She stood, bent over, one hand on her thigh. Breathing. Her shoulders shook—not from pain.

From shame.

From fury.

At herself.

"Shall we continue?" he asked, tone edged with faint mockery. Not cruel, but pointed.

She straightened slowly. Nodded.

"We shall."

After that, she made fewer mistakes. Focused solely on the body—banishing thought. No reflection, no memory, no damn gambler.

Only rhythm. Only weight. Only angle. No past. No noise.

Just the blade.

Just her.

When it was over, he gave a nod.

"Better. Were I you, I'd end the day here."

"I intend to," she breathed.

She removed the armor in silence, never raising her eyes. As she stepped out of the hall, every muscle echoed with pain. But in her chest—an emptiness. Scorched, hollowed.

Yet... steady.

Today, she hadn't fallen.

Today, she had endured.

And he—had not won.

***

After the fencing lesson, she was dressed once more—this time in her afternoon attire. A light gown the color of melted pearl, with high cuffs and an embroidered collar, modest yet reservedly refined. Her hair was woven into a loose braid, with a few soft curls left free at the temples. No additional makeup was applied—there was no need.

She dined, as always, alone.

The Grand Dining Hall greeted her with echoing silence and the solemn resonance of grandeur. The ceilings arched like a cathedral's, watching from above with indifferent approval. Spiderwork motifs, darkened portraits, the gleam of crystal, and the mirrored surface of the long table—all combined into an atmosphere where even a thought seemed to echo.

Stelle took her place—not one of honor, nor at the end. Her place. Defined. Directly beneath the gaze of statues whose stone eyes offered nothing but poised condescension.

They served a delicate mushroom consommé, thin slices of fowl with mint sauce, and spiced roasted quince. Stelle ate slowly, calmly, as though performing a ritual where the meal itself was only an excuse. The silence was comforting. No tutors. No scrutinizing stares. Only the soft clink of silver against porcelain and the gentle glow of the chandelier drifting across her wine-like golden mist.

When the meal was done, the napkin folded with perfect precision, and the footman dismissed with a bow, Stelle rose. Unhurriedly. Every muscle carried the cultivated grace of habit—and a quiet, dull ache, as though the day clung to her like an embroidered cloak.

She returned to her chambers and only then allowed herself to exhale—not evenly, but with genuine relief. All lessons completed. All formalities fulfilled. No one awaited her. No one summoned.

She was free. For now.

Shrugging off the fine outer layer of her gown, she stepped out onto the balcony, leaned against the balustrade, and gazed down into the gardens. The sky had begun its slow metamorphosis—from pale silver to golden honey. The day tilted toward evening.

There was still a lot of time before the festival. The girl knew—too early to change, too early to sneak beyond the bounds of permission. All in due course.

But even now… her heart was beating easier. Even the spot under the ribs that got hit roughly during fencing no longer ached as much.

Tension gave way to lightness. Almost joy. The day was done. And ahead—something else. Something that was hers alone. Not inherited. Not memorized. Not prescribed.

"Soon," she whispered, allowing herself a small smile.

Tonight, she would be Ray once again.

Her heart skipped faster at the thought—finally, a sense of anticipation not laced with dread. The day's lessons had dragged like a prison sentence—though she'd never known what one truly felt like. Her already-exhausted body now weighed even heavier. But fatigue from both body and mind had its merits—her thoughts had grown quiet. The bed had never looked more inviting.

Without another second's hesitation, she flopped onto it. She stretched like a kitten, arching her back with a soft moan of weariness. She nearly fell asleep right there—her eyes already beginning to close. Or rather, they were closing on their own. They needed no permission anymore.

But in the very last moment of conscious thought—a flash of clarity. Her eyes flew open, and she sat up abruptly.

The alarm clock!

Oh, brilliant. I'd have slept through the festival. How classic of me.

She snatched the pastel-blue mechanical clock and turned the dial, setting the alarm hand firmly to eight in the evening. Perfect.

A small spike of anticipation flickered through her chest, and a smile tugged at her lips.

Now, at last, she could truly relax.

She collapsed back onto the bed—and this time, sleep took her within seconds.

No wandering thoughts, no restlessness—sometimes, exhaustion was its own grace.

***

"…Royal Flush."

The voice—Stelle already both loathed it and felt a tremor stir in her chest. It was filled with surprise rather than its usual playful swagger. The silver-haired girl immediately raised her head, amber eyes gleaming with mischief as her lips spread into a radiant smile. And for a brief moment, behind the slightly lowered sunglasses, there was something else in his gaze—something beyond surprise. But it vanished too quickly to name.

Everything else unfolded like a well-rehearsed performance. The crowd howled and whistled in celebration. March and Dan Heng hugged her tightly, the pink-haired girl practically leaping out of her skin from sheer joy. Dan Heng's embrace was firm—too firm. It was difficult to breathe. She gently pulled back, trying to meet his eyes—and for a fleeting second, managed to. But he immediately looked away and pressed his lips into a thin line. Something about it sparked a memory, a flash of déjà vu. Still, Stelle ignored it, choosing instead to pat her friends on the back, grateful for their concern and their joy.

She returned the jewelry to its rightful owners and handed Belle the tablecloth stuffed with coins. The girl was saying something about how grateful she was, and Stelle listened… but then a voice echoed through her thoughts, uninvited:

"Oh, the way he looked at you—you should've seen it. I thought he was going to burn a hole through you when you were talking to Belle."

The voice was unmistakably March's, though she hadn't said a word when Stelle turned to her. A sudden pang struck her chest.

He…?

Realization hit instantly—her mind had filled in the blanks, assigning the thought to the only person it could possibly be about. And before she could consider whether it was wise or not, she had already turned toward him—and caught the stare.

Through the tinted lenses, she saw it—heavy, observant. Ace's face wore a smile, which only grew wider when she caught him in the act. Shamelessly, he smirked. Then winked.

And for some reason, it felt familiar, though he'd never done it before.

Her heart skipped a beat. Heat surged through her body. She wanted to look away—ignore it. But her body moved of its own accord. She tossed a careless goodbye to the girl she'd just been speaking with, and her legs carried her toward the blond, her eyes locked on his as if she'd been enchanted.

Everything around them blurred and vanished into vapor—except for him. The voices, the commotion, the creaking benches, the footsteps—gone. It felt like the entire world had narrowed to just this moment. His outstretched hand felt like a remedy for the dying—like a touch from him could resurrect Stelle, become a personal elixir of joy.

Without thinking—he had already caught her hand midair—his smirk stole the breath from her lungs. Her mind ground to a halt, pulverized like it had been pushed through a meat grinder—thoughtless.

From seemingly nowhere, a ring materialized in his other hand—the same one, elegant silver with a glinting aventurine at its center. Her heart lodged itself in her throat, vibrating there—no matter how many times she swallowed, it refused to settle.

It slid onto her finger effortlessly—as if it had been made for her hand, for that very finger. And the way Ace looked at it—at her—made her body flare with heat all over again. That gaze, so deep, almost starving—as if he could devour her whole and drag her from this world into his—and she wouldn't even resist.

"You deserve a reward, my sweet girl."

His voice sounded deeper than she remembered. Its timbre sent a wave of goosebumps rippling across her skin, and she exhaled, her lips parting slightly.

"Why are you giving me this ring? Why this finger?" – Stelle barely recognized her own voice – why was it so weak?

The gambler paused, his hand moving to his hat – he tilted it up, allowing her a clearer view of his gaze. And that was not good for her heart. His palm tightened possessively around hers, and suddenly, he pulled. Stelle was instantly in his arms, crushed against his chest. His warmth enveloped her entire being, and the girl flushed crimson to the tips of her ears.

One of the blond man's arms encircled her waist while the other reached for her head – specifically, her hood. Mischief flickered in his eyes as he yanked it down with a brusque motion, freeing her grey locks from confinement. Stelle's eyes flew wide; she immediately lunged reflexively to pull it back up – suddenly feeling defenseless, like a knight on the battlefield who'd forgotten his armor.

But his hands were stronger; with one, he could grip both her wrists. No matter how she struggled – she couldn't break free.

His voice dropped a register. The young man leaned close to Stelle's ear, scorching it with his hot breath as he whispered:

"You know why… So that even from afar, you'll remember exactly who branded you."

The words made her heart constrict painfully – so cruel. So devastatingly accurate that tears instantly pooled in the corners of her eyes.

"No… Don't, please…" – Stelle's voice trembled; she tried to push away – to wrench free. Thrashed from side to side. She didn't want this – didn't want to be defiled. Not again. It felt as if this had all happened once before in a past life, yet no memories surfaced.

Yet her resistance only amused the blond man – he mocked her futile thrashing. Like a spider watching a fly entangle itself ever tighter in the web.

Suddenly, the ring was gone from her hand – handcuffs now adorned her wrists. Just as silver, studded with green gems, but handcuffs nonetheless. She bit her lip, desperately wanting to tear them off or cut off her hands if she had to. But she could do nothing. The girl looked at the gambler with the gaze of a condemned prisoner facing the executioner – as if she knew what awaited her.

A final smirk – especially icy, true snarl. With a flick of Ace's wrist, the girl slammed painfully onto the table behind, her hair fanning out across it like a gothic halo. She tried to slip away while she still could – duck under his arm and scramble out, run. But no – Ace loomed over her, slamming his hands down on the table with a crash, caging her in. His knee pressed hard against her core, completely immobilizing her legs. She was trapped – irrevocably.

She could hold back the tears no longer – the first one rolled down her cheek and fell onto her hair, dampening it slightly. Eyes wide with terror burned into his – cold, yet hungry. Stelle's blood ran cold. And his smirk – so charming – the kind that made women's heads spin, even hers once – now felt like it was slicing her soul to pieces. Making deep cuts and reaching in with fingers to tear and rend – to inflict the maximum pain.

Soon, Stelle stopped resisting – she understood her powerlessness, like an ant beneath Ace's boot – entirely at his mercy. One movement – and she'd be crushed as if she'd never existed.

A soft chuckle escaped the young man the moment she stopped thrashing. A wave of pure terror washed through her being – it boded nothing good. A gloved hand slid towards her cheek, stroking it almost tenderly – but the girl instantly turned her face away, brow furrowed. She jerked her head back as far as she could – but couldn't escape his palm.

"You could be honest with yourself, darling." – And his voice was so sweet it clashed violently with everything else. But now that sweetness tasted like poison. – "I know you like it. You wanted this, didn't you?"

His eyes, beneath half-lowered lids, bored into her as if drilling a hole through her soul – and something clenched tight in her chest. Her eyebrows shot upwards.

"Never." The girl's voice was sharp, final. – "I'd rather die than accept anything like this."

She spat the words out – perhaps not loudly, but with enough icy venom to extinguish the fire.

It only spurred him on. His palm slid lower from Stelle's cheek down to her neck. The pads of his fingers traced the pulse fluttering beneath the girl's skin. As she instinctively tensed her neck muscles against the touch, trying to deny him – his other hand seized her chin in a steel grip, wrenching her head sideways, forcing Stelle to expose her throat even more. The gambler was playing with her – knowing he could do whatever he pleased while she was left to endure her fate.

His touch on her neck was light, a stark contrast to the vise on her chin. How strange, this man was nothing but contradictions.

"Naughty girl… Such a fine lady, trying so hard to stay pure, worthy of a Duchess's title…" he murmured softly, and Stelle's eyes widened with every word.

"How do you know–"

Her exclamation was cut off – suddenly, the hand that had caressed her so gently a second before, locked like a vise around her throat. The gaze that usually seemed playful was now as sharp as the finest blade in the realm.

"Oh, dearest Lady Stelle, has Her Grace truly not taught you that interrupting is dreadfully impolite?" His voice was still sweet as sugar. But she knew that sweetness was laced with death—like gorging on honey still swarming with live bees. "And lying… oh, that's quite unbecoming as well. Just look at you…"

Ace finally released her throat, and she instantly broke into a fit of coughing. Her glassy eyes could do nothing but shed searing tears that slid down her temples. Stelle didn't want to give him the satisfaction of witnessing her pain—but she couldn't hold back the sob.

"Please… I beg you, let me go…"

Hope hadn't abandoned Stelle just yet. Her trembling voice betrayed every ounce of her emotional state. But perhaps, just perhaps, it would spark a shred of mercy in him?

She already knew the answer to that question.

This time, he laughed—truly laughed. Not a chuckle. A full, delighted, heartless laugh.

His hands, once pleasantly warm, suddenly turned to ice. They no longer burned with heat—now they scalded with cold. One slid lower, just barely brushing across the girl's chest, then traced the line of her ribs and came to rest on her abdomen. And that weight—his palm pressing down low—sent strange sensations rippling through her body.

And she hated it. Truly. With every part of her soul.

The ember-eyed girl felt every minuscule touch with her entire being, trembling. Stelle tried to pull away again, but her breath hitched when the young man's hand moved lower, sliding confidently to the curve of her thigh—firm yet stripped now of force. The gentleness had returned, and it made her stomach churn even more.

Because she knew just how easily it could shift back to cruelty.

His gaze scanned her face with such intensity that it could have captured the slightest quiver of her lips—the way her brows drew together, the breath that escaped her lips. How her eyes narrowed ever so slightly, yet stubbornly refused to mirror the gambler's stare.

When his finger caught lightly on the edge of her stocking, her breath hitched mid-inhale, and she trembled. A wave of electricity rippled through her body, answering with a now-familiar tickle deep in her stomach.

But these weren't butterflies anymore—they were moths. They tickled just as intensely—only now they darkened everything they touched.

His other hand joined the first, gripping her thigh more firmly this time—anchoring her in place, making sure she couldn't flinch or twist away, pressing her down against the table.

Fear tangled with something else, forming a thick, nauseating mix. He bent forward, and suddenly, her knees were on his shoulders. His hands pulled her closer to the edge of the table, and a soft cry escaped Stelle's lips—a high-pitched sound, almost a squeak.

The young man turned his head, that charming smirk back. His half-lidded eyes seemed to read her like an open book. His warm breath, the heat radiating from his body, echoed in her own – a dull, aching tension blooming in her legs. She could move her legs right now—maybe even choke him.

But before those thoughts could take root and turn into action—his teeth grazed the fabric of her striped stockings and tugged them down, baring only her knee. The noble girl's heart skipped a beat, and a sudden flush surged to her face. Her breath caught with a soft gasp, and she bit her lip at once as if trying to hold back what had already escaped.

Heat pooled between her thighs – how vile, how filthy – why must it be like this? Instead of resisting, she now gazed at him through clouded eyes, her cheeks ablaze. She wanted to act – truly she did – but her body betrayed her yet again. The tenderness with which he now kissed the inside of her thigh resonated through her, sending waves of warmth and electric pulses across her skin. At the same time, the heat deep in her belly intensified. His burning lips and fathomless eyes stirred her heart, and her hands, still bound, clenched tight – nails digging deep into her own palms. She tried to shift her hips, but his grip was unyielding – he pressed her down harder, almost painfully, refusing even to let her think he might release her before he'd had his fill of play.

Each kiss seemed to raise her body temperature another degree – so why hadn't she burned to ash in this inferno yet? Fainting, even dying, would have been preferable to watching her own body betray her into life's ultimate shame – and letting it happen. His kisses ventured higher than she could have conceived in her boldest dream – and when he gave a low chuckle, it vibrated through her like a shockwave. Before she could recover, suddenly, his impossibly, unbearably hot tongue touched that sensitive skin way too close to her most intimate place. The girl couldn't restrain herself – she arched violently, and a ragged moan tore itself from her lips. Her eyes flew wide – she hadn't expected that from herself. Were her hands free – she'd have slapped her own face, hard.

Ace was satisfied with this reaction; it was written plainly in every line of his expression. He had no intention of stopping – though this was already enough to ensure Stelle would curse this memory for the rest of her days. Suddenly, he bit her – not painfully, just a teasing nip on the flesh of her thigh – but it was enough to send her mind rocketing into space. She bit her lip, desperate to deny him, yet a high, betraying keen escaped her nonetheless. The tendons in her feet strained taut, her feet curling involuntarily.

There were too many stars before her eyes, unbearably many, blotting out her vision.

Her legs trembled under his hands, and her chest rose and fell rapidly as if gripped by fever.

"Ace…" – a ragged gasp tore from her lips, and the young man's eyes flashed.

Suddenly, he drew back from her leg, and the coolness was immediate. She stared at him, eyes wide, and then:

"Seems your bodyguard is returning."

***

A sharp clang rang in her ears. The girl jolted upright—far more abruptly than she'd meant to. Her eyes flew open, and she nearly screamed. Her heart pounded so violently it felt on the verge of giving out. Instinctively, the grey-haired girl's hand flew to her chest, clutching at the fabric of the dress as if trying to calm the frantic rhythm beneath it. Her breath came in shallow, rapid gasps—why is it so hot in here?

She needed air. Now.

With a slap to the alarm clock to silence its shrill cries, Stelle dragged herself to the balcony on trembling legs. The girl barely managed to open the door before a wave of relief rushed over her—the cool night breeze sweeping in like a savior. It felt like she exhaled all the tension bottled inside her in a single breath.

And yet the deep crimson burning in her face refused to fade—just as stubborn as Stelle herself. A shiver jolted through her as the damp chill of her underwear kissed the cold air between her thighs. Shame surged anew, redoubled.

What in the world... was that?

Not even in her dreams could she escape that damn gambler! She'd hoped for rest but instead had endured a full-blown trauma—betrayed by her own body again. She wanted to throw herself off that balcony—only it was far too low to even put an end to her suffering.

Stelle wanted to scream—to howl at the night and banish Ace from her head, far and forever. But the last thing she needed was the entire courtyard to hear her heartbreak. So, instead, she thudded the back of her head against the cold wall. Maybe, just maybe, with enough force, she could reset her brain to factory settings?

Does our healer perform cranial trepanation? I could use ten of those right about now.

She groaned, covering her eyes with her hand. The wall-banging wasn't helping—it just hurt. So the girl slid down to the floor and buried her face in her knees, resolved to live out the rest of her life in that miserable position.

Stelle stayed like that for minutes. Silent, unmoving. A statue of shame.

She forced herself to breathe deeply.

Return to reality.

It's just a dream, Stelle…

Your mind conjured him up, feeding off your stupid thoughts… It'll pass.

Sooner or later, that blond bastard will be just another forgotten face, and everything will be fine.

That's what reason said. But lately, logic has stopped winning the war against emotion. Still—Stelle had to pull herself together. She gave her cheeks a brisk slap. Get a grip! Enough thinking about some pretentious idiot!

And that's when the realization struck her like a bolt of lightning—

The Festival!

Stelle jumped up instantly, eyes sparkling with sudden clarity. Of course—thanks to that damn dream, everything had flown right out of her head! But very soon, she'd finally see her friends again—and attend the one event she waited for more than any other celebration.

Without a second thought, she bolted back into her room at lightning speed. Now, her heart pounded with excitement. Flinging open the wardrobe, she rummaged through neatly stacked clothes, tossing layers aside. And there, wrapped in a winter cloak and hidden beneath a summer sundress, in the farthest corner—they waited.

The pieces she had so carefully prepared: her costume.

The sewing lessons had finally paid off—Stelle had never been more grateful to that grumbling old instructor who'd hounded her into finishing every assignment.

With a mischievous smile, she yanked the outfit free and tossed it onto the bed. She tidied the rest of the clothes in the wardrobe quickly, making sure they looked untouched, then peeked out of her room—no one in sight.

She darted back and, unable to wait any longer, began pulling on her costume at once.

Her brilliant creation: a grey-and-white faux-fur hoodie with a pair of adorable rounded ears perched on the top. The ears, lined with white trim, were crafted from thin wire and secured with glue, with added clips to ensure they stayed in place. You'd never guess they weren't part of the original hoodie. She'd found an old fur-lined coat and "borrowed" some of the pelts, giving her hoodie and ears a nearly realistic texture. A wolf may have lost his hide for that coat—and now, for a Pumpkin Lantern costume. Poor soul.

She'd had enough fur for only one item: the lower half or the tail. Stelle chose the latter. The bottoms were simple, snug black shorts—not handmade, but perfect nonetheless. Tight on purpose—they needed to be. She'd attached her handmade tail to them: grey with black stripes, shaped with wire to stand up proudly rather than hang limp. It was sewn straight through the fabric, tightly secured. She'd tested it countless times—things had fallen off, come unglued, needed reworking. Again and again… But after a year of tweaking, it finally looked halfway decent. As the finishing touch, striped stockings match the tail.

Stelle had thought of everything.

She sat down at her vanity with the most focused expression imaginable and reached for the black eyeliner. With careful strokes, the girl lined her eyes. Then came the dark pencil—she shaded the corners and waterlines, wincing as her eyes watered slightly. Not bad. It could've been worse. Time for the final blow: black shadow, sharp and smoky, winged out to frame the liner dramatically. A sweep beneath the eye for added effect. And, of course, mascara—essential to bring it all together.

Now she looked like a femme fatale—bold, but this time justified.

After all, raccoons have dark rings around their eyes.

Standing, Stelle spun before the full-length mirror, checking herself from every angle. Nothing had fallen off. No threads sticking out. No wire poking through. She narrowed her eyes, scanning critically. After the full inspection, the girl took one last look at her face—perfect. She really did look like a raccoon, though thankfully, the makeup didn't stray too far beyond her eyes.

She was ready.

Stelle wanted to fly with joy—just a little longer now! She could already taste the unforgettable sweetness of spider lollipops on her tongue; ah! And, well… of course, all the other parts of the festival too…

Humming a tune under her breath—the same one she'd hopelessly fumbled in her last music lesson—, she reached under the wardrobe for her hidden black boots. Her favorites. They'd carried her through countless escapes from home. At this point, they felt like a part of Stelle.

And now, everything was ready. The grey-haired girl's palms were damp with excitement, and the grin refused to leave her face. She glanced at the clock—one hour until the festival. Perfect. If she left now, she'd be early, just like she and March and Dan Heng had planned.

No way she could be late today.

Better early than sorry. Sure, it wasn't dark enough yet to be completely unseen, but Stelle was far too thrilled to wait any longer. She peeked past her bedroom door. Listened. Eyes narrowed.

No one.

A moment later, Stelle was already on the balcony, swinging her leg over the railing with the ease of long practice, her smile still glowing. Just a bit more… Just a little further, and she'd be free! One more night to forget about everything. To just be.

She pushed the crate back into the bushes to keep it hidden—it wouldn't do to let anyone figure out that it made a perfect ladder to the balcony. Then she turned, about to practically float toward the stables. And she would have. She had even taken the first step when—

"Charming. Looks like we have rodents in the house."

Stelle froze.

The smile vanished from her face as if it had never existed. Her heart stopped. Dropped straight to her feet. Her entire body went rigid, like a block of ice.

No… No, no, no…

Right then, she wished it was all just a lingering dream. Or that the voice she'd heard was nothing more than a hallucination. But the sharp, unmistakable click of high heels on stone left no room for doubt.

Catastrophe.

She turned—slowly. Painfully slowly. She felt tiny. Like a mouse caught in the open, just as the cat spots it. Her eyelids trembled. Her whole body shook. She swallowed hard—clinging to one last desperate hope that it wasn't who she thought.

But luck had decided to balance out all its previous favors.

Because it was her.

Duchess Kafka Solaris.

Her mother.

And her gaze—cold as winter steel—was worse than anything Stelle's imagination could've conjured. It was the kind of look that made you want to sink into the floor and never resurface.

She was already composing an epitaph for the grave of Stelle Solaris.

 

Notes:

it turned out longer than intended :0
i planned to end it a bit later, but decided to end on a cliffhanger because of how long it got haha

Chapter 4: The Raccoon and the Festival

Summary:

Mother learned Stelle's biggest secret - and now a serious conversation awaits.

Stelle had no idea what to do with herself. Look at her mother? Look away in shame? Fall to her knees and beg for mercy? Caught between instincts, she remained frozen, doing nothing at all. She wished the earth would swallow her whole. Or a meteor could strike this very spot. Burning alive seemed a tempting alternative—anything not to endure the gaze of the one person she loved most in this world.

Panic swelled with every passing heartbeat as the Duchess's withering stare bore into her. Her throat ran dry. Still reeling from the initial shock, Stelle unconsciously wrapped her arms around herself and began in a trembling voice:

"M-Mother, please forgive me… I've been awful, I know—I'm so sorry, I'll never do anything bad again, I swear…"

She kept mumbling apologies under her breath. She couldn't bring herself to look up—her gaze dropped, and she curled in on herself, trying to be as small, as insignificant as possible. Her nose stung with the onset of tears.

Her mother's face was unreadable. Not a single muscle moved. She turned away and strode forward without a word.

"Come."

Such a familiar voice—and yet it struck like a blade across Stelle's heart. Her breath hitched, and tears threatened to spill, but she followed obediently, keeping several steps behind. It felt as if she no longer deserved even to look upon her.

They walked in suffocating silence. Every glance—from guards, from servants—landed like a slap of shame. Stelle flushed with humiliation and could do nothing but hide beneath her hood, though it offered little comfort now.

Her mother led her to the study.

That alone meant things were serious.

No pleasant conversation had ever occurred in this room. Elegant though it was, it chilled Stelle to the core. The chamber was spacious but felt like a prison cell at that moment. A stained-glass window bathed everything in a reddish glow—outside, it was still fairly bright. Portraits of previous duchesses lined the walls, and on the intricately carved desk stood a single picture frame with her father's portrait. He had been gone for several years now, but the pain of it had never dulled.

Dark purple wallpaper was adorned with web-like patterns and golden spider-shaped sconces clinging to the walls. And at the far side of the room—its crown jewel—sat a large terrarium, home to a majestic tarantula. He moved slowly through his tailored habitat, composed of twigs, stones, and live plants. He was practically a family member and, thus, received proper care. A living emblem of their lineage.

Kafka walked further in and took her rightful seat in the carved chair upholstered in rich purple velvet. Only then did she gesture toward the seat opposite her, inviting Stelle to sit. She hadn't uttered a single word since, and somehow, that silence was more terrifying than any yelling or scolding.

Moving like she was stepping across the glass, Stelle approached the chair timidly. Her gaze stayed fixed on the floor. She sat at the very edge as though she didn't deserve to occupy any more space. And yet—she didn't slouch. Stelle knew that would only disappoint her mother further. So the girl kept her back straight, her hands folded neatly in her lap.

The silence pressed down like a vice. The walls seemed to close in, threatening to choke the grey-haired girl. Even the spider seemed to watch her with disdain. The portraits, too, burned with silent judgment from every side.

Suddenly, her mother spoke, and Stelle jumped in her seat from the shock.

"My little star… Have all my efforts in raising you truly been in vain?" Her voice was still cold—but that endearment, my little star, sent warmth flooding through Stelle's chest. Perhaps… not all is lost.

The girl's eyes widened. Slowly, hesitantly, she lifted her gaze. Her brows knitted as she looked up, uncertain.

"I know you're disappointed in me, Mother…" Her voice was barely a whisper, mouse-like. "Please forgive me. I'm a terrible, disgraceful daughter…"

Kafka sighed, folding her hands neatly on the desk before her. Then she continued the thought as if Stelle hadn't spoken at all.

"Tell me—does it befit a future queen to fear her own mother, to be so ashamed of her choices that she refuses even to defend them?"

Stelle froze, staring at her mother as though she'd just seen a ghost. Her lashes fluttered, lips parting ever so slightly.

What had she just said?

"Queen?" she repeated, bewildered. "I… I don't understand."

Kafka's lips curved into a smile—not kind, but cunning. Her violet eyes narrowed as she regarded her daughter with something like amusement, as though Stelle had just made an unexpectedly clever joke.

"Crown Princesses become queens, dearest. You're such an excellent student—have you forgotten?"

"No, no—" Stelle shook her head quickly. "That part I understand. But what do I have to do with Crown Princesses? There's no such princess in the Royal Family."

Kafka gave a soft chuckle at that, clearly entertained by her daughter's refusal to grasp the obvious. Tilting her head slightly, she said:

"There will be one soon. And she will shine brighter than any star in the palace."

Kafka always loved her riddles. Watching her daughter's expression shift from confusion to thought to dawning realization—that was her favorite sport.

"Mother… you don't mean—"

A genuine laugh escaped the violet-haired woman, and the sound unsettled Stelle more than anything that had come before.

"You're delightful! That is precisely the reaction I hoped for—do be sure to remain this sincere, won't you? Now, tell me—why do you think I called you here? Why did I wait beneath your balcony?"

Stelle furrowed her brow and clenched her hands in her lap, drawing strength into her fists to keep her heart from bursting out of her chest. She inhaled deeply, steadying her nerves.

"Because I… tried to run away," she said quietly. There was no use lying anymore—it would only make things worse. "You found out and came to catch me. To punish me."

Kafka closed her eyes and crossed her arms.

"But of course," she said with a small laugh. "Stelle, did you truly believe I didn't know?"

The girl went rigid. She couldn't even blink. Her heart plummeted.

She knew? This whole time… Mother knew?

Kafka opened her eyes again and glanced toward the terrarium, where the great spider rested in silence.

"I've known since the very first time you slipped away. My people have been watching you—keeping you safe, clearing your traces, making sure you returned unharmed. I trust you've enjoyed your little nights of freedom, my star."

A faint smile touched her lips—this time, not so icy. Her gaze returned to her daughter.

"Still, last night was… different, wasn't it?"

Stelle pressed her lips together, a lump rising in her throat. Her legs trembled.

Please, no…

"I…" The words stuck. How much does Mother know? What can I possibly say now? Her entire world had been turned inside out.

This… this couldn't be real.

Kafka didn't wait for her to speak.

"I am proud of you," she said, voice firm yet not without warmth. "That my daughter acted with such nobility. That my lessons were not in vain—you won. But do you understand how recklessly you gambled?"

Stelle's amber eyes dropped again, her breath catching.

"If things had gone differently… even I would have struggled to bury the matter before it reached the ears of those it must not. It was foolish—deeply so. I value risk when it serves a purpose. But you, though victorious, gained nothing. A loss, however, would have cost you dearly. The stakes were not equal. Do you understand?"

She paused, letting the weight of her words sink in.

"The next time you find yourself in such a situation—choose yourself first."

A sharp pang struck her heart—Mother hadn't mentioned anything about what happened after. Did that mean she didn't know? A flicker of hope stirred in Stelle's chest—perhaps she wouldn't have to die of shame just yet.

Stelle didn't dare speak. Any word might provoke Mother, make everything worse. So she remained quiet, listening. But at least now, she could look Kafka in the eyes.

"I am disappointed by such reckless behavior," her mother began. "But what grieves me even more… is how frightened you were of me." Her voice softened slightly, though it remained firm. "Tell me—why did you do it? Why sneak out at night and spend your time in ways so unbecoming of a young lady?"

Thoughts darted through Stelle's mind, too fast and fragmented to form proper sentences. Her fingers fidgeted with the edge of her cardigan, her heart pounding so violently she thought it might burst through her chest.

"…I wanted freedom," she murmured. "I wanted to know what it felt like—to laugh with friends, to not think about anything for a little while. I know it was irresponsible. I always knew. That's why I hid it. I… I'm deeply ashamed."

"But you don't regret it, do you?" Kafka smiled, her lashes lowering just slightly as she studied her daughter. "If you could go back—you'd choose the same."

Stelle didn't deny it. Her lips pressed into a thin line, and she glanced away for a second. Her mother knew her too well—there had never been a question, only a statement of fact.

"When you make a decision, you must be ready to defend it," Kafka continued. "Never fold at the first sign of pressure. You'll face countless moments in life where every possible choice displeases someone. But that alone is never reason enough to waver."

This wasn't the conversation Stelle had braced herself for. The girl had expected scolding, perhaps punishment—certainly not this. She wasn't ready. She didn't know how to respond.

"I… I understand, Mother," she whispered, unconsciously sitting up straighter under her mother's gaze. Then she cleared her throat, covering her mouth briefly with one hand before lifting her amber eyes to meet Kafka's. Her voice steadied, though her knees still trembled beneath the table. "Forgive me for disappointing you. But… if that's the case, I want to be honest—I would do it again if I had the chance. The time I spent with my friends… it means the world to me. I would still want to live those moments again."

Kafka let out a quiet laugh, tilting her head to the side. There was a glimmer in her eyes—mischievous, almost—but not angry. And that alone allowed Stelle to breathe again. Every word she'd just spoken had felt like sacrilege, like something that would deepen her mother's disapproval. And yet, it hadn't. That gave her a fragile sense of courage.

"I accept your honesty, my little star," Kafka said gently. "I allowed it to happen—even if your deception wounded me. But while I understand your heart… I can no longer permit you to go into the city."

Stelle's heart sank. The air caught in her throat. She had expected it—of course, she had—but the words still pierced. Will I not even get to say goodbye? Will it all just… end like this?

Her nose stung, and the urge to cry pressed hard against her chest. But she couldn't allow herself that luxury, not now. She forced the tears back, though the corners of her lips trembled despite her efforts.

Kafka, ever the master of reading faces—no doubt helped by years at the poker table—moved closer. She reached out and touched her daughter's cheek, gently turning her face until their eyes met.

Her smile had faded now, subtler than before—but in her gaze, there was no coldness.

"My sweet, lovely Stelle," Kafka said gently, her voice velvet-smooth. "Your heart has remained pure despite everything. I know this hurts. But in one week, you'll be named the official heir—and not even I will be able to shield you then. You cannot begin to imagine how many people will try to dig up dirt on you and then spin it into scandal. Unfortunately, we are not afforded the luxury of nighttime escapades through taverns and alleyways."

Stelle's eyes brimmed with tears—and this time, she could no longer hold them back. Heavy droplets slipped from the corners of her eyes. Kafka offered a faint smile and wiped them away with gloved fingers, her touch soft and practiced.

"I know how much this night means to you," she said, her tone light as a breeze. "So—for the last time—I'll allow you to leave. After that, we begin preparing for the ball. Agreed? No more tears, darling."

Stelle tried—but her body betrayed her again. Her chest ached, and the tears only came harder. Her eyeliner ran in dark rivulets, painting her cheeks with streaks of black.

"Instead of mourning," Kafka continued softly, "hold onto your memories. Treasure them. Be glad you had the chance to meet those who brought you such joy. Spend this night so that you'll have no regrets—so you can move forward, knowing you are Stelle Solaris, my only daughter, and worthy of ruling, not groveling beneath anyone's heel."

Her voice took on a quiet power, firm yet full of pride.

"And I will do everything in my power to see you rise as high as you can go. Only then will you be able to do as your heart desires—grant your friends titles and give them the honor of being by your side without fear. Offer them a better life. Think of that."

Stelle's amber eyes widened. She had never considered it that way. She couldn't escape her fate—her bloodline bound her—but perhaps she could shape it. Bend it to serve not only herself but the people she loved. Then maybe, just maybe, she could make her mother proud, uphold her family's legacy, and one day repay March and Dan Heng for every night of laughter they'd shared.

It didn't make parting easier. Stelle's heart still screamed for more time. She wanted to freeze the moment, to stay hidden from the world forever, anonymous and young. But no such magic existed. The only choice left was to accept her fate—and wring from it every ounce of meaning.

The girl nodded slowly, uncertain, biting her lower lip. The ache in her chest, the sting in her eyes—it didn't fade. But it was still the best outcome she could have hoped for.

"…Thank you," she whispered, her voice hoarse and trembling. "Thank you for protecting me all this time, even though I didn't see it. I thought you were the enemy of my freedom… I've been a terrible daughter."

Kafka's expression softened. Her hand moved gently to the top of Stelle's head, stroking through the silver strands with rare tenderness.

"You are a wonderful daughter," she said. "I've always been strict—I know. But I've never wished you harm. Everything I've done has been for your future. And you've grown into a remarkable young lady. Not perfect, perhaps, but I am proud of what you've achieved."

Stelle's heart clenched, unbearably tight—a rush of joy at hearing praise she hadn't known she still longed for and sorrow, knowing tonight would be the last she'd spend with her friends. She tried to smile, but it wavered and shook.

"And for the sake of that future," Kafka continued, "you must strive to make an impression at your debut. I'll help you however I can."

"Make an impression…" Stelle repeated softly. "But… what kind of impression am I meant to make? And to whom? The other nobles?"

Kafka's eyes narrowed slyly, clearly having anticipated the question. With elegant poise, she leaned back and reached for a drawer. From it, she drew a letter.

Stelle tilted her head, intrigued, her curiosity piqued.

Kafka placed the envelope on the table. It was sealed—and immediately, Stelle's eyes locked onto the seal. Her brow furrowed as she examined it… then her eyes flew open wide, and a sharp gasp escaped her lips.

"This is…"

Stamped into the wax seal was a symbol of intricate spirals and sharp lines interwoven in a pattern that seemed to dance. It resembled a stylized whirlwind formed by six curved blades spinning around an unseen center. Each curve evoked flames—or feathers. The design drew the eye, and the longer one stared, the more it seemed to move. Alive.

There was no doubt.

"…A letter bearing the Royal Family's seal?"

On the front, in elegant, meticulous script, it read: To Lady Stelle Solaris.

"For me?"

The sly smile on Kafka's face spoke volumes. Her amusement at Stelle's astonished expression was unmistakable.

"As you can see, my little star," she said. "Well? Go on—open it and read it. I'm quite eager to find out myself."

Stelle's palms were slick with nervous sweat. She pressed her lips together, hesitant. As if she weren't quite sure she was allowed, the girl reached slowly toward the envelope. Her heart thundered. What could possibly be inside? It was clearly something serious—but why her? Had something gone wrong? Had someone uncovered her secret excursions?

Panic sent a thousand racing thoughts darting through her mind as she carefully broke the seal. Even the envelope smelled refined—like a lavender field in the height of spring. Inside was a single, carefully folded sheet. She held her breath as she unfolded it. Every letter was flawless—so exact and graceful it scarcely looked human, as if the script itself were part of the Crown's prestige.

Swallowing, she began to read aloud:

Royal Chancellery of Asdana

By the Hand of His Majesty, King Gopher Wood

To Lady Stelle Solaris, Heir of the Esteemed House Solaris

Dearest Lady Stelle,

In the name of the Crown and with all sincerity, I, Gopher Wood, King of Asdana, wish to express my deepest gratitude for the centuries of loyalty and invaluable service your House has given to the kingdom.

The Solaris family has, since the very dawn of Asdana's founding, left an indelible mark upon the kingdom—in governance and commerce, in culture, and in the valorous defense of our world. Your lineage has stood unwavering as a pillar of wisdom, dignity, and honor. Our thanks are especially due to the esteemed Duchess Kafka, whose name is inseparable from the prosperity of our land.

As a token of our great respect, and in recognition of the enduring bond between the House of Solaris and the Royal Family—and to honor the momentous debut of the Duchess's only daughter—I hereby decree:

The celebration marking the coming of age of Lady Stelle Solaris shall be held within the Royal Palace and granted the status of an official reception, equal to the highest state banquets.

Attending this event will be all members of the Royal Family, including Myself, Her Majesty Queen Jade, the Crown Prince Sunday, and Second Prince Aventurine. We await with great anticipation the opportunity to personally extend our congratulations to Lady Stelle as she enters adulthood and to pay tribute to the House that has raised so radiant an heir.

We trust this invitation will be received with the consideration it deserves. The Crown seeks to deepen our alliance for the benefit of Asdana and its promising future.

With sincere regard and noble intent,

His Majesty Gopher Wood

King of Asdana,

Head of the Crown Council

Sealed by the Royal Chancellery, Tenth Day of the Tenth Month, Year 644 After the Ascension of Asdana

As Stelle read, her eyes grew wider with each word. They might fall out of her skull at this rate. She couldn't believe what she was seeing—couldn't believe this letter was real, nor its contents. She had to reread it again and again, scan the seal—searching for some trick, some mistake.

Kafka laughed, delighted.

"You're truly a marvel. Is it that hard for you to believe?" Kafka teased. "Have you grown so used to living like a commoner that the Royal Family now feels beyond your reach?"

"W-Wasn't it?" Stelle blinked rapidly. "I don't understand… Why would His Majesty go to such lengths—for me?"

"You underestimate just how deep our ties with the Crown run, my dear. Which, in fairness, isn't your fault—I've kept much from you."

How strange, Stelle thought, watching Kafka's placid expression. It was almost unsettling how calm she looked—like she'd already read the letter through the envelope. Her violet eyes sparkled with mischief, and for some reason, that only made the unease worse. Had she really been the only one kept in the dark all this time?

"Mother… are you not surprised at all?"

Kafka let out a low laugh.

"My dear, I did everything in my power to ensure this outcome. I wasn't certain it would work—but I took a risk. And won. That's what I was trying to tell you earlier—if you gamble, make sure the prize is worth it."

So many revelations, so much information at once—Stelle's head was spinning. One shock after another. What next? The sun vanishes from the sky? The end of the world?

Kafka continued, not waiting for an answer.

"But now it's your turn to shine, my little star. To dazzle them all—to burn brighter than any other. And I know you will. I believe in you."

Those words struck deep. On the one hand, it warmed Stelle to know her mother hadn't lost faith in her—that she had such high hopes, that she genuinely believed in her. But on the other… the weight of that belief settled like armor on her shoulders. Heavier than anything she'd worn before.

She swallowed, trying to clear the lump that had lodged in her throat.

"I'll do everything I can, Mother," she said, mustering every ounce of strength and resolve she had. "Just… tell me what I need to do."

A soft smile curved Kafka's lips.

"Excellent, my dear. I'll explain more later. For now, remember—be yourself. The best version of yourself. Don't pretend to be someone you're not; just follow the etiquette I taught you."

Of course. Vague as ever. Kafka really loved her riddles. Still, if her mother said she wouldn't need to pretend—perhaps she could trust that. Maybe.

Too many thoughts jostled for space in her head. She felt like her mind might simply burst.

Kafka paused, then reached again into her cabinet. After a moment of rummaging, she retrieved a compact cosmetic kit and walked over.

Stelle blinked at her in wide-eyed confusion.

"You don't have much time, do you?" Kafka said with a smirk. "You cried because of me—let me fix your lovely makeup, my little raccoon."

She winked. And Stelle flushed instantly, mortified. She had almost forgotten the festival entirely under the weight of everything that had just happened. She'd lost all hope for it the moment Kafka found her beneath the balcony. And now…

If someone had told Stelle just yesterday that her mother would be reapplying her makeup so she could sneak out to a festival—she'd have laughed herself hoarse.

Maybe I have gone mad. Perhaps this is all a hallucination in a padded cell somewhere. That feels disturbingly plausible right now.

Her mother's touch was impossibly gentle, precise, and soothing—like a lullaby hummed to a child before sleep. Each stroke chased away tension, each dab a balm to her nerves. Kafka wiped away the smudged mascara and eyeliner, leaving barely a trace behind, and touched up the shadows over her eyes in smooth, effortless motions. In under a minute, her face looked pristine—maybe even better than before. The eyeliner? Impeccable. The steady hand of experience.

Stelle opened her eyes, and to her surprise, she found herself smiling. This was not how she had imagined this conversation to end.

"There," Kafka said warmly. She gave a playful pat to the hood of Stelle's cloak. "Now you're a proper Clever Paws again."

Stelle let out a bashful laugh and leaned into her mother's hand, pressing her head against the gloved palm.

"Go, my darling. Run on those clever little paws and have a wonderful time. Do whatever your heart desires—I'll protect your mischief one last time. Just tonight, forget you're a noble. Forget you're a heiress. Do everything you've dreamed of doing… so you never have to look back in regret."

She cupped her daughter's cheeks, gently lifting her face until their eyes met. And in that moment—overwhelmed with love and relief—Stelle couldn't hold back anymore. She flung herself into Kafka's arms, clutching her tightly, the way she used to as a little girl.

The scent of her mother's perfume wrapped around her—roses, subtle and expensive, a fragrance that carried with it waves of nostalgia. Back when hugs like this were a daily occurrence, not a rare miracle.

Kafka's embrace was warm. Steady.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, Stelle believed—maybe the future wouldn't be so unbearable after all.

As long as I have her… I can endure. As long as I can still hold her like this.

***

The market square could be seen from afar—it glowed in warm orange tones, lit by colorful paper lanterns shaped like pumpkins, skulls, spiders, and ghosts, all flickering thanks to the candles nestled inside. Garlands that reflected the lanterns' light sparkled overhead, drawing attention to their complex cross-shaped patterns. Every stand was decked out in artificial cobwebs, jack-o'-lanterns with weird carved faces glowed from within, spread across the scene.

Access to the stands was still blocked off with ribbons patterned with pumpkins—it wasn't time yet. But the opening was near. You could tell by the crowds of people in all sorts of costumes flooding into the square. Some were dressed as monsters, others as skeletons or fairy tale creatures—there was a costume to suit every taste and color. This holiday was the perfect chance to unleash all your creativity and let others admire it. Laughter rang overhead, mingling with the cheerful hum of voices—no one could wait a second longer.

"Where is she?!" March spun around nervously, clutching her witch's broom against her chest. Her wide-brimmed hat had slipped askew, and her cloak kept snagging on passersby. Her costume teetered on theatrical: a rich violet ensemble embroidered with silver spiderwebs. Her enormous hat, adorned with tiny lantern trinkets, jingled with every movement. "If she misses the opening, I swear I'll never let her live it down!"

"She said she'd be here," Dan Heng reminded her calmly, arms crossed over his chest. He looked as though he'd stepped out of a myth—his costume resembled something from an Eastern legend. A dark teal hanfu vest embroidered with scale patterns, metallic accents, gloves, and decorative "horns" attached to an almost invisible headband. In the dim light of the lanterns, he seemed a temple guardian—or perhaps a priest from a forgotten tale.

March jabbed her broom into his shoulder with a pout.

"Yeah, and she also said she'd be early! Ugh, what a day to be late!" She let out a dramatic sigh and covered her face with her hat. "We're doomed! The spider sticks won't sell without Ray. The vendor might as well pack up now."

Dan Heng rolled his eyes. There was still time—too early for conclusions.

A man with a pumpkin on his head—how he'd found one that huge was anyone's guess—stood at the entrance with a massive pair of scissors. Soon, he'd cut the ribbons and let the festivities begin. For now, he simply scanned the crowd with a bored expression. The square's clock read just a few minutes before 10 PM.

Excitement surged around them. A group of kids kept circling the ribbons, shouting, "Open sesame!" over and over. The man in the pumpkin helmet stared at them like they were idiots.

Suddenly, a pair of gray ears bobbed into view amid the crowd, pushing forward—but March and Dan Heng couldn't quite tell if it was her yet. The crowd had thickened, and the opening was close. Stelle had to hop on her toes to get a glimpse, but no luck so far.

March, as if sensing her friend's approach, had a moment of realization—a metaphorical lightbulb almost lit above her head.

"Hey, Dan Heng..." she began, voice grave, panic written across her face.

He raised a questioning brow.

"… Don't you think we should've told her what we'd be wearing?"

Silence.

They stared at each other as if seeing one another for the first time. It hit Dan Heng too—he'd completely forgotten, too busy pretending Ray didn't exist the night before.

March hissed awkwardly and smacked her forehead.

"I'm such an idiot! Ugh, whatever—too late now."

Dan Heng opened his mouth to ask what she meant but didn't get the chance—she inhaled deeply and bellowed:

"RAY! WE'RE OVER HERE!"

Everyone turned. Even the kids stopped yelling. The man in the pumpkin forgot he was wearing one and scratched it as if it were his head.

March waved her broom in the air, scanning for her friend, while Dan Heng melted into the crowd, absolutely refusing to be associated with her. His face betrayed the precise level of secondhand embarrassment coursing through his veins.

Blunt—but effective. Ray did respond, weaving her way through the crowd while muttering apologies under her breath. She managed to reach the source of the shout, squeezing past a cluster of men dressed like overfed ghosts. At the very last second, she tripped on someone's boot and let out a squeak, losing her balance. Her raccoon-painted face nearly met the stone pavement—if not for the pair of hands that caught her just in time.

She immediately clung to them like a lifeline, finding herself cradled in someone's arms.

"O-oh! Thank you so much!" she blurted, definitely louder than intended. Only then did she dare look up through her painted lashes—and met a pair of painfully familiar azure eyes.

Stelle's face went scarlet. It took her a second to register what had happened, but Dan Heng beat her to it. He pulled her upright, and once he was sure she could stand on her own, let go. A soft cough escaped him—clearing his throat.

Maybe it was just the orange light from all around, but his pale cheeks seemed a little warmer than usual. His gaze drifted away, as it often did.

"Ray, oh my God! Finally! You scared us half to death—I was already mourning this year's festival," came March's unmistakable voice.

Ray barely had time to react before she was swept into a hug. She blinked, then laughed, wrapping an arm around her friend's shoulders.

"I'm sorry for worrying you. I got held up at the gate—and the route took longer than usual. Apple just refused to cooperate today. I hurried as fast as I could."

March gave a thoughtful hum, squeezed her one last time, then stepped back.

"All right, you're forgiven. This time. But next time, you're getting it," the pink-haired girl said, sticking out her tongue.

Stelle nodded, her smile beginning to look strained—the sparkle in her eyes dimmed for a moment at the words "next time." Her heart ached, but she didn't want it to show—this wasn't the time for that. She just needed to focus on having a good time.

Just think of it as another meetup. Not the first. Not the last.

That made it easier.

To steer her thoughts away before they could melt into a puddle of melancholy, the silver-haired girl cleared her throat and took in her friends' costumes. Her brows shot up, and she let out a low whistle, not bothering to hide her admiration.

"Whoa, you two really went all out! You look incredible! March, where on earth did you find such a gorgeous dress? That color suits you so well! And that corset—don't tell me you're moonlighting as a stylist?" Stelle chirped, circling her friend, who was clearly basking in the attention, chin lifted proudly as she struck a pose. "That hat is gorgeous—huge, too! And those decorations? I want those little lanterns for myself!"

"Ha-ha, trade secret!" March winked mischievously. "Beauty doesn't just give itself away."

"The broom really completes the look, but are you sure you'll be okay lugging that around all night?" Stelle tilted her head, frowning.

"That's what you two are for. I get tired—Dan Heng carries it."

March said it as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. The mentioned boy shot her a skeptical glance.

"We never agreed to that. I told you not to bring it in the first place."

The blue-eyed girl puffed her cheeks and planted her hands on her hips.

"Wow. What a gentleman! Gonna make a poor, innocent, delicate young woman carry a heavy broom all night? Cold-hearted."

"Who exactly are you describing here?"

"Oh, you—!" March raised the broom, clearly ready to smack him with it if not for Stelle stepping in between and catching the cleaning implement mid-swing.

"Don't witches usually cast spells instead of whacking people with sticks? Can we try not to resort to violence—just for tonight?"

March reluctantly lowered the broom but not before pointing two fingers at her eyes, then at Dan Heng's, in a wordless threat.

Stelle felt a flicker of discomfort. Time to change the subject—immediately. She spun around and suddenly found herself face to face with Dan Heng—closer than expected. Letting out a startled squeak, she jumped back a full meter, her cheeks flushing bright pink.

What is wrong with me? It's just Dan Heng...

But only then did she actually look at him properly—and froze, eyes going wide. He looked like he'd stepped straight out of an illustrated folktale about Eastern legends. She couldn't decide what amazed her more—the semi-transparent blue horns that seemed so real, the tail of matching color, the elongated pointed ears, or the strange outfit that hovered between hanfu and tailored jacket. It didn't feel like he'd just put on a costume—it felt like he'd become someone else entirely. She hadn't expected him to go all out like this. His costumes were usually tasteful, yes, but far simpler.

Her lips parted in awe, and she covered her mouth with one hand, openly staring.

"Oh my god, Dan Heng…" she breathed, shaking her head in wonder. "What did you do? You look amazing—like a true descendant of a dragon! I never would've guessed you'd go this far!"

The dark-haired young man shrugged.

"Nothing special."

Of course. What else would he say?

Stelle couldn't stop smiling. She'd been afraid Dan Heng might still be ignoring her—he had been so quiet lately—but maybe things were back to normal? She wanted to believe that. At the very least, he was looking at her more now. The cold detachment in his gaze that had hurt so much before seemed to have softened.

"Ray, you look adorable! I can't take it!" March squealed the moment she took a proper look. "You're a raccoon, right? You look so soft, I just wanna squeeze you!"

Stelle blushed and shrank back into the shadow of her fluffy hood. It wasn't quite as oversized as the one on her usual jacket, so hiding the blush didn't quite work.

"But you know…" March's eyes narrowed mischievously, sliding down her figure, "…this is pretty daring."

Her gaze unapologetically scanned Stelle's legs before drifting back up.

The silver-haired girl didn't think there was anything scandalous about it. Sure, the clothes were snug—her sweater was a bit tight, the shorts relatively short, and the stockings could maybe be seen as suggestive—but it was just a costume. It'd be weird for a raccoon to show up in a burqa or niqab, right?

"Oh, come on… it's not that bad," Stelle huffed, puffing out her cheeks.

"And that makeup—so bold, ooooh…" March was clearly off in her own world now, unreachable by reason. "Hey, can I touch your tail? And your ears? They look so fluffy! Come here, my little raccoon—c'mere!"

She practically pounced, grabbing one of Stelle's round ears with one hand and inspecting her tail with the other like it was an artifact in a museum.

"Stop it, please!" Stelle whined, red-faced and flailing as she tried to push her off.

March wasn't listening. And she might've gone on squeezing and prodding forever if not for the sound of a flute that suddenly rang out from the entrance.

The trio froze at once.

March's blue eyes lit up, and only then did she show mercy, finally letting go of Stelle. Instead, she leaned forward, rising onto her toes to get a better view.

She and Dan Heng had planned well—they were already standing close to the stage. But a few people had managed to slip in front of them regardless.

The flute kept playing—a high, clear melody, like the wind singing through an autumn forest. The crowd fell into a hush, entranced by the music, every head slowly turning toward the stage. The lanterns bathed the square in a soft, muted glow as though the evening itself had drawn a breath and held it.

From the main stage, five masked figures emerged, moving slowly toward the ribboned gates. Their faces were hidden behind vivid, expressive visages: a wide-grinning pumpkin, a midnight raven, a golden-flamed candle, an old witch, and a mysterious moon-faced silhouette crowned with spider silk.

They moved as if dancing, each step deliberate, graceful. In their hands, they carried symbols—an enclosed flame in a glass jar, a bundle of wheat, a bouquet of autumn leaves, a ring of iron keys, and a heavy iron bell. One by one, they placed their offerings on a stone pedestal before the ribboned gate—an improvised altar.

When the last participant laid down their gift—the keys—the bell chimed of its own accord. Deep and solemn.

A collective gasp rippled through the crowd. The children at the front froze, eyes wide and unblinking.

Then he stepped forward—the man with the enormous pumpkin on his head. In his hands were ceremonial scissors, nearly the size of a sword. Gold-trimmed fabric hung from his shoulders, and with every step, a delicate chime rang out from dozens of tiny bells fastened to his belt.

He didn't rush. He stopped before the crowd and raised one hand.

The flute fell silent.

"On this night," he began, voice muffled but clear, "the boundary between worlds is thin. The lanterns light the path not only for us but for those who walk beside us—unseen, ancient, forgotten. We call them not to frighten but to remember."

He turned toward the stage. At once, the masked figures lit their symbols—the flame flared, the leaves stirred, the wheat seemed to shimmer gold beneath the light. A beam of light burst from the center of the altar, and tiny sparks floated into the air—like fireflies, drifting above the heads of the crowd.

"Let the Night of Wonders begin!" declared the pumpkin-headed figure.

He raised the scissors—and, with a single, elegant motion, sliced through the ribbons.

The crowd erupted in joy. Cheers and shouts rang out, children jumped in glee, and the lanterns hanging above seemed to glow even brighter.

The Pumpkin Lantern Festival had begun.

March let out an excited scream, hugging both of her friends and bouncing in place.

"We made it! It's happening, guys!" she squealed into their ears, forcing them to pull away a little to keep from going deaf.

Stelle giggled, nodding enthusiastically. Her heart pounded with anticipation—she had waited for this moment all year. Now that it was here, excitement pulsed through every vein in her body. Her smile sparkled with joy, and for a blissful second, she even managed to forget:

This was the last time.

***

The trio surged forward, swept along by the tide of people who had just poured through the severed ribbons. The world changed instantly—stepping not just into another part of the city but into an entirely different realm. Lively, magical, irresistible… and just a little creepy, as it should be.

The first street they spilled into was bathed in warm light from jack-o'-lanterns strung up everywhere. Pumpkins watched them from every direction—on stalls, perched at corners—each carved with a unique expression: one theatrically terrified, another howling with laughter, a third weeping in exaggerated despair. Garlands dangled overhead, cut into the shapes of skeletons and skulls, dancing with the breeze.

Stelle didn't know where to look first. Her eyes sparkled with excitement as she turned her head this way and that, letting out delighted little gasps and exclamations. She had thought last year's festival was unbeatable—but she thought that every year and each time was proven wrong. No matter where she looked, everything was hand-crafted: carved pumpkins, wax figurines, paper lanterns, painted signs.

Stalls lined both sides of the street, each one trying to outshine the next with smells, lights, or shouting vendors. One stand offered caramel apples glazed to look like pumpkins, complete with angry little faces. Next to it were pastries shaped like severed fingers, candies molded into skulls, and chocolate bats with glossy wings.

Just nearby stood a legendary icon of the festival: the hot pumpkin cider booth. Its scent—rich with spice—hung thick in the air. The vendor offered two types: cinnamon-sweet for children and a "special kick" version for adults. At the neighboring table, a woman in a raven-shaped hat was pouring bubbling, suspicious-looking tinctures from glass bottles. "Bat's Brew," "Vampire's Tears," and "Mummy's Grog," the labels read. Stelle shivered. The names and the vendor's suspicious grin were unsettling—but that was half the fun of the holiday.

The crowd buzzed and pulsed, already swarming the stalls. Children pointed at the sweets and begged insistently, voices overlapping in an excited chorus. Stelle thought, with quiet gratitude, how lucky she was not to be responsible for a pair of sugar-hungry little disasters tugging at her sleeves.

"I need something sweet, or I'm going to eat my broom," March declared dramatically, spinning in search of the most delicious-smelling vendor.

…Or maybe she had her own walking disaster to manage.

Well, tonight wasn't a night for the reserved, cautious Ray. It was time to enjoy things the way March did. With a cheerful nod, Stelle replied:

"Fully support that plan! I can't wait to find the spider lollipops—but until then… what about those buns?" She pointed to a stall overflowing with baked goods. Everything looked perfect—golden, soft, and warm—but each one carried a spooky twist. There were grimacing faces, a bun shaped like a severed hand with cherry filling seeping from the wrist like blood… But what caught Stelle's eye was a soft pastry with a cheese filling and bright cherries in the center—like a bleeding eyeball.

"Oooh!" March's eyes lit up. "Oh my god, they smell amazing!"

Without waiting for anyone, she darted toward the pastry stand, and Stelle was quick on her heels. Only Dan Heng remained composed, as always, trailing behind them quietly. He didn't say a word, but there was something in his eyes—he was paying attention. Even if he didn't show it outwardly, it was clear: he was just as intrigued as they were.

As it turned out, those buns they'd spotted from afar were only the beginning. A short, round-bellied man in a green-and-red gnome costume, complete with a painted red nose, stood behind the stall, hawking more than just pastries. He also offered vampire teeth—long, crispy cookies filled with strawberry cream—and nightmare bites—hot meat pies in the shape of snarling mouths with little pastry fangs oozing spicy sauce.

March hovered by the stand, practically humming with anticipation. The gnome-like vendor gave them a cheerful grin.

"What'll it be, young witch? I do hope my humble offerings please you—so you won't turn me into your raccoon."

He had a sense of humor, at least. March appreciated it, letting out a delighted snort.

Stelle, however, puffed up indignantly. And what is so wrong with raccoons, exactly?

"What's so bad about being a raccoon?" she muttered with a pout, crossing her arms and shooting the man a pointed glare. Her irritated expression bore a striking resemblance to a sulking raccoon, especially with her scrunched-up nose and glowing amber eyes, which shone even more brightly under the shadows of her hood.

Support came from an unexpected direction—Dan Heng, who had been quietly standing behind them, spoke up:

"I don't know. I'd say being turned into a raccoon sounds way better than becoming a frog."

…Well, at least he tried.

Stelle rolled her eyes and turned to him with mock offense.

"Wow, thanks. At least I'm better than a frog," Stelle huffed, sticking her tongue out before letting out a dramatic little sniff.

Dan Heng seemed to hesitate, and she could have sworn she caught a hint of pink in his cheeks when she looked at him. After a beat of awkward silence, he hastily added:

"I mean… I think raccoons are cute."

Stelle squinted at him. Her puffed-up cheeks slowly softened. It was actually kind of adorable—the way he panicked, worried she might've actually taken offense, and scrambled to fix it. Did that mean he wasn't mad anymore? She still didn't fully understand what had happened that night, what had made him act so distant.

And something deep inside her stirred—Was that his way of saying I'm cute?

But she immediately shut that thought down. Nope. Definitely not going there.

Instead of overthinking it, the amber-eyed girl laughed.

"It's okay, I was joking. Anyway, is there anything you want?"

March, meanwhile, was already holding a bun shaped like a kitten with a creepy little grin. She proudly held it up for display—then immediately sank her teeth into it. The poor cat lost half its head in under a second. Rest in peace.

Dan Heng paused thoughtfully, then deflected:

"I'm still deciding. What about you?"

Stelle's eyes lit up. Her mind was made up.

"I want that eyeball bun!"

The gnome vendor smiled and began wrapping it in festive, hand-painted paper.

"That'll be three silver."

Stelle nodded—such a good price, really. She reached for her pocket—and checked one. Nothing. Frowned. Checked the other. Her eyes went wide.

Her heart sank straight into her boots.

No. No. No, this can't be happening—

Frantically, she patted herself down again and again, but it was useless. Her coin pouch was nowhere to be found.

Of course.

She'd known she was forgetting something in the chaos of today!

With a miserable groan, she buried her face in her hands. Dan Heng and March exchanged glances, frowning.

"Ray… don't tell me…" March began, brushing the last crumbs from the corners of her mouth.

"I can't believe I forgot my wallet—today, of all days! I'm such an idiot, oh my god!"

The gnome man frowned and shook his head.

"No coin, no pastry. Raccoons might be thieves, but I hope you are not."

This is the second time today that someone's calling me a raccoon thief?! And what's with these stereotypes, anyway?!

It was a tragedy. Stelle had planned to buy so much tonight. And now? The dumbest mistake imaginable. It was almost enough to make her howl with despair.

She didn't even notice when a hand had already reached out with the coins. The vendor's face switched back to its earlier friendliness—two-faced much?—as he quickly passed the pastry to whoever had paid.

A hand landed gently on Ray's shoulder, making her flinch. Her eyes widened as she stared down at the pastry in surprise, then blinked up at Dan Heng.

"Oh… You didn't have to do that. It was my fault I forgot…" Stelle mumbled, cheeks flushing, but she still accepted the sweet. It was warm in her hands, and her stomach gave an unfortunate, very audible growl. Embarrassed, she added quietly, "Thank you."

Dan Heng gave a faint smile and nodded.

"It's fine."

"Don't stress, sugar-Ray," March chimed in cheerfully, ruffling her hood. "We may not be rolling in riches, but our scholarship and modest savings are enough to feed one tiny raccoon. Sure, we can't buy everything, but we'll manage."

Stelle knew it was true. They studied at the prestigious Crown's Harmony Academy. However, the stipend wasn't exactly generous—they still had to live on it, after all. She felt guilty relying on her friends' generosity. It should be the other way around—she should be the one treating them.

I'm such a terrible friend…

It stung even more to think this might be one of their last memories together: Ray, the forgetful idiot who showed up to a festival without a wallet.

But there was no time for brooding.

Even though she hadn't dared ask for anything more, March had already bought cider for all of them—of course, the stronger kind. If there was ever a night to let loose, it was this one.

They strolled down the lantern-lit street. March had already demolished her pastry and was now sipping from her cup with exaggerated bliss.

"Oh, yes—I've waited all year for this! How do they even make it? I've never seen cider like this anywhere else. So warm and cozy… You barely even taste the alcohol."

Stelle was just finishing the last of her bun—she'd saved the "iris" for last, assuming it would be the tastiest part. The red dot now looked oddly comical in her hand—like a candy pupil. She popped it into her mouth and let out a soft moan of delight. The sour cherry mixed with the creamy sweetness in a divine harmony.

"That vendor may have been a jerk," she muttered through a satisfied sigh, "but he can bake."

Only then did she sip her own cider—and her eyes nearly popped out of her skull. She'd already forgotten how strong it was. The flavor was truly unique, warming the throat and muddling the mind in the most comforting way. She used to be cautious with it, drinking slowly—she'd still been officially underage, and she always feared her mother would somehow know. But tonight?

Tonight, she didn't care. She'd drink until she was dizzy. Or until her friends' budgets stopped her.

Dan Heng, true to form, had been the slowest to choose. In the end, he'd picked a stick of caramelized fruit, each piece painted like a tiny ghost. He sipped his cider carefully. Stelle had a feeling someone like Dan Heng could down three whole mugs and still walk a straight line without blinking.

Suddenly, the air nearby burst into clapping and song—tambourines, singing, accordion music.

March froze mid-step, ears perked. She turned toward the sound, then not-so-gracefully jabbed her finger in the direction of the noise.

"Oh! Is it them?! We have to go—they only perform once for free!"

"Who's 'they'?" Stelle asked, but she didn't wait for an answer. She grabbed Dan Heng's sleeve and tugged him along, just in case he decided to hang back. March took off like a rocket, and Stelle struggled to keep up, nearly spilling the rest of her cider in the process.

They burst into a round plaza paved in stone—an open-air stage beneath the stars. A crowd had already gathered, forming a wide semi-circle. And in the center… stood them.

A troupe of foreign performers—women and men clad in vivid, heavy garments. Colorful skirts, coin-stitched belts, silk scarves, embroidered shirts, and vests covered in braid and trim. The women held tambourines and castanets; the men carried accordions, violins, and one strange stringed instrument that hummed with a low, pulsing tone.

The music began suddenly—three thunderous strikes on the tambourine, like the heartbeat of the earth itself. A violin wailed, the accordion echoed with trembling chords, and the first dancer stepped forward.

Her skirt whipped around her like flames, coins jingling in a fierce rhythm. Her arms soared into the air like wings, and her movements were so intense and free that they seemed less like dance and more like storytelling. A story filled with sorcery, homesickness, heartbreak, and defiance against the heavens.

Then, two others joined her—a sharp-featured man and a younger dancer in a scarlet vest. Their dance was something else entirely: explosive, challenging, almost confrontational. They spun and stomped in sync, their heels striking the stone with such force that the crowd flinched with each beat.

The tambourines grew louder. The music surged. One of the men began to sing—his voice low and magnetic, in a language Stelle didn't know but could feel in her skin.

She couldn't look away. She just stood there, cider in hand, smiling dreamily. The drink was vanishing faster than she realized, but she didn't yet feel anything. Everything was still under control… for now.

March swayed with the rhythm, smile wide, her feet tapping along, helpless against the contagious energy of the performance. Dan Heng stood beside them, but instead of watching the dancers, his gaze wandered over the crowd, observing how they reacted and how even the children had fallen silent. He was analyzing something more subtle: the way the dancers controlled mood, space, and attention.

And then, the finale.

The last beat hit. The lead dancer spun, her coins clattering like death bells. Her raven hair fanned out like a curtain, and her arms froze mid-air, catching the final note like a spell suspended in time.

Applause crashed over the plaza like a wave. Whistles echoed, and someone even wiped away tears. March set her drink on the bench beside her and clapped with all her might, letting out a sharp squeal for the performers.

"If I ever get married, I swear my first dance has to be like that!"

"Not to ruin the mood," Dan Heng commented in his ever-impeccable timing, "but I doubt wedding dresses are made for that kind of footwork."

March shot him a look that screamed, You're definitely not invited to the wedding, complete with narrowed eyes and silent judgment.

Stelle still stood frozen, unable to fully regain her composure. The music had sunk into her skin, making her heartbeat fall into its rhythm. For the first time in what felt like ages, she felt alive. All her doubts and worries had melted away—nothing else mattered. That was why she loved this festival so deeply. It left nothing behind but light, flame, and pure emotion.

The dancers returned to the center, gave a final bow, and slipped away behind a curtain of lanterns. The crowd began to disperse down the nearby streets, voices rising in cheerful chatter—debating who danced best and who was the most attractive.

"Well then," March said, reclaiming her beloved drink, now nearly empty like Stelle's. "We are now, officially, cultured patrons of the arts."

She curled an invisible mustache with exaggerated dignity and struck a pompous pose. Apparently, this was her idea of an art connoisseur.

"You just need a monocle to complete the look," Stelle giggled, then downed the last of her cider in one gulp. "Wait—oh. That's it?"

To be sure, she turned her cup upside down and gave it a little shake. One lonely drop fell and splashed onto the cobblestone with a tragic finality.

"Mine's gone too…" March sighed. "And you know what that means."

The mischievous glint in her eyes said everything: This wasn't over.

She and Stelle exchanged a knowing look, and Dan Heng—clearly sensing trouble—frowned like a disapproving parent.

"Girls, maybe pace yourselves. The night's just starting."

"Oh, who asked for your temple sermons?" March teased, sticking out her tongue. "If you can't handle fun, go back to your meditation shrine."

She wrapped an arm through Stelle's with mock ceremony. "Come, my dearest Ray. Let us go indulge in the sweetness of life."

Stelle nodded with mock solemnity, playing along. Of course, they weren't going to leave him behind. The two marched dramatically toward the cider stand, and Dan Heng, stone-faced and sighing like a martyr, had no choice but to follow.

The second round hit harder. Suddenly, everything felt more vivid—the lights brighter, the sounds deeper, the air softer, sweeter, like honey. Even the cobblestones underfoot seemed to bounce with their steps.

March and Stelle moved in near-perfect sync—laughing at the same time, grabbing each other's arms when they spotted ridiculous souvenirs, or gasping in unison at anything unbearably cute. Dan Heng trailed behind, wearing the expression of a man quietly plotting his escape route.

"No, but seriously!" March chattered, swaying from side to side with the rhythm of her thoughts. "If I were a ghost, I'd haunt this festival forever. I'd live in the cider booth and scare people with spooky slurping sounds."

Stelle snorted with laughter, but Dan Heng remained unimpressed.

"I don't think you need to be a ghost to scare people."

He earned himself a sharp side-eye that very clearly translated to This broom is about to become a projectile.

Just then, they turned a corner—and found themselves face to face with the game zone.

But this wasn't just any carnival corner, not some balloon-popping-for-a-button trinket situation. This was a whole new level.

Before them stretched a full-fledged shooting range designed to look like an enchanted forest. Wooden barriers, hanging lanterns, masks of woodland spirits mounted on the walls, and even artificial fog curling around their ankles. The air rang with the clinking of metal and joyous shouts—some players were clearly hitting their marks and celebrating with prize tickets. Others are less fortunate, as evidenced by the curses now coloring the atmosphere.

"Oh my god! Am I dreaming? Someone pinch me—hard!"

Dan Heng didn't need to be told twice. He immediately pinched her cheek.

March yelped, nearly snapping at his fingers like a dog guarding a bone.

"Hey! That's a figure of speech, you genius!"

Dan Heng shrugged and looked off into the distance.

Stelle smiled—she would miss these familiar little spats between them. The thought that this would all come to an end soon pricked at her heart. The cider was definitely making her more emotional than she was used to being.

Don't fall apart now, Stelle…

She gave her cheeks a few light slaps and shook her head, snapping herself back to the moment.

"March," she called out, louder than necessary, "didn't you once say you used to love archery?"

"Did I ever!" March grinned proudly, nose lifted sky-high. "Finally, someone pays attention to the important details!"

Just as she raised her chin in triumph, she froze.

If Stelle had thought March looked intrigued before, now there was no mistaking it—her eyes lit up like bonfires as she squeaked and pointed to the top shelf of the prize wall.

"Would you look at that!"

Stelle followed her finger, and her own eyes widened in surprise. Her lips parted in an unspoken oh.

There it was, front and center, in the prime position on the prize display: a raccoon. Not oversized, but the perfect plushy medium, absurdly fluffy, with gray-brown fur, little black circles around the eyes, a ringed tail, and a scarf in autumn colors. It looked down at them with a mischievous glint in its button eyes—like it knew Stelle wouldn't be leaving without it.

"Ray," March said, eyes still locked on her target, "this is fate. I have to win that for you. For art, for friendship, for honor—and for my undying love for the glorious raccoon known as Ray!"

With mock theatrical flair, she dramatically fished coins from her pocket.

"Oh, that's really sweet of you, but you don't have to—" Stelle began, uncertain.

Too late.

"I was born with a bow in hand! Nothing can stop me!"

March had already thrown the coins at the vendor and marched up to the range.

Dan Heng sighed heavily.

"She forgets we're not exactly rich… We don't have much left, and the night's barely started."

Stelle gave him a sheepish smile as guilt twisted in her chest. But at the same time… it was so incredibly touching. Her heart clenched. March was willing to waste what little money she had just to win her a silly raccoon. It made her want to cry—happy, overwhelmed tears.

The witch-costumed girl began surveying the weapons. The bows were safe: more miniature versions of real ones, but still well-strung, and the arrows had soft tips—just in case some overexcited cider-drinker decided to aim at something not part of the game.

The targets were little figures—witches, skeletons, bats—mounted at various heights. If hit, they spun, rang, or let out ridiculous squeaks.

"Let the hunt begin," March declared with a smug smirk.

She picked up her first arrow, stepped into position, and drew it back with a shockingly confident stance.

Stelle held her breath.

March looked fantastic - so calm, so focused.

And then—twang.

The bowstring sang as March released the arrow. It flew with incredible speed, and a sharp chime rang out like someone had struck a bell. The first target—a skull-shaped figure—spun rapidly on its mount.

"That's what I'm talking about!" March grinned, already nocking the next arrow.

Stelle exhaled, clapping in awe. It was incredible that, even after two hefty cups of cider, March's aim was so steady, her hands sure. She didn't look even the slightest bit nervous.

And for good reason. March was hitting target after target with unnerving precision. The little figures spun, rang, chirped—like enchanted toys falling under her spell. Even the people watching from the sidelines had gone quiet, captivated by the possibility that she might be the first contestant to hit every single mark. The vendor, arms crossed, was watching too—with the impressed look of a man who hadn't expected this from a girl in a giant witch hat.

Stelle pressed her palms together as if in prayer. Her heart was pounding for March—not for the raccoon plush, but for her friend's pride. She didn't want March to be disappointed if she missed.

Dan Heng stood nearby, arms crossed, watching every movement with a furrowed brow.

And then—the penultimate target spun away with a chime, triggering a chorus of gasps from Stelle and the others in line.

"That's it," March declared, slotting in her final arrow. "Get ready, raccoon. You're about to become a legend."

She stuck out her tongue, just slightly, in total concentration. The last target was the smallest—perched at the very top of the stand, nearly hidden. The air grew taut.

Silence fell. No one moved. No one dared distract her.

Stelle's heart thundered. She felt sweat under her sweater and the tightness in her chest—as if she were the one drawing the bow, not March.

Dan Heng noticed. He placed a hand on her shoulder and gave it a reassuring squeeze.

It helped—just a little. Stelle glanced up at him and managed a grateful smile, nodding in thanks. But the nerves didn't fade.

The tension peaked. March drew the string back to its limit, eyes narrowed in focus. She was just about to let go when—

Someone bumped into her from the side.

March yelped, losing her stance. The arrow veered wildly and hit the wooden frame next to the targets with a dull thud.

The crowd gasped.

Stelle jumped, and Dan Heng's grip on her shoulder tightened.

March whipped around, fury painted across her face. Her eyes blazed with sheer indignation, and she slammed the bow down onto the counter.

"How dare you—!"

And then—she stopped.

The sentence didn't finish. It was as if someone had torn the reel of reality mid-frame.

She froze, completely still, as though someone had flipped a switch inside her and turned everything off.

Stelle's brows drew together in worry. She looked at Dan Heng, then stepped forward, slipping from under his hand.

"March? Are you okay?"

"What happened?" Dan Heng asked, finally turning his attention to the one who had bumped into her. And when he did, he stiffened—like someone had poured concrete into his boots.

His brows drew down, and his fists clenched.

Stelle bit her lip in confusion. What could've caused such a reaction in both of them?

Not waiting, she followed their gaze—and her heart nearly stopped.

There, near the entrance of the game zone, stood a man.

He was impossible to ignore—tall, dressed in a perfectly tailored black tailcoat with a burgundy vest adorned in delicate embroidery. He wore a white shirt with the top button undone and a long cloak flowing like a liquid shadow behind him. His skin was pale, helped along by subtle makeup. Black gloves hugged his hands. His glasses—thin metal frames—had amber-tinted lenses. And his hair—light as ripened wheat—peeked from beneath a dark hat with a matching burgundy ribbon.

He stood half-turned as though he'd just stumbled there by chance. But behind the tinted lenses, it was unmistakable: he was looking right at them.

Time seemed to slow.

The festival noise dulled to a hush.

And Stelle's heart clenched so tightly it ached.

Something inside her cracked the moment she saw the familiar gesture—his fingers lifted the brim of his hat in a quiet, unmistakable greeting.

Notes:

omggg i wonder who might that be

Chapter 5: The Raccoon and the Spider Lollipop

Summary:

Stelle encounters an “old acquaintance” and now risks having a heart attack during the festival.

Strangely enough, it was Dan Heng who spoke first. His voice was flat, his expression openly displeased. He stepped forward, gaze sharp and unwelcoming.

"What are you doing here?"

The question hit with the weight of all their thoughts—unspoken but deeply felt. And yet, Stelle didn't want to believe it was really him—the very man who'd nearly ruined her reputation, who had emptied the pockets of drunk dockworkers in a "fair" game, who had called her a thief and...

She didn't finish the thought. She shook her head hard.

That's it. There's nothing else to think about.

That was what she had to tell herself. No one—no one—could suspect anything. Not even the gambler himself should be able to tell she remembered. It had to look like none of it mattered. Like he was a stranger. Like it had been a dream.

Speaking of dreams… the image her subconsciousness had conjured hours ago suddenly floated back to her uninvited. She wanted to shove a metaphorical arrow through her own skull just to get rid of it. Her cheeks flushed, but she blamed it on the cider. Folding her arms tightly, she averted her gaze.

This is not him. Just some random guy in a costume. Plenty of people have that build. That hair. That voice. That smirk. That hat. Those glasses.

Right?

And then… the soft, unmistakable sound of his chuckle shattered her fragile denial.

Oh no.

March snapped out of her daze as well. She jabbed a finger toward him, and fury reignited like wildfire.

"What's so funny?! I almost nailed that last target, genius! And then you show up and ruin it! Was that on purpose? Do you have any idea what you've done? You've shamed my archery skills—skills I've honed to a divine level! You've disgraced me before my people! I swear, I'll rip every feather off you, you smug peacock!"

Knowing March, she absolutely would try.

Especially after cider. The pink-haired girl's impulse control was practically nonexistent.

She looked ready to lunge—but then he lifted his hat slightly, casting that signature smirk at her. Somehow, he looked even more striking now—eyes rimmed in dark shadow, pale skin gleaming under the lights. No one else saw what March saw at that moment, but whatever it was made her freeze like a statue.

A blush crept over her face.

"Damn it," she muttered. "That face is almost too handsome to punch…"

Finally, the culprit decided to speak. His voice was as smooth as they remembered. And just as fake.

"Well, that was unfortunate," he said, brow drawn into a perfectly rehearsed look of apology. "My deepest regrets, dear Miss March. What an unexpected encounter… with old acquaintances."

His amber-lensed gaze slid toward the raccoon girl, who still stood with arms crossed and eyes shut, pretending he didn't exist.

His smirk widened.

Had Stelle seen it, she would've combusted with rage.

"Uh-huh, you can't put 'thanks' in a pocket." March barked, no longer holding back. She jabbed him in the chest, once, twice, with increasing force. "And what about my prize?! I came here for the raccoon, and now my sweet Ray will go home without her baby!"

She pointed up at the shelf with exaggerated tragedy. The prize now felt galaxies away.

"I'll show you!"

March grabbed her broom from where it had been leaning nearby and held it like a greatsword. Her expression said she wasn't bluffing.

Typically, Dan Heng would have stepped in with some wise words about the unnecessary use of violence.

Instead, he stared at the booth sign with suspicious fascination, like he'd just discovered deep personal meaning in its design.

The booth owner, up until now silently enjoying the circus before him, finally cleared his throat and furrowed his brow. He was a large man—broad-shouldered, late forties, with arms like logs. The kind of person you think twice before annoying.

March let out a nervous chuckle and lowered the broom, suddenly far more interested in pretending she was… sweeping.

Ace—yes, as he'd introduced himself last night—chuckled, clearly unbothered by the entire exchange. Without warning, a small stack of coins appeared in his gloved hand—definitely more than enough for another game attempt. He tossed them smoothly toward the booth owner, who barely managed to catch them mid-air, now eyeing the blond with open suspicion.

"It was my fault the young witch missed her shot," Ace said, all polite velvet. "May I offer this humble donation as an apology and ask that she be allowed another turn?"

The booth owner rolled the coins between his fingers, brows raised. He was quiet for a long moment, clearly weighing his options. Then he tossed the coins back onto the counter and crossed his arms.

"That's not how it works, kid," he rumbled, voice just as intimidating as the rest of him. "One shot for everyone. This ain't about coin. It's about the right to call yourself a marksman. If you're sharp as steel, no one knocking your elbow should matter."

March reeled like she'd just taken a dagger to the chest.

She clutched dramatically at her heart.

"I've failed you, Master… Forgive me…"

She is definitely drunk now.

The man in the hat gave a short hiss of irritation.

"What a pity. Then perhaps you'll allow her to try again from the beginning?"

The booth owner shook his head immediately. The creases between his brows looked deep enough to plant potatoes in. What is he always so grumpy about?

"Nope. One person, one try. Big letters right next to the name of the booth—for the slow ones."

Dan Heng, who had just been inspecting that exact sign, nodded meaningfully. Of course, everyone was waiting for his validation.

The owner added, "But the witch can pick a prize from the second tier."

"Our poor raccoon…" March wasn't even listening anymore. She practically threw herself at Stelle, wrapping her in a side hug. "Forgive me, little Ray! Your worthless friend couldn't win back your long-lost family!"

Stelle let out a dramatic sigh but hugged her back. March was lucky she was tipsy enough to play along.

"Oh no! What will I do now? I promised my father I'd take care of him forever!"

March sniffled, taking it all literally—her tears were quite real. Stelle howled right along with her, even if it was only half an act. Okay, maybe three-quarters. That raccoon was adorable.

Dan Heng shook his head.

"Girls, are you serious? Or did I miss the joke?"

But the blond man wasn't giving up—especially now that an emotional family soap opera was happening right next to him.

Without hesitation, he stepped forward and picked up one of the bows.

"Then allow me."

The moment was short-lived.

"Hey, Romeo—what do you think you're doing?" someone in line snapped. "You blind or just full of yourself?"

"Yeah!" another chimed in. "We've been standing here for fifteen minutes watching this circus!"

The queue started grumbling all around him, a wave of muttered protests and annoyed scoffs.

Ace didn't flinch. He merely sighed and glanced at them over his shoulder.

"Very well. You'll be compensated. One silver for every minute of your wasted time. Fair?"

His voice was flat, almost bored—like he was swatting away a flock of noisy magpies. And what do magpies want? Shiny things. It was a flawless strategy.

The people exchanged looks. The crowd fell oddly quiet as the offer sank in.

Then, predictably, the loudest guy spoke up again.

"You think you can buy us off? Time's not something you get back with pocket change!"

"Three silvers a minute," Ace replied lazily without looking up, inspecting the arrow instead. "Twenty minutes? Sixty for each of you."

The crowd buzzed again—some were tempted, others suspicious. But, as always, the decision came down to the loudest one. And apparently, cider had made him brave.

"I told you, we don't want your—"

"One gold per person. Final offer. I shoot, you each get a gold coin."

The trio of friends exchanged a glance, their expressions a perfect collage of what the hell. March leaned in and whispered—not that her volume control was reliable anymore:

"He's insane, right?" The blue-eyed girl spun her finger near her temple. "He's offering, like, a hundred times the cost of a single round. Does he not know what to do with all his money?"

"Show-off," Stelle scoffed, rolling her eyes. "Trying to prove how 'fabulously wealthy' he is. Gross."

"Mm-hmm. And it's all for you, by the way," March grinned slyly, casting her a look that made Stelle bristle.

But she didn't back down so easily this time. Not tonight.

"Or maybe for you," Stelle countered, matching the tone and expression perfectly. "He shoved you on purpose, and now he's stepping in to play the hero. Suspicious?"

"Right? And that raccoon's not even for me, sugarpie."

Stelle grimaced. Cornered. She had one card left to play. Crossing her arms, she muttered:

"Let him do what he wants. He's annoying."

The bold man in line looked like he might argue more—but someone else slapped a hand over his mouth, and the rest seemed to quietly agree for him.

Ace smirked. Of course. He never doubted it would work.

The booth owner gave a reluctant nod, signaling permission. All was settled.

Without wasting another moment, the blond man picked up one of the bows. He gave it a quick once-over, then tested the bowstring a couple of times—checking the tension and weight.

He balanced the bow in his hand, gently lowered his glasses, and took aim.

Every eye was on him.

Even Stelle, this time, couldn't help but watch—her amber gaze lit with reluctant curiosity. She wasn't sure what outcome she wanted more: for him to miss completely and embarrass himself or to shoot like a master and somehow make her even more annoyed.

March, arms crossed and brow furrowed, looked at him with open skepticism. She had never looked more like Dan Heng in her life.

Ace's movements were slow—almost lazy. There was no smirk, no cocky commentary like during poker night. It looked like he was forcing himself through it, as if he just wanted it done and over with.

He didn't waste time.

One swift motion—and the first arrow struck a witch-shaped target in the front row. It began spinning, emitting a creaking sound eerily similar to a cackle.

Second arrow—clean shot through the center of a rabbit-themed figure. Right between the eyes.

The third target was tricky—small, swaying, not fixed to a board but dangling from a chain. A snake with carved fangs, like it might bite back. Ace took a moment, timing his shot. The crowd held its breath.

He released.

The arrow didn't strike the center, but it clipped the edge—just enough to knock the target loose. The little snake tumbled into a barrel filled with minor prizes.

The fourth one—is entirely different. A spider figure standing upright on a platform, with an octagonal bullseye painted on its back. Ace exhaled once—then fired.

Bullseye.

The spider jerked and clattered down a ramp with a loud rattle. Somewhere in the queue, someone let out an impressed whistle.

And now—the final target.

March tensed, squinting.

"Beginner's luck," she muttered, biting her thumbnail. "No way he hits that one."

Stelle didn't respond. Her eyes stayed locked on him. Something about his posture, the ease in his stance—it was too smooth. He looked relaxed, yes, but not in a careless way, as if he didn't even need to try hard.

Does he actually know what he's doing?

But why would a card shark, a gambler, a man who hustles drunk laborers need to know archery? Most men like him would hire a bodyguard, not shoot for themselves.

And yet… that motion.

Every shot he made had the same detail—the tiniest flourish of the wrist, a subtle twist after releasing the string. Not sloppy. Not flashy. It was artistic. Like each arrow wasn't fired but painted into the air. Elegant, quiet, effortless—and yet full of force.

And it was familiar.

Stelle's brows knit as her thoughts raced. She remembered lessons from long ago. She'd taken archery too, a few years ago—not long, not seriously, and certainly not at this level. Hitting stationary targets was a maybe; moving ones were pure luck. But the basics? She remembered those.

And she remembered that gesture.

There'd been a teacher once. Strange man, intense, a total eccentric—but a master in his craft. He used to say: "Don't force it. Don't aim to kill. Let the arrow leave like rain off a leaf."

If he had ever chosen a student to demonstrate that philosophy, it would have been exactly someone like Ace.

His stance—classic. His grip—relaxed but surgical. His release—gentle, almost invisible. His arm didn't quiver after the shot; it simply fell forward, like the bow had carried the momentum itself.

A signature. A style.

Stelle didn't think Ace had studied with her teacher. But whoever trained him—they weren't ordinary.

Who are you really? What are you hiding?

The more Stelle watched, the more intrigued she became. And she hated it.

But no matter how hard she tried, the girl couldn't look away from the man who refused to leave either her thoughts—or her line of sight.

The fifth and final target was, of course, the hardest. Narrow, golden, shaped like a candle with a tiny flame at the top. It stood on the highest, farthest shelf—nearly level with the lanterns themselves. One wrong angle and the arrow would fly into the night or miss by a breath.

Ace didn't rush. He stood with the last arrow resting in his hand as if bidding it farewell.

Then he raised the bow. Drew it back.

The creak of the string sounded louder than before, the tension pulling everyone's attention toward him. Stelle thought she would've botched her shot entirely under a spotlight like this—eyes boring into her from every direction.

And then, with a simple movement, there it was again—that now-familiar flick of the wrist.

He exhaled.

Silence.

Time itself seemed to hesitate as the arrow flew. From where she stood, March muttered something about him missing for sure, confident in her own certainty.

Stelle didn't say a word.

Then—thud.

The arrow didn't pierce the candle—it struck it just enough to knock it off balance. The tiny flame trembled. The figure teetered. And for a moment that seemed to stretch forever, the golden candle toppled. It tumbled into a basket below, landing with a soft, final thunk.

Only then did the crowd register what had just happened.

It began with a single pair of hands clapping. Then another. And another. Soon, the applause swelled around them. Someone whistled. A few still refused to join in—namely, the trio of friends and the drunk grumbler from the line.

March stood there gaping, nearly dropping her broom. Stelle exhaled, and though she didn't want to admit it, she was impressed. Deeply. The man had skill—real, polished, precise. Not the kind you'd expect from a hunter or a hobbyist with a local instructor. No, this was a performance. Deliberate. Calculated. Each motion fine-tuned not for practicality, but for effect.

This wasn't instinct. It was art.

She narrowed her eyes, keeping them fixed on him. Every move he made only deepened the mystery.

Without fanfare, Ace casually tossed the bow back with the others. The grin returned to his face as if nothing had happened.

The booth owner nodded in approval, reached for a long stick with a claw-like grabber, and used it to carefully pluck the raccoon from its throne. With theatrical flair, he handed it to the victor.

Naturally, the loudmouth in the line wasted no time reminding him about the promised reward. Ace tossed out a disinterested "Right," then flung a casual handful of gold coins toward them, not even bothering to count.

Whoever wanted them could fight for them. He'd done his part.

Then he turned—and walked straight toward Stelle.

That playful smile curled at the corner of his lips, and a mischievous glint sparked in his eyes. Was he expecting praise? He'd be waiting a while. March, for one, wasn't about to hand any over. She scoffed loudly:

"Well, thank you so much, oh valiant hero. Not only did you steal my moment of glory, you outshone it. I was this close! And now you just waltz in here acting all impressive. Totally unfair!"

He didn't even look her way.

His gaze was locked onto Stelle, and that alone made her stomach twist. Her heartbeat stumbled, and she forced herself to hold her ground. She couldn't let him see that it got to her.

She held her poker face. Arms crossed. Lips pursed. Eyes glaring.

"Your long-lost twin has returned at last, Lady Raccoon," he said, his voice smooth as velvet yet teasing enough to send chills down her spine. "Accept this humble offering as penance—for having disrupted your companion's noble quest."

The words gave her goosebumps.

So did the stupid butterflies his voice conjured in her stomach.

She snorted and turned her head, arms still crossed.

"Keep it. I don't want it," Stelle muttered, arms still crossed.

"You wound me, Ray," Ace sighed dramatically, nudging the raccoon plush closer to her. "But look at him—he has your eyes. Maybe not quite as adorable as you, but he's trying his best."

Whether she liked it or not, heat rushed to her cheeks. She cast a reluctant glance at the toy.

Why does he do this? Saying things like that, like they mean nothing. What's his deal? What's going on in that maddening, infuriating, chaotic brain of his?

And why… why did he do what he did in the tavern?

A storm of unanswered questions spun in her head, but she wouldn't dare ask a single one aloud. The cider in her system was making everything worse—he looked somehow more handsome under its influence, and that made the situation excruciating.

When would he stop smiling at her like that? When would he stop looking at her like he wanted to see every secret she'd ever kept?

She kept silent, but he didn't give up.

"Fate brought you together," he said, nudging the toy toward her again. "Just look at him—so lonely, so eager to be hugged properly. Don't tell me you're that coldhearted. You're practically twins. Just slightly taller and cuter."

The audacity. The absolute audacity.

He was throwing compliments around like candy on parade day.

She clicked her tongue in annoyance. But after one more wary glance at the raccoon… she took it. Hugged it to her chest. Immediately began inspecting it.

Okay, fine—he was ridiculously cute. Button-bright eyes, a little smile shaped like a sideways "3", rosy cheeks, tiny paws folded like a kitten's. He was outrageously soft and fluffy—it made Stelle want to squeeze and kiss him until he was flat.

"There we go. Beautiful. A family reunion," Ace laughed, folding his arms. "I think that counts as a good deed for my karmic balance."

"Ahem. And maybe someone else deserves an apology, too?" March barked, jabbing him in the shoulder with her broom.

Only then did he glance at her with one raised brow.

"Don't give me that look! That handsome face won't save you this time. I was supposed to win the raccoon for my sweet Ray. You robbed me of my glory. You snatched my heroic moment right out from under me. How do you live with yourself?!"

Dan Heng nodded slightly, fixing Ace with a sharp look.

"Sabotage followed by staged redemption. Classic tactic."

The accused merely chuckled. Adjusted his hat. That familiar little smirk dancing on his lips.

"And what," he asked lazily, "could I possibly do to redeem myself?"

March had been waiting for that question.

She grinned wickedly, one hand on her hip.

"Well, you're rich, right?"

Ace gave a dismissive wave, speaking in a faux-humble tone.

"Richness is relative. But… let's say yes."

"Then you'll share that relative wealth with us. You're joining our little crew—and paying for everything!"

Stelle and Dan Heng both nearly choked on air. Even they hadn't expected March to go that bold.

And the implications… the implications were horrifying.

He'd be with them all night. Hanging around. Breathing down their necks.

How is anyone supposed to relax with him right there?

Stelle was already spiraling. Internally screaming. She'd spent all day trying not to think about the events of last night, about every word he said, every look, every grin, the stupid perfection of his aristocratic suit, his voice—

No, not again! Get it together!

This was shaping up to be a full-blown catastrophe.

But whatever hope she had left that he'd decline was quickly shattered.

Ace smirked, clearly enjoying March's audacity.

"Well… Seems like a fair punishment for ruining such a historic moment."

Stelle wished a bolt of lightning would strike her on the spot.

Anything but this.

Dan Heng cleared his throat, casting a disapproving look at his pink-haired friend. He tugged her by the sleeve and leaned in to whisper:

"Have you lost your mind?"

Stelle nodded frantically and joined the hushed panic:

"He's that gambler! He'll find some way to scam us, I'm telling you!"

March rolled her eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn't spin out of her head.

"Scam us for what, exactly? We've got almost zero coins and a whole festival left to survive. Prices are only going up. He's a walking wallet. And my darling Ray forgot her wallet, so this charming rich boy is now its replacement. Don't worry—if he tries anything, I'll handle it."

She flexed her very unimpressive bicep for emphasis.

The other two exchanged skeptical glances.

"Okay, that's enough!" March clapped her hands like a game show host about to declare the winner. A radiant smile lit up her face—because, of course, the final decision was always hers. "Sweet Acey, welcome to our humble little party! I so hope we become the best of friends."

She chirped it out as if she hadn't tried to beat him with a broomstick five minutes ago.

Ace's hand rested casually in his pocket. He nodded in acknowledgment, the same faint smile on his lips—but it didn't quite reach his eyes. And that was what unsettled Stelle the most.

There was no telling what was going on behind that carefully crafted mask.

Still, she had no choice but to accept her fate.

Stelle's only source of emotional support now was Dan Heng, who she gravitated toward like a moth to a shadow. She made sure to keep herself on the opposite side of Ace—just in case.

The boy with the aquamarine eyes caught her glance and shook his head, sighing in silent solidarity.

They didn't need to speak. Their mutual despair was evident.

And so, the group of four departed the shooting range, led—of course—by March, who strutted ahead like she'd just won the lottery. She showed zero signs of awkwardness about the new arrangement.

Stelle, meanwhile, in her raccoon getup, stubbornly refused to even glance in the gambler's direction.

Naturally, the first thing March spotted was her beloved cider stand.

And now, with unlimited funds at her disposal, she turned to their walking treasure chest with a wicked little grin.

Ace didn't need her to say anything. He just smiled back faintly and gave a slight nod of approval.

March threw him a thumbs-up, then practically flew to the stall, already shouting for four large mugs of the good stuff.

"I swear, at this rate, we'll be crawling out of this festival," Stelle sighed, already feeling the effects: the warmth in her cheeks, the haze in her head, the ridiculous lightness in her limbs.

Dan Heng nodded gravely.

"We both know we won't stop her. Try saying no, and she'll get offended."

"…Our 'leader' is a tyrant," Stelle muttered, casting a sideways glance toward March.

Ace had already joined her at the counter. When the vendor gave the total, he tossed over the payment without even looking. As if he didn't care that he was being used.

Why is he doing this?

Why does he keep… playing along?

And just like that, another round of drinks was in their hands—and March couldn't have been happier. Stelle gave in and joined the indulgence. The cider's strength became easier to bear. It was almost like it wasn't even alcoholic anymore.

Almost.

The taste was smooth, but the warmth it spread through her chest was immediate. The nerves, the tension, the mental knots of the day—all melted quietly into the background. In just a little time, even her "headache" of the evening didn't seem so insufferable. She wasn't scared to look at him anymore. It even started to feel… fun.

I wonder how far that'll go.

He'd been suspiciously quiet so far. Oddly so. Planning something? Shy much?

No. That last one is definitely off the table.

March seemed to notice it, too, because she gave him a playful jab with her broom as they wandered further down the street.

"What's with the silence? Drink up; maybe you'll loosen up."

"I didn't think you'd miss my attention so quickly, little witch," he shot back, flashing that devastating smirk.

March rolled her eyes and sighed, but Stelle could've sworn there was a hint of pink creeping up her cheeks. And for some reason… she didn't like that.

Still, he complied. Without another word, he tipped his mug back and downed a quarter of it in one go.

"Better?"

March grinned and gave him an approving nod. Of course, she would. She could probably get anyone drunk if she tried hard enough.

Not that Stelle needed encouragement—she was sipping happily, scanning the festival as it unfolded around them. The night was alive: drumbeats pounded from somewhere off to the left, a guitar sang from a different corner, and strange costumed duos wandered the lantern-lit streets—like the woman in an eclair suit walking arm-in-arm with a man dressed like a military general.

Kids darted past in adorable animal outfits: foxes, bunnies, mice—and one tiny wolf giving chase. At one stall, a man in a clown mask was mesmerizing a crowd with floating cards that spun through the air, untouched by his fingers.

Curious, Stelle turned to Ace.

"Can you do that?" she asked, nodding toward the floating-card magician.

Ace followed her gaze, then scoffed.

"Please. That's a cheap trick. He's got those cards strung up to the sign and to his fingers—looped in sequence to make it look like they're floating. I don't bother with gimmicks like that. Not exactly the most efficient way to shuffle a deck, don't you think?"

The smug teasing in his voice made her want to throttle him. That look in his eyes—it was mocking her. She huffed, ducked deeper into her hood, and took another sip to avoid answering. In her other hand, she clutched the raccoon plush tighter.

"You're just making excuses," she grumbled, staring into her cup like the swirling orange liquid inside held all the answers. "I knew you couldn't do it."

His laugh was soft and sharp, like a blade she hadn't seen coming. It sent a shiver right down her spine.

"Sounds like someone has a thing for men with nimble fingers."

Stelle nearly choked.

Her eyes went wide, and she shot him a look that could melt steel.

"Yeah, and you've got nothing in common with them."

His gaze narrowed, lazy and amused, and he tilted his hat up just enough to get a better look at her.

But she turned her nose up and away before he could say another word—clearly, dramatically.

He said nothing after that.

But she could feel his smirk on the back of her neck like a second sun.

Instead of engaging further with the hat-wearing headache beside her, Stelle drifted closer to Dan Heng—as if seeking warmth from the last hearth of sanity. She turned her attention back to the festival itself, reminding herself why she came here in the first place: for the celebration, not for frustrating men with too-charming smiles.

A dancer in a dress of feathers was performing nearby, spinning with lengths of ribbon that shimmered through the air like trails of stardust. Her movements were fluid, almost spellbound, and every swirl of fabric left a glowing arc behind her. As she twirled past bystanders, she brushed them lightly with her ribbons, her smile playing out playfully. When she passed their group, one of her ribbons tickled Stelle's cheek, making her giggle involuntarily.

Ace, of course, received extra attention. The dancer winked at him, playfully wrapping a ribbon around his arm.

He smiled back—and, with a casual flick of his fingers, flipped a coin into the velvet-lined pumpkin at her feet. The coin landed with a satisfying chime. She grinned, blew them all a kiss, and danced away to delight the next group of festivalgoers.

A little further down the street, in a quiet corner barely touched by the crowd, a girl—no older than fourteen—had made a mini-gallery out of carved pumpkins. Each one was shaped like a familiar figure: animals, a demon, an angel, fairy tale characters.

People walked by, glanced, and moved on.

She said nothing. Shy, clearly. There were no flashy signs, no dramatic gestures for tips. Just a modest heart-shaped origami box sitting in front of her, almost empty.

Something in Stelle ached.

She wanted to help—desperately—but without her wallet, there was nothing she could do. Damn it, she cursed herself again. Of all the things to forget on a night like this.

But then Ace did something unexpected.

Without a word, he walked up to the girl just as she was kicking at the ground with the toe of her shoe, discouraged.

He dropped several coins—more than he'd given the ribbon dancer—into the little paper heart. The sound alone made her head turn toward him.

The girl blinked, startled.

He smiled gently. "These are wonderful," he said. "You should consider an official exhibit. Or start selling them as souvenirs. People would buy."

The little girl stood there wide-eyed, then blushed and nodded quickly, murmuring a thank you as she fidgeted and smiled in wonder.

And honestly… Stelle was surprised.

She hadn't expected that. That kind of thoughtful kindness, so quietly given, didn't match the image she'd painted of Ace. But she wasn't about to let one moment change her entire opinion.

Still—she watched him. Closely. Curiously.

And just like that, her cider was gone.

Faster than she thought it would be.

Thankfully, the festival had prepared for just this inevitability—there were little collection stands all around for empty cups. As Stelle headed toward one, March veered in the same direction, perfectly synchronized like they'd rehearsed it.

"Raaaay~!" March sang, her cheeks visibly flushed, smile wide as a summer morning. "My sweet, lovely Ray, come here!"

She grabbed her hand with a little giggle.

Stelle smiled and gently squeezed her fingers in return, tilting her head to the side. Something about it warmed her. Familiar. Safe.

And yet…

That tenderness stirred something bittersweet in her chest.

Suddenly, the warmth of the moment curled inward. Her mind, uninvited, whispered the cruel reminder:

This is the last night.

Her heart clenched. Just like her hand—tightening gently in March's.

"Look, look!" March suddenly shouted, snapping Ray out of her stormy thoughts. She pointed ahead excitedly—and the moment Stelle followed her gaze...

Her eyes lit up like sparklers. She nearly burst out of her sweater with pure joy.

"SPIDERS!" she shrieked—no longer in her usual voice, but some unhinged octave of ecstasy—and with that, all self-control abandoned her.

Without waiting a second, she bolted toward what she considered the single greatest booth in the history of the Lantern Festival. The crown jewel. The sacred altar of candy.

At least in Stelle's eyes.

March was dragged along by default, though her smile gave her away—she knew this would happen. If Ray hadn't reacted like this, she might've suspected an imposter.

Dan Heng didn't even blink. This was exactly what he expected.

Ace, however, raised his hat with a questioning glance, clearly bewildered as he followed after the girls.

"What just happened?"

Dan Heng—clearly not thrilled about having to make polite conversation—answered flatly but calmly:

"Spider lollipops. Ray would trade her soul for them."

The gambler's expression shifted—an almost imperceptible grimace flickered across his features. He said nothing for the rest of the walk. Dan Heng looked pleased by this.

Stelle's eyes were stars now, glowing with childlike wonder. She bounced up and down on her feet, gleefully scanning the rainbow of wrappers and flavors on display.

"Oh my! 'Blood Cherry!' Wait, there's 'Dark Forest!' too. And, no way—'Mandrake Root Cream!' It even does that creepy hiss still!"

Her cheeks flushed red with delight as she darted from one end of the stand to the other, gasping and squealing over each variety like a scholar reunited with her long-lost manuscripts.

March stood back with one hand on her hip, watching her with a proud, motherly smirk. She exchanged a glance with the guys, clearly enjoying this moment.

Dan Heng's usually stoic features softened. It was comforting—how, even after all these years, Stelle's joy over something so silly hadn't dulled. If anything, it had only grown brighter.

Ace, meanwhile, looked… stunned. His brows rose as his mouth parted slightly in disbelief. He clearly hadn't expected the girl who had spent most of the evening quietly seething at him to completely lose her mind over a stand full of sugar spiders.

"Ugh, how am I supposed to choose?" Stelle wailed dramatically, hands in her hair. "I want all of them!"

And then she froze.

Her wallet. Right.

She'd been so swept up in the magic that she almost forgot—until she turned toward the vendor to place her order and stopped mid-breath, realizing the tragedy of her situation.

Her body stiffened, a statue of upcoming shame.

Then, slowly, she turned—with a stiff little jerk—to look at the hat-wearing wallet that fate had cruelly bound her to.

Half of her face hid behind the plush raccoon. Her cheeks burned. Her eyes looked up with all the desperate hope of a guilty kitten caught near a broken flowerpot.

Normally, she would never beg for money—especially from him.

But.

First of all… she had, generously speaking, about a liter of cider in her bloodstream.

Second of all… these were the spiders.

And for them?

She would accept humiliation.

The sight made the blond smile. But this time, it wasn't the usual smile—the one he wore like a mask in every ambiguous situation. No, this one was real. He was genuinely amused now. He tilted his head slightly, narrowing his eyes in feigned confusion. Pretending he had no idea what she wanted.

Stelle sighed in defeat, stepping two hesitant paces closer, eyes fixed on him with a pleading intensity. But she couldn't bring herself to say it outright. Half her face remained hidden behind the plush raccoon like a shield, desperate to conceal her burning cheeks.

And that bastard—that infuriating man—just grinned wider, slipping his hand into his pocket, his eyes dancing with mischief. He was clearly enjoying every second of this game.

Still, she wasn't giving up. Time for a new strategy: she peered up at him from under her lashes, brows drawn in the softest pout she could manage.

"What is it, sweetheart?" Ace finally asked, voice syrupy. "Yes, yes, I saw your adorable raccoon. Very cute. No need to keep showing him off."

Ray wanted to scream. Or kick him. Or both.

Instead, she stomped one foot like a petulant child and narrowed her eyes, shaking her head with exasperation.

He had completely misunderstood her—on purpose, of course. Her cider-addled brain hadn't yet caught on that he was toying with her, taking delight in her slow unraveling.

March and Dan Heng watched with a mix of sympathy and amusement. The former was quietly giggling into her sleeve. Honestly, she found the entire thing hilarious—watching Ray squirm as she tried to beg candy money from the guy she'd spent all night pretending to hate? Delicious.

But Ace wasn't done. His gaze glimmered with playful cruelty as he leaned in, that smile never wavering.

And finally, Stelle broke.

"…Spiders…" she muttered under her breath.

Ace leaned in a little lower.

"Didn't catch that, my little raccoon," he said, voice low and velvety.

It rippled straight through her—sent a wave of warmth down her spine, through her stomach, and settled somewhere low and burning. The way he looked at her under those half-lowered lashes—too close, too focused—made her forget how to breathe.

Still, she played along. Whispered again, a touch louder:

"…Spiders…"

But that wasn't enough for him.

"Hmm? Spiders?" he drawled. "Are you afraid? Shall I protect you?"

Her brow twitched. She squinted at him, her glare sharp enough to cut steel. A low growl of frustration slipped from her lips.

Finally, she lowered the raccoon enough to show her mouth, drew a deep breath into her trembling chest, and—with all the dignity of someone teetering on the edge—murmured, eyes shut:

"Please? I want a spider… lollipop. Lollipops. Yes…"

And then she dropped her head, unwilling to face the look he was undoubtedly giving her—but she felt it anyway. Felt it in every fiber of her being. Her heart pounded like it wanted to escape her ribcage.

And then…

Ace laughed.

Honestly, truly laughed.

The way he had that night when she showed him her birthmark.

Stelle froze. Angry at herself. Why did she give him that moment?

March burst into a snort-laugh, and even Dan Heng, though he turned away like a gentleman, was smiling.

Ray's cheeks went fully crimson.

She yanked her hood down further over her face, burying herself in it. It didn't help much—but at least it felt like a defense.

While she tried to disappear from existence, Ace—smug as ever—strolled toward the vendor and casually ordered one of each kind.

The vendor smiled warmly as he packed the spiders into a paper pouch patterned with grinning jack-o'-lanterns. Stelle could hardly contain her glee—every time another candy spider dropped into the bag, her grip on the raccoon plush tightened. She practically bounced in place from anticipation.

And when the pouch was finally in her hands, her face lit up with the joy of someone handed treasure by the gods themselves. Wasting no time, she plucked the first one she touched—it looked like a new flavor: lemon on the outside, raspberry inside? It sparkled under the lanternlight, smooth and glossy like a gemstone.

It didn't stand a chance. The spider never even saw the light of day—straight into her mouth.

She squealed and nearly jumped in the air, flushed red with pure sugary ecstasy.

March watched her like a proud parent watching a puppy devour its first treat. Dan Heng smiled, head tilted ever so slightly.

Oddly enough, the only one not smiling… was Ace.

He looked genuinely surprised, even lifting his hat higher on his head as he stared at her like she'd just grown a second head.

"I cannot believe that's the same Ray…" he murmured, then gave a short, amused huff. "Hard to believe a spider-shaped lollipop could be that good."

"You've never tried one?" March asked, blinking.

The hatter shook his head, visibly uncomfortable.

"Can't say the idea of biting into an arachnid—sugary or not—does much for me."

They all stared at him like he'd just declared war on joy itself.

Even Stelle froze mid-chew, blinking in utter disbelief. March and Dan Heng exchanged a slow, incredulous look.

"Are you serious? This is the Pumpkin Lantern's legendary special." March raised a brow, leaning on her broom. "Where did they dig you up?"

Stelle would not let such blasphemy slide. From the pouch, she selected one of the spiders—the spider, in her expert opinion, most suited to change his mind. "Blood Cherry," no less. It gleamed dark and beautiful, and parting with it hurt.

Stelle held it out toward him, still savoring her own. Ace turned slightly, that same reluctant look crossing his face.

"I do appreciate the noble sacrifice," he said. "But I'll pass."

Her brows furrowed. The raccoon girl narrowed her eyes.

And stepped forward.

With quiet determination, she lifted the candy closer to his face. "Mmm," she hummed, lips curling slightly, pushing the treat almost right under his nose.

"Ray," he said, more sternly now. "Thank you, but no."

His voice had turned sharp—not quite harsh, but firmer than usual. He took a step back, out of the lollipop's range.

That was the last straw.

This wasn't just a rejection of candy—it was a rejection of her culture, her bloodline, her mother's legacy! Refusing a Solaris spider? A personal attack.

But she had a plan.

If he wouldn't take the spider, he wouldn't deserve it either. No more Blood Cherries. No more Mandrake Roots.

She shrugged casually, pulling the spider away. The gambler's shoulders relaxed. The blond smiled again, clearly thinking he'd won.

He should've known better.

Stelle stepped closer. Much closer, to be precise.

Her gaze locked on his behind those colored lenses—intense, half-lidded, unwavering. Slowly, deliberately, the grey-haired girl pulled the half-melted spider from her lips. Her mouth glistened.

Then she bit her bottom lip.

The girl was standing so near that she could feel the warmth radiating from his skin. Her cider-fueled courage roared in her chest, demanding vengeance—for the honor of the Solaris line.

It worked. Ace hesitated.

His eyes widened just slightly, but he didn't back away this time.

And his gaze… it flicked, for just a second, down to her mouth—those slightly sticky, shimmering lips that looked close enough to taste. Especially when she was staring at him like that.

March let out a squeak and flushed bright red, slapping both hands over her mouth. Her eyes widened to the size of saucers as she shot a glance at Dan Heng—who appeared calm if you ignored the whitened knuckles gripping the small notebook clipped to his belt and the deep crease forming between his brows.

Stelle smirked and leaned in even closer—her victory was near. She gazed at him from beneath half-lowered lashes, and now the arm holding the pouch and raccoon grazed his chest. The closeness was swift and deliberate. It caught him off guard—his lips parted ever so slightly in surprise.

Perfect.

In a blur of motion, Stelle slipped the half-melted spider lollipop right between those parted lips.

And then the girl immediately sprang back and burst out laughing.

His expression—first dazed, then confused, and finally horrified—was priceless. That ever-composed, ever-charismatic Ace had just been outwitted by a childish candy stunt.

March, who had finally recovered from her shock, snorted with laughter while Dan Heng ran a hand down his face and sighed deeply.

The duchess-in-hiding was delighted by her trick. Her laughter rang bright and unrestrained, the corners of her eyes crinkled with tears of mirth. Her cheeks glowed—not just from cider but from genuine, uncontrollable joy. Stelle didn't even bother to cover her mouth despite how indecently loud her laugh had become.

The girl worried for a moment that Ace would immediately spit it out. Actually, she was pretty sure he would.

But instead… he froze.

The blond just stood there, staring at her like he'd been hexed. The lollipop remained. He reached up to his hat and lifted it slightly as if to get a clearer look at her—he didn't even blink once.

Still giggling, Stelle popped the cherry spider into her mouth, savoring it. He should be grateful—Stelle hadn't even made it to the best part yet: the filling. She'd spared him that glory.

Then, finally, the gambler came back to life.

He scowled and pulled the candy from his mouth, now frowning at her with a seriousness that made her freeze on the spot. Her lashes fluttered innocently, bracing for a scolding.

"… It's sour."

Stelle deflated. Her gaze dropped, shoulders sagging. Her lips stopped smiling.

"Oh…" she sighed quietly.

But then—his features softened.

He shook his head and returned the lollipop to his mouth with a thoughtful hum.

"But actually… not bad. Ah, I get it—the tartness cuts through the overly sweet core. Interesting…"

Stelle's head snapped up, eyes wide.

He was eating it. Willingly. Appreciating it.

And she dared hope the gambler liked it.

A warmth bloomed inside her, radiant and uncontainable. The girl's heart gave a hopeful flutter, and without realizing it, a soft, glowing smile spread across her face. She tilted her head, giggling under her breath, eyes closing briefly from how light she suddenly felt.

"Well, well, another spider lover recruited. " March announced with a sly grin, poking Dan Heng in the ribs with her broom. "Hey, you still with us, or did the spirits claim your soul?"

Dan Heng wasn't smiling.

His eyes—narrowed and sharp—were fixed on Ace with all the warmth of a dagger left in the snow. That was not the gaze of a man amused. That was the gaze of someone mentally mapping out at least three ways to remove a person from existence.

***

The further the night went, the more it felt like there was nothing strange about their little group, at least not between March and Stelle. Even Stelle herself had started to feel more at ease—laughing, joking, even talking to him like it was the most natural thing in the world. Alcohol really did work wonders... but honestly, maybe it was for the best. If this night truly was the last, it was better spent without overthinking or dragging along memories better left behind.

Besides, he didn't seem quite so terrifying or calculating anymore. Maybe that was naïve—but Stelle was beginning to enjoy his presence. Unlimited funds were undeniably convenient, and every now and then, the hatter even managed to say something genuinely funny. Though, truthfully, that look of his still sent a strange flutter through her chest whenever he turned it her way.

The only one who'd gone quiet was Dan Heng. Quieter than usual, even. He was now furiously scribbling something in his notebook—how he managed to write so precisely while walking and not bumping into anyone was beyond reason. He must've been some sort of superhuman.

March tried to get him to laugh, of course, but he wasn't having it.

Not even after another round of cider and half the festival's worth of sweet treats. Was this man even capable of getting drunk?

They stumbled into all sorts of mischief—there was simply too much going on at any given moment to catch it all. Still, they were lucky to see a fire juggler nearly set his cloak ablaze. March screamed, "Roasted Elf!" loud enough to terrify everyone within earshot, which somehow stole the show more than the flames.

Later, they encountered a talking raven who demanded nuts in a booming, unmistakably human voice. Conveniently, nuts were sold at the same unattended stall. But just try not paying—he'd peck you with surgical accuracy. For whatever reason, Ace became the raven's least favorite target, getting bombarded with biting remarks despite being the one who actually bought the nuts.

Then there was the infamous "Death Draught Challenge." After a series of persuasive arguments from March, such as "If you don't drink, your notebook's going in the fire," both she and Dan Heng tried it.

They grossly underestimated it.

March was halfway through composing her will and chugging cider to dull the pain—making it infinitely worse. Dan Heng tried to remain stoic, but the bulging vein on his temple said everything: he was dying inside. Still, he won the bet, and his beloved notebook remained safely in its rightful hands.

They wandered past a candle-carving booth, where Ace generously paid for them all to try their hand at. March, to everyone's surprise, crafted a heart-shaped candle that was honestly adorable. Dan Heng carved the number "1." It was very precise. Took him exactly two minutes.

Stelle tried to make a spider—but it came out more like a puddle of melted pudding. Ace, of course, carved a spade. So very typical. The gambler, through and through.

Nevertheless, they proudly donated their creations to the stall's display table. Let the world remember their artistic triumphs.

And then—the highlight of the night—they stumbled upon the Wheel of Fortune. The prizes ranged from absolute garbage to the grand reward: a golden pumpkin charm. Supposedly made of real gold. Everyone gave it a shot, even though each spin cost money, and everyone only got one.

Stelle… won a candy wrapper. No candy, just the wrapper.

Dan Heng had better luck—he won a buzzing spider on a string. He ceremoniously gifted it to Stelle, and she couldn't have been happier. She immediately wrapped the thread around her wrist and tied a knot. A spider bracelet! Her joy knew no bounds.

March hit the jackpot—well, the middle prize jackpot: one free cup of cider from the nearest stand. The second she claimed it, she was gone like the wind.

And then there was Ace.

No one expected him to win anything decent. The jackpot section was so tiny, the odds of landing there were worse than being abducted by aliens—at least, that's what everyone thought. The wheel was rigged, obviously, tilted just enough that the pointer never landed near it.

No one was supposed to win.

And yet... the pointer clicked to a stop right on that microscopic jackpot slice.

Jaws dropped.

The owner of the wheel nearly collapsed. His face was priceless—frozen in horror—as he watched the arrow settle right where it was never meant to land. Eyes wide, mouth open. With tears in his eyes, he was forced to part with the golden pumpkin charm, watching as Ace plucked it up and inspected it with casual interest.

"Hmm… Not the purest grade," the blonde mused, turning it in his fingers. "But it's real gold. Didn't expect that." He huffed a little laugh, and then that trademark Cheshire Cat grin spread across his face.

His eyes flicked to the raccoon girl.

Stelle tilted her head in confusion, blinking rapidly.

Then Ace dipped his head in a half-bow and held out the charm to her.

"Lady Raccoon," he purred, eyes glinting, "will you accept my humble offering?"

Her cheeks flushed as if lit from within, and she practically jumped in place.

"M-me? But it's yours, you won that—" she mumbled, stumbling over her words.

"Exactly. Mine. Which means I decide what to do with it. Come here…"

Uninvited butterflies fluttered into her stomach as his last words curled in her ears, just barely different in tone—but enough to make her breath catch in her throat.

His hand found hers, gently coaxing her closer. Then he turned her wrist and fastened the charm in place. The touch of his fingers—so light, almost reverent—set her pulse racing. She looked away, praying it would calm her down. It didn't.

His hand lingered a moment too long—or maybe it was just her imagination.

"There," he said, voice low and velvety. "Perfect. Gold suits you far more than thread and spiders."

The meaning wasn't lost on anyone.

Ace never looked at Dan Heng. He didn't need to. But the dark-haired boy was watching. Very closely. His jaw clenched, teeth grinding, nails digging crescents into his palms.

March returned, cider in hand, just in time to squeal:

"OH MY GOSH, Ace, you won?! No fair! How come Ray gets two gifts, and I get nothing?!"

She pouted, darting her eyes from Dan Heng to Ace, clearly angling for some attention.

Ace gave a soft chuckle, feigning guilt.

"My apologies, dear witch. Next time, I promise. Besides… I'd say your prize ended up being far more valuable than Ray's original one. No offense."

March rolled her eyes dramatically and huffed, clearly unimpressed by the sweet-talking. But she quickly turned her attention back to what really mattered—free cider that, somehow, tasted even better than the regular one.

They moved on.

March was still grumbling, especially after Ace casually remarked that the wheel was rigged. She threatened that if she ever saw that scammer again, something very unfortunate would happen to a certain part of his anatomy. No one was eager to find out whether or not she was serious.

They hadn't made it past a few more stalls when they stumbled upon a mesmerizing tent—deep midnight blue, adorned with silver lunar patterns. The fabric shimmered faintly from within, glowing with a soft light that seemed to breathe. It drew attention like a magnet. Stelle stared, entranced. There was something magical about it—something almost mystical, even if she didn't really believe in that kind of thing.

March shared her awe, instantly forgetting her earlier irritation. Her eyes lit up like sparklers.

"Ooh, it's gorgeous! There's a fortune-teller inside, right? My woman's intuition and fifth eye are telling me so."

"…Third eye," Dan Heng deadpanned, earning himself a thwack on the shoulder from her broom.

"Three, five—who cares? You're annoying," she huffed. "Anyway: We. Are. Going. In. No discussion!"

She hooked both Stelle and Dan Heng by the elbows and practically dragged them toward the tent. No one should forget who ran this show.

Ace sighed and followed, though his face didn't scream enthusiasm.

At the entrance, he muttered, "Perhaps I'll wait out here? I'm not particularly thrilled about wasting time on charlatans."

"…Agreed," Dan Heng added reluctantly—clearly not thrilled to be siding with him, of all people.

March slowly turned to them like a villain in a horror play, her smile gone, voice dropping an octave.

"Excuse me?"

Her eyes gleamed with menace as she loomed over them, sleeves already rolling up.

"Have we lost our minds tonight? Or is someone begging for a broom where the moon doesn't shine?"

Her look made it clear: she was not joking.

Stelle immediately tensed and threw herself between them before things got violent, awkwardly laughing.

"They were just kidding! R-right? Just a badly timed joke, haha…"

She cast a panicked look from Dan Heng to Ace.

The two sighed in unison.

Ace spoke first, dryly:

"Yes, yes, my apologies for the attempted humor. I burn with anticipation to hear vague, generalized truths that could apply to anyone."

Fortunately for him, March's cider-soaked brain failed to register the sarcasm.

Her smile returned, bright and blithe.

"Wonderful. Come along, my lovelies," March trilled melodically, drawing back the velvet flap and gasping in delighted awe at what she saw inside.

No one dared hesitate. The rest followed March in—because, really, did they have any other choice?

The inside of the tent was unexpectedly spacious, much larger than its outer appearance suggested. Warm, ambient light poured down from plump glass lanterns suspended from above, their flickering glows reminiscent of tiny stars swimming inside. The air was thick with the scent of wormwood, dried flowers, incense… and a little dust. It felt like time slowed—or perhaps had stopped entirely.

Around the edges of the room, tiered fabric shelves displayed tiny bottles, candles, glimmering stones, charms, and bundles of herbs. Everything seemed deliberately placed and yet carried a feeling of purposeful chaos—like the objects had chosen their spots themselves. The floor was covered with a dark carpet patterned in astrological symbols, and at the center sat a round table veiled in deep hues of indigo and violet, embroidered with spiraling silver stars and celestial swirls.

And there she was.

A woman draped in translucent lace was seated at the table as though she were part of the tent itself. Her violet robes shimmered with stitched constellations that glinted whenever she moved, seeming to drink in the ambient light. Waves of snow-white hair cascaded down her shoulders, blending with the flowing fabric of her cloak. Her face was delicate—almost doll-like—and her eyes unnaturally luminous, as if they reflected the moon itself.

She shuffled her deck of cards slowly, gracefully, as if the act itself was a sacred rite. The cards were nothing like ordinary ones—thicker, edged in gold, with glowing sigils on their backs. Every shuffle produced the faintest chime like they were singing.

The woman did not speak at first. She continued shuffling in silence for several long moments, eyes focused solely on her hands. Then, without looking up, her voice came, soft and low, with a faint whisper curling at the end of each phrase—like a breeze brushing your skin:

"Fate has led you here. It is an honor to guide you into the wondrous realm of the stars."

Her tone seemed to unfold in the air, coiling delicately around each of them.

"Please sit, dear guests."

Her gloved hand gestured to the soft poufs surrounding the circular table.

The group exchanged looks.

March didn't hesitate—she plopped herself down beside the fortune-teller, immediately yanking Stelle down with her to ensure she didn't even think about sitting next to anyone else.

Stelle didn't resist. The seat beside her, however, became an unspoken battlefield of glances. She was blissfully unaware of the electric tension pulsing behind her. Had she turned, she might've witnessed the lightning bolt of death exchanged between two pairs of eyes.

But fate—or rather, cardsharp reflexes—favored Ace. He claimed the seat beside her with practiced ease, throwing Dan Heng a triumphant, insufferably smug smile. His expression all but said, Better luck next hand.

The fortune-teller merely watched with a serene smile, patient and still. And somehow, Stelle felt deeply at ease here. The dim lights, rich colors, cozy cushions, and scattered charms… they wrapped around her like a lullaby. She relaxed, tension draining from her shoulders.

Once everyone had taken their seats, the fortune-teller opened her eyes and slowly looked around the circle.

"Each of you may ask one question—just one—that troubles your heart most deeply. One by one. A lady followed by a gentleman for fairness."

A mysterious smile played on her lips.

"Now then, the young lady with the lovely pink hair—would you kindly tell me your name and your question?"

March practically bounced in place, grinning with uncontainable excitement. She paused only briefly before blurting out:

"My name is March, and I want to know: when will I meet my true love?"

Her cheeks flushed at the very thought, eyes shining with eager anticipation.

The fortune-teller didn't speak immediately. She began to reshuffle the cards—or rather, caress them—her movements so gentle they felt reverent. She laid them out in a horseshoe-shaped spread, each card placed face-down with careful intention.

As each card touched the cloth, she murmured what it would represent: the past, the present, hidden influences, the querent herself, environmental influences, advice, and outcome.

March leaned forward, eyes wide, utterly absorbed in the woman's graceful hands and soft voice. The fortune-teller spoke slowly, deliberately, her tone threaded with mystery.

From the reading, March learned that she already carried a particular image of ideal love—and was growing frustrated with the lack of romance in her own life. But someone would soon come into her life who would conquer her heart. All she needed was a little more patience. Her nature—sincere and endlessly optimistic—drew people to her. However, that same warmth often meant people only saw her as "a friend." She needed to learn restraint, to let time do its work. Her white knight was on the way.

Needless to say, March was elated. Her dreamy expression said everything—though it was clear she'd only registered the last part of the reading. She glowed with satisfaction, giggling into Stelle's ear and proudly whispering that she'd have a boyfriend soon.

Stelle nodded, smiling softly. She hoped it was true. March deserved that happiness—especially since Stelle wouldn't be around much longer. If someone could fill the gap she would leave behind, then… maybe it would hurt a little less.

Next, the fortune-teller's moon-pale eyes landed on Dan Heng. He looked anything but thrilled to be under the spotlight. Still, knowing there was no escape from March's broom-wielding authority, he sighed and asked:

"Will I succeed in my studies?"

A very… Dan Heng kind of question.

March leaned into Stelle's ear and whispered dramatically, "He's so boring, I swear. Even now, he's thinking about school."

The fortune-teller’s reading for Dan Heng was as concise and no-nonsense as the man himself: just three cards—past, present, future.

They revealed a life devoted to rigorous study, self-discipline, and a sharp focus on intellectual growth. He had distanced himself from others to pursue excellence. That isolation, while limiting his social experience, would ultimately be the very thing that elevated him. The final card promised inevitable, precise success. There was no need to worry.

March, meanwhile, nearly dozed off—she yawned more times than there were cards on the table.

Dan Heng simply shrugged, unimpressed. With a sigh, he returned to his ever-present notebook. That, apparently, was more entertaining than predictions of guaranteed academic victory.

And finally… it was Stelle's turn.

The fortune-teller's violet gaze landed on her with a stillness that made her breath catch—a cold, piercing look that somehow also wrapped her in an odd sense of comfort. It was as if the woman could see right through her—not just into her thoughts, but into the corners of her soul that even she didn't always dare to visit.

All this time, Stelle had been weighing her question. What troubled her most? What did she want to know, really? And when the moment came, the answer spilled naturally from her lips:

"My name is Ray, and I'd like to know… what fate awaits me?"

The woman's eyes narrowed slightly, studying her more deeply now. Stelle shivered.

Maybe it was all just nonsense, a performance dressed in velvet and incense, but it felt real. And wasn't it more fun to believe than to insist on rationality? Especially tonight.

Her reading was longer than the others—understandably so. Hers wasn't a question about romance or exams but about the entire path ahead. Life, fate.

"This is a classic spread known as the Celtic Cross," the fortune-teller said, shuffling with calm grace. "It will show you not just what lies ahead but what surrounds you—seen and unseen."

The cards formed a cross at the center of the table, flanked by a vertical column. This time, the cards were placed face-down.

The first was in the very heart of the cross.

"This card represents you. Your present self. Where you are right now…"

She flipped it, revealing a youth in a red cap juggling two pentacles within a figure-eight loop.

"The Two of Pentacles. You're balancing two lives… perhaps two identities. And you're managing—admirably—but it's not without cost. It stretches you thin and strains the center. Eventually, it may split you."

Stelle's eyes widened.

Too accurate. Uncomfortably so.

Her lips pressed into a tight line. Something stirred deep within—a flicker of recognition, of truth. How could this woman know anything? And yet the card stared up at her, uncaring of disbelief.

Next came the card laid perpendicular to the first, still in the center.

"Your main problem and obstacle."

With a graceful flick of her wrist, the woman revealed another piece of art—a man in red robes, wearing a crown and holding a golden cross, seated on a throne between two pillars.

"The Hierophant. It represents tradition and duty. Perhaps you're hindered by societal rules, family obligations, and a strict moral code. You are bound to follow rigid standards, and ancient traditions hold you in an iron grip."

This was no longer funny. How could this be possible? Maybe this woman really did know something?

Stelle tensed up, her palms suddenly damp. She cast a quick glance at March, who was watching the fortune-teller intently, nodding now and then as if someone needed confirmation. She didn't seem to suspect anything. It's not surprising, really, given her current state. On the other side sat Ace—and, of course, looking at him was impossible without her heart skipping a beat. He wasn't smiling—simply resting his head on one hand, his expression pensive. That damn hat and those glasses made it impossible to read his emotions—and maybe that was for the best.

The next card was placed above the cross. The woman didn’t hesitate to reveal it.

“Your foundation and past roots. The events that started it all. As you can see—the Ten of Pentacles. At the root of your fate lies family heritage, ancestral wealth, and tradition, which aligns with the Hierophant in the previous category. Thus, the weight of an entire lineage rests on your shoulders.”

It felt like the woman was reading her like an open book—and suddenly, it was terrifying. If the truth about her were to be exposed just like that, it would be mortifying. Thank goodness two of them didn’t believe a single word of this, and March was too tipsy to take any of it seriously.

“Immediate future—the Wheel of Fortune. A sudden twist of fate lies ahead. A turning point that will trigger events changing your situation at its very core. This may be good fortune—or a trial.”

Stelle swallowed hard, clutching the raccoon plushie tighter. The awareness that her life was about to change soon was suffocating—and no amount of alcohol in her blood could dull the weight of it.

“Now, your conscious goals and desires. Your plans and hopes…”

The card flipped, revealing a woman standing amidst green fields—she was pouring water from a lake onto the grass, forming winding rivers. Above her, stars gleamed—many small ones and one large, radiant star at the center.

“…The Star. You are full of hope for freedom and the fulfillment of your deepest, most sacred desires. You long to break free from the chains of lies and tradition.”

Next…

She turned over a rather disturbing card that immediately sent a chill down the spine—a young man hanging upside down on what looked like an unfinished cross, a glowing halo encircling his head.

“The depths of your soul—unconscious desires, fears, or traits you might not even be aware of. The Hanged Man—the Twelfth Major Arcana. Deep down, you are willing to sacrifice personal happiness for the sake of others, though it weighs heavily on you. Perhaps, deep inside, you believe that you are destined to suffer and bear burdens for the good of your family or out of a sense of duty.”

Stelle’s heart clenched painfully. Her fists tightened, and she barely held back a shiver. It was becoming harder to bear with each new card.

The next one—a long-haired woman on a throne, holding a sword.

“External influences—your environment and what shapes your fate from the outside. The Queen of Swords. A woman—wise, stern, and perceptive. Independent and principled, she values truth and order. This figure teaches you restraint and denies you emotional support, forcing you to seek comfort elsewhere.”

The girl could no longer feel surprised—she had fewer and fewer doubts that either this reading was entirely accurate… or this woman somehow knew something. How could someone describe her situation so precisely—even her mother—without knowing a thing?

Two cards remained. And the second-to-last shocked Stelle even more—a terrifying red creature with a goat’s head, bat wings, a pentagram over its forehead, holding a man and woman on chains. Stelle flinched.

“Your hopes and fears. The things you long for and the things you dread. Paradoxically, these are often the same. The Devil. It represents temptation—the desire for things that defy the ideal girl you’re ‘supposed’ to be. You fear being defiled—and yet, you crave it.”

Oh…

She had truly hoped this wouldn’t come up. And worst of all, her body betrayed her—cheeks flushed, and her awareness honed in on who was sitting beside her. The reason for this card—no doubt. Her heart pounded, and before she could stop herself, her eyes turned to him.

As if he sensed it, he turned his head at that exact moment—and their eyes met. He let out a quiet chuckle, and his lips curled into the faintest of smiles—just enough for Stelle to catch it. Her blush deepened, and she quickly looked away, yanking her head back. Instinctively, she tried to hide in her hood, forgetting again it wasn’t nearly big enough for that.

Get it together, Stelle! Just one card left. Then it would be his turn—and she’d have her revenge.

She mentally slapped herself on the cheeks and returned her gaze to the center of the table.

The final card—a woman with a gentle face, wearing a jeweled crown and holding a scepter. She sat not in a narrow throne room but in a forest, her throne adorned with plush cushions.

“And finally, the likely outcome of your path. The culmination of all the factors. The Empress.”

A soft smile touched the fortune-teller’s delicate lips.

“You will become an influential woman, occupying a high position—a source of power and wisdom. This card also suggests spiritual motherhood—that is, a protector of others. Which aligns with the earlier cards. In the end, you will manage to keep balance between the demons and angels within your soul.”

March let out a whistle, nudging her friend in the side several times.

“Oooh! Ray is going to be an empress?! Then I want some handsome prince at that very moment! Oh no, better yet—a knight! He’ll carry me in his arms and protect me. Oh, and don’t forget to grant me a few castles for everything your sweet March has done for you.”

Stelle giggled, patting her friend on the shoulder.

“Of course!” she played along. “If I become an empress, you’ll definitely feel it. I mean, we don’t have that kind of title, but who cares?”

“Exactly! They’ll invent one just for you!”

In her joy, March squeezed her friend into a tight hug—so tight it nearly cracked a rib or two. Still, Stelle felt immediately lighter. March always had a way of pulling her out of gloomy thoughts and fear of the future.

What will I do without her…

Now, only one victim of tarot remained—Ace, who seemed only briefly interested during all the readings. The rest of the time, he’d sat as quiet as a shadow—a rare occurrence for him, which said a lot. It looked like he was about to fall asleep. Maybe he already had. With that hat and those glasses, it was impossible to tell.

The fortune-teller gathered the cards again and prepared them, watching the last in line with quiet anticipation. The man stayed silent at first, then lifted his hat slightly to meet her gaze.

“Call me Ace, fortune lady,” he said. A note of condescension toward her profession flickered in his tone. “Now, for my question… Instead of asking about the future, I’d rather ask—who am I? I wonder how deep you can really see. I’ll listen and decide for myself just how believable your smoke and mirrors really are.”

Stelle was surprised—the usually gallant and cloyingly sweet Ace suddenly spoke so sharply. He must truly despise fortune-telling and everything related to it if it made him drop the act like that.

The fortune-teller’s composure was enviable—not a flicker of offense or irritation crossed her eyes, and her smile didn’t falter. Without another word, she laid out the cards… in exactly the same pattern she’d used for Stelle, which caught her a bit off guard. Interesting—a perfect chance to learn more about the mysterious gambler. And now that she’d seen the fortune-teller in action, she didn’t think it was all just nonsense anymore.

However, the woman’s tone with him was entirely different than it had been with the others. It wasn’t angry but raw with honesty. She had accepted his challenge and decided to face him as an equal rather than deliver her insights in a soft and dreamy haze.

“Then listen, skeptic,” she said gently, almost tenderly. “I won’t name you, but I’ll show you the mask you wear… and the face that hides beneath it.”

The first card was laid at the center of the circle.

“The Magician. You are the master of the stage. A manipulator, a trickster, someone who knows how to control attention and events. You live in a spectacle where you are both playwright and performer. Illusion is your bread and butter. But even an actor tires of endless masks, doesn’t he?”

The corner of Ace’s mouth twitched. He didn’t respond—but Stelle, watching closely, noticed.

The second card was placed across the first.

“The Devil. These are your chains. A thirst for power, freedom without responsibility, a passion for games, women, and the taste of danger. It’s not just an image—it’s an addiction. You hide your essence behind a haze of risk. And that very haze is what pulls you down. You’re afraid of the void—so you fill it over and over with wagers, hollow smiles, and gold.”

The third—beneath them.

“The Tower. And this is where it all began. There was a point of no return. Something in the past collapsed—and you went down with it. Your past burned to ashes, and you were left alone. No wonder you live as if tomorrow doesn’t exist—you’ve already lost it once.”

The air inside the tent grew colder, as though the fire in the lanterns had dimmed. Stelle could feel the tension mounting in Ace with every word the seer spoke. He didn’t interrupt. He didn’t mock. And that—said more than words ever could. His eyes were hidden once again.

The fourth card—to the right.

“The Sun. And here—the future holds light for you. Perhaps revelation. Perhaps triumph. But indeed—clarity. Someone will see the real you. Or you’ll stop hiding. It’s a chance. But also a risk. The sun warms… and it burns.”

The seer spoke softly, but her voice echoed like thunder. Stelle couldn’t tear her gaze away.

The fifth card—above.

“The Fool. You play the part of the wanderer, the carefree jester. You avoid plans and obligations. ‘Just keep moving and enjoy the view’—that’s your philosophy. But you know, don’t you? That’s a mask too. Comfortable. Light. Safe.”

The sixth—below.

“Five of Pentacles. Deep down—you are an outsider. Homeless. Exiled. You laugh the loudest because you fear silence. You reach for people so you don’t freeze—but never get too close, afraid of being rejected again.”

Suddenly, the man touched his hat, but instead of lifting it, he adjusted it—settling it firmly back into place.

The seventh—to the side.

“King of Wands. You act like a charismatic leader. Always know what to say, how to enter a room, how to win. You yourself are your weapon. You captivate because you know how it works. And that’s why you’re always one step ahead. But a king also bears a burden. And while you play your part, no one sees how much it takes to stay on that throne made of words.”

The eighth—above.

“Five of Wands. The world around you is an arena. Rivals, schemes, threats. You’re used to it. You even seek it out. You need a challenge—otherwise, you suffocate. But even a gladiator runs out of strength eventually. How long can you keep going?”

The ninth—nearing the end.

“Two of Cups. Ah… there it is. Deep inside, you crave closeness. The hope—for a kindred soul. Not just an ally but someone who will accept you even without the hat and the glasses. And you fear this—because honesty requires vulnerability. And what you fear most is being vulnerable.”

The last one. The final card.

“The Emperor.”

The seer looked at him directly. No judgment. No mockery.

“In the end, you will become who you were meant to be. Not a magician, not a runaway, not a gambler. But one who leads—not just the fates of others, but his own. A leader. A creator. A man who holds the world without hiding behind masks. The Emperor is not about a title. It’s about the strength to take responsibility for your own life. And for those who have entered it.”

A hush settled over the tent.

Ace said nothing. For a full minute, he remained silent, drawing the gaze of everyone present. Stelle had no idea what to think. If all of this was true—she almost felt sorry for him. Although, she doubted he’d want anyone’s pity.

And then, unexpectedly, Ace chuckled—quietly, without mockery or loud bravado. He lifted his hat at last, revealing his eyes. To everyone’s surprise, they held no trace of vulnerability, sorrow, or irritation. No, it was the most typical look he could wear. That trademark smirk sealed the image. He didn’t look shaken in the slightest.

“Well, not a bad attempt, beauty. You really enjoy reading people by their covers, then turning the book inside out, convinced they must be the opposite of what they appear. But it doesn’t always work that way. Not everyone hides grand, mysterious motives beneath the surface.”

He reached into the pocket of his tailcoat and pulled out a handful of coins, tossing them onto the center of the table.

“Still, you earned something for your time.”

The woman watched him calmly, still smiling—but not mockingly. It was the kind of smile that said she had expected this. Instead of taking offense, she said gently:

“It is enough for me that I helped at least one of you look a little deeper within. Perhaps one day, it will help you make the kind of choice you won’t come to regret.”

But the blond wasn’t listening anymore.

He was the first to leave the tent.

Notes:

Guess who actully got the tarot cards just to be accurate XD
That's the reason why it took me longer to write, I not only ordered the cards but tried my best to also learn the meanings and techniques haha...
Oh and the festival will take one more chapter, I'm sorry if that's a problem! But I didn't have courage to cut something out,,,

Chapter 6: The Raccoon and the Vampire

Summary:

Stelle and Aventurine end up on opposite sides of the fence once again. Neither of them is willing to give up without a fight. On top of that, Stelle gets her first taste of jealousy.

After leaving the tent, everything felt quieter than before. Stelle found herself reflecting on the fortune teller's words about her future—she already knew a turning point was approaching. Still, the final card had caught her off guard. So fate claimed she wouldn't disappoint her mother and would reach success… but how did that reconcile with inner harmony, with embracing both her demons and her angels? It didn't make sense. For that harmony to exist, she'd have to throw that damn demon out of her head altogether. Not that she completely believed in fortune-telling now, but the accuracy of the other cards still made her think.

Her thoughts also drifted to Ace. His reactions during the reading hadn't been so simple. For a moment, she genuinely believed every word the woman said was true. And honestly, she was still sure some of it had been. Otherwise, why react so strongly? Why leave first? Not that Stelle claimed to understand Ace—his thoughts, his motives—she didn't. So, there was no point torturing herself over it. She wouldn't be getting answers anyway.

And even though he wore his usual smile now, casually adjusting his glove, she had a gut feeling he, too, was still thinking about the reading. Why? Just a hunch.

March, however, didn't share in the contemplative mood. By this point, she didn't even really need anyone to talk to—just someone to listen as she chattered away about how scarily accurate the fortune had been, how she'd love to have a mom like that to read her future every day, how thrilled she was that she'd soon meet her "true knight." Stelle hated to admit it, but she was only half-listening to her friend's enthusiastic ramblings.

She hugged her plush raccoon tighter, hiding her face behind it—not because of the cold, but because of the thoughts swarming her head like summer mosquitoes. The crisp night air stood in stark contrast to the stuffy heat inside the tent. She took a deep breath, trying to clear her mind.

Outside, the world felt too vibrant to have just hosted a séance. The crowd buzzed, lanterns twinkled, the scent of pumpkin, sweets, and something slightly scorched hung in the air. Everything felt too alive, too real.

Suddenly, from somewhere deep in the alleyway, a bright, theatrical voice rang out—impossible to ignore even over the festival's noise.

"Good evening, or wicked night, mortals and not-so-mortals! The Pumpkin Lantern Festival's main event begins now—the contest for the spookiest, silliest, or most hauntingly enchanting costumes!"

March let out a squeal and grabbed Ray's hand with both of hers.

"Oh my gosh, it's starting! Ray, this year we have to win something! One of us, at least! Preferably your stunningly beautiful March—destined to become Queen of the Night!"

She was rattling on so quickly that all Stelle could do was nod along with an awkward smile. The announcer continued in a booming, theatrical voice as the crowd began to drift toward the stage—children bouncing on their toes while others dragged over barrels to climb on for a better view.

The host was a man in his forties with dyed black-and-blue hair and a long robe adorned with fake skulls. He stood on a raised wooden platform in the middle of the brightly decorated square, a sign reading "The Most Horrible Contest!" hanging behind him. In his hand was a small bell.

"The night can hardly wait for its new overlords! This year, we've prepared some special categories and a brand-new rule. This time—everyone competes in pairs!"

A wave of murmurs and chatter rippled through the crowd. Some people grumbled while others whistled with interest.

"Yes, yes, I hear you, lonely souls. Worry not—sign up, and you'll be matched with another monster of solitude just like yourself! Details to follow. I promise it'll be terrifyingly fun, and only the bravest and strangest will win!"

He flared his cloak—and vanished as if swallowed by the earth. Stelle blinked, then turned toward Ace. For some reason, she had the distinct feeling that he, of all people, might know how that trick worked. And, of course, he was standing there with a smug, knowing smile. Catching her stare, he winked—and just like that, she forgot what she'd wanted to ask. Her cheeks flushed as she quickly turned away, clutching her raccoon plushie like it was a shield.

Several people stood near the stage with clipboards, already being swarmed by eager participants. Plenty of people had come with friends, and after a couple mugs of cider, even the shyest monsters grew bold—courage flowed as freely as the drinks.

March was practically bouncing with excitement. She spun to face the others and pointed a finger at each of them in turn.

"I hereby declare we're entering! And no, I'm not accepting objections!"

Stelle sighed softly. That was always how it went, so she hadn't expected any different. Dan Heng sighed even harder beside her. Their eyes met in mutual suffering—they both knew what was coming.

Only one of them didn't sigh at all. Of course. The outsider was smiling. Honestly, if anyone here was made for a stage, it was that hat-wearing gambler. The way he carried himself in front of people—it was enough to be unsettling.

Suddenly, realization struck March like a divine mallet to the back of the head. She gasped, genuinely alarmed, and smacked her palm to her forehead with a dramatic groan.

"Oh my god! I'm such an idiot!"

No one dared question the obvious. Still, Stelle asked gently,

"What is it?"

March sighed even louder and turned to Stelle with the expression of someone delivering the bitterest truth. After all, it wasn't just her—none of them had noticed it before.

"Guys, is it just me, or… did we completely forget to ask who our blondie is even supposed to be dressed as?"

The two others froze, faces locked in identical expressions. Like stone statues, they exchanged a glance. It was true—they'd been so swept up in everything else that not one of them had thought to ask. Sure, it was clear Ace was styled like some kind of aristocrat, but that couldn't possibly be the full idea, could it?

March spun toward the accused, who was clearly enjoying the confusion. He adjusted his hat just enough for them to get a good look at his pale face. March squinted, tapping her chin with two fingers as she examined him, turning her head one way, then the other.

"So, who are you supposed to be, anyway? I can't figure it out."

The hat-wearing rogue chuckled, and only when he tilted his head to give them a perfect view of his sharp, exaggerated fangs did realization strike. In perfect unison, Stelle and March gasped:

"A vampire!"

Ace closed his eyes with a quiet laugh.

"Correct, my lovely ladies. And you should be grateful there's a crowd around—otherwise, I'd have already taken a bite out of both of you."

He winked playfully, lashes low. Stelle blushed furiously and turned away with a huff. Unbelievable flirt.

March, meanwhile, squealed so loud that a few people turned to look.

"Oh. My. GOSH! Is this a dream?! My fantasy came true?! Thank you, Lord, all those years of daydreaming weren't wasted!"

She tucked her broom under one arm and clasped her hands together over her chest as if in prayer, eyes brimming as she gazed at the sky with a face so red it was hard to tell whether it was from cider or sheer emotion. With theatrical flair—but clearly genuine—she exclaimed:

"The Lord has sent me a rich, handsome, blond vampire in a tailored suit! My prayers were answered!"

She nodded enthusiastically, eyes locking onto the gambler again.

"This is just divine! Blond, aristocratic, cape, glasses… every girl on the plaza's going to faint! No other guy stands a chance!"

Stelle rolled her eyes with a quiet sigh.

Yes, March, go ahead and praise him more—surely his self-esteem is dangerously low.

Dan Heng decided to chime in, his voice disturbingly calm—a sharp contrast to March's joy:

"Let me remind you that this is a costume contest, not a beauty pageant. And I wouldn't say he's particularly frightening."

The blue-eyed girl puffed up and pinched his bare shoulder.

"Silence, nerd! You don't understand women's hearts! No pumpkin-head monster can compete with a pale vampire! Right, Ray?"

She looked at her with the intensity of someone who might launch you into space for giving the "wrong" answer. Stelle rolled her eyes so hard she risked locking them inside her skull. In the most undead voice she could muster, she muttered:

"Oh yes. Absolutely thrilled. I'm about to leap out of my underwear."

Thank goodness March was drunk—she beamed at the response and shot Dan Heng a smug look as if to say, Told you so. Clapping her hands, she spun toward the blond, her tone sugar-sweet and fluttering her lashes as if she hadn't just threatened or scolded anyone seconds ago.

"This means your perfect match is none other than the Great March! The most handsome guy at the festival with the most beautiful lady! The true King and Queen of the Night! Witch and vampire—now that's what I call romance, passion, blood, gothic dreams!"

She didn't even pretend to be subtle. Not a glance of apology toward Ray, as if she had no right to even hope for the crown of most beautiful.

For some reason, Stelle's amber eyes widened as a sharp pain twisted in her chest. She blinked, then shifted her gaze back and forth between March and Ace. Her brows slowly knit together.

Their pairing… she didn't like it. And she refused to dwell on why. She just didn't—end of story. Besides, something told her the blond wouldn't go for it anyway! He'd probably ask Ray instead, and then she'd shoot him down and savor the look of surprise on his smug, annoying face. Now, that would be a show worth watching.

The raccoon girl smirked to herself, already relishing her brilliant little revenge plot. Shame her tail wasn't real—it would've been flicking wildly by now, betraying every mischievous intent.

The culprit of this drama was clearly enjoying the attention, judging by the satisfied Cheshire-cat grin tugging at his lips and the sly gleam in his eye. With theatrical grace, he slid one arm behind his back and, with the other, took the pink-haired girl's hand into his own. He lifted it gently, brushing her skin with the lightest touch of his lips.

"My Fair Lady, the honor is all mine."

Stelle froze as if the earth had cemented around her feet. For a split second, she forgot how to breathe. Her expression shifted in an instant—wide-eyed shock laced with the faintest trace of betrayal. Her heart clenched, a blade drawn straight through her chest. A gut punch with a smile.

The grey-haired girl crushed the raccoon plush to her chest, her nails digging into the poor thing's fluff. Pressed her lips together and slipped back into her usual neutral mask.

Why… why do I even care?

Nothing exactly bad had happened. Really, nothing at all. Objectively speaking, March and Ace were the perfect pair in their little group—at least stylistically. Also, neither of them feared the spotlight. It made sense. A vampire and a witch? Classic. Way more natural than a raccoon and a vampire—what kind of scene could that pairing even pull off?

Besides, it wasn't like he'd promised Stelle anything. And March had spoken first. Everything about it was completely reasonable, entirely logical.

And yet…

That feeling spread in her chest—slow and sticky, like something heavy and wet dragging her down from the inside.

Stelle forced a smile onto her face and nodded.

"Wonderful idea! You two look perfect together," she said, making her voice as believable as she could.

Before she could see their faces, she turned away, pivoting toward Dan Heng, who watched her with his usual unreadable intensity. Thankfully, he didn't ask any awkward questions—unlike March.

"So I guess that leaves us," she offered, her tone light. "Might be tricky to combine… a dragon and a raccoon, but we'll figure something out."

She laughed awkwardly, keeping her full attention on Dan Heng as if they were the only ones in the world.

He didn't break eye contact, analyzing her. But Stelle held her poker face like a pro—one she'd perfected under her mother's tutelage—and it seemed to work. Dan Heng soon nodded and folded his arms.

"I can only imagine a scene where a raccoon gets savagely devoured. Hopefully, it won't come to that."

The amber-eyed girl giggled.

"Raccoons might be small, but we bite back. I won't go down that easily."

A rare hint of a smile ghosted across his lips. At least someone around here wasn't upsetting her…

Honestly, she'd expected March or that gambler to butt in with some smart remark. She definitely wasn't going to check—but her gaze drifted their way anyway.

They looked entirely unbothered by her exaggerated turning-away. March was enthusiastically chirping something, flailing her arms as usual, and the blond just stood there, smiling and nodding. What brilliant little schemes were they plotting now?

Stelle scoffed under her breath and tugged Dan Heng gently by the sleeve of his silky robe.

"Let's go sign up. No point waiting on them." She tossed a dismissive nod in their direction. "We can brainstorm something on the way."

Dan Heng's skeptical, narrowed gaze settled on her face again—but she didn't intend to elaborate.

Screw them. I'm over it.

Tonight, they were rivals.

***

Registration moved fairly quickly, thanks to the well-organized assistants in torn cloaks and ink-stained hands. They asked only one question:

"Who are you in this nightmare?"

Stelle nearly snorted, trying to keep a straight face as she gave her proud little raccoon alias: Smart Paws. But it was Dan Heng who stunned her by calmly declaring himself Imbibitor Lunae. She almost fell over.

The assistant simply nodded as if that was the most natural pairing in the world.

They were given brooches made of black-orange wax shaped into the number 9 and sent off behind the stage—really, a cluster of makeshift tents stitched from cloth adorned with swirling symbols that seemed to move with every gust of wind.

Inside, the air was dark and echoey, lit only by the flicker of candlelight that lent an eerie yet oddly cozy atmosphere. Pairs huddled in corners, whispering and giggling, watching others or staring off into space like they were awaiting execution. No one knew what came next.

And that was the point.

No rules had been explained. Likely part of the design—no prep, no planning. Just raw instinct. This year's show was clearly meant to be impromptu, spontaneous, reactive. Intriguing.

Still, many were rehearsing mini skits "just in case"—especially the veterans who showed up every year. Others scratched their heads and prayed for mercy.

Eventually, the rest of their original group strolled in—March and the poker king himself, proudly wearing badges marked 15.

Took them long enough, Stelle thought, noting how deep into conversation they'd been.

She made a show of turning in the opposite direction and pulled her hood farther down over her head. Pressed herself into the wall, hugging her raccoon tightly and exchanging glances with Dan Heng. His calm was a balm to her frayed nerves.

He was solid. Dependable. If anyone could handle a surprise challenge, it was him. And really—he was pretty handsome, too. Just… not so full of himself. That was a significant plus.

There was no way she'd let them win so easily.

No. Stelle would give it everything she had—just to make sure that smug bastard didn't get the satisfaction of another victory.

And then, the bell rang.

Clear and sharp, it instantly turned all heads toward the sound. Someone squeaked, "It's starting!"

Fifteen pairs had formed in the end—and, of course, the very last to register were their biggest rivals. Not ideal. Everyone knew the truth: people remembered the first and last acts most of all. To get a better view of the stage, they had to move closer to the exit.

The musicians beneath the platform quieted down until only the bell's chime remained.

Dim lights flickered to life, illuminating the host as he snapped into view at center stage. This time, his look was even more outrageous: his face half-covered by a cobweb mask, a fake spider perched on his forehead. The backdrop of pumpkin lights made him look like he'd stepped out of the land of the dead. One hand held a bone-like staff topped with a miniature skull. Creepy didn't even begin to cover it.

With a deep, resonant, theatrical voice, he declared:

"The darkness deepens… time runs thin… The foulest and most fearsome of creatures have gathered here tonight, ready to bare their fangs…"

The crowd fell silent, breath held.

"Night beasts awaken from their slumber, ready to remind mortals of their place. I hereby declare this grand Sabbath… begun!"

The crowd howled—cheers and whistles echoing across the plaza. The host struck the stage with his staff, and the pumpkin flames trembled—his own shadow seeming to twist unnaturally.

He stretched out his arms like a villain in a stage play.

"Now! Reveal yourselves, lost souls! Step forth one by one, and unleash your might—confined to the mortal limits of one minute!"

A fresh wave of applause erupted—even louder this time. The man, true to his flair, adjusted his oversized top hat, struck the ground with his staff once more… and vanished. The pumpkin lights dimmed with him.

From backstage, an assistant's voice rang out:

"Welcome our first pair! The servant of fate and her dominator—what a match! The Blind Diviner and his Demoness!"

Onto the stage walked a young man in a crimson cloak, a black blindfold covering his eyes. His pale face was calm, his hands clutching a glass divination orb filled with miniature lightning, arcing toward his touch.

He moved slowly, yet with purpose—like he could feel and hear better than any seeing man.

Trailing behind him crept the second contestant—a girl cloaked in black, adorned with bat wings, crimson horns, and a predator's grin. She slithered close and whispered into his ear:

"Tell them they're all going to die…"

The boy didn't speak—only walked forward.

She circled to his other side.

"Say it… or you'll die first."

Her voice dropped to a deadly monotone, her grin vanishing. Wide, unblinking eyes bored into him as her clawed hand clutched his shoulder, digging in.

He stopped at center stage. Still silent. Then, he opened his mouth and murmured,

"My orb shows that tonight, each of you will die a terrible death. My eyes…"

His voice was cold, steady—eerily soothing. A child in the audience began to cry. Someone ducked behind another guest.

The boy reached for his blindfold and slowly peeled it off. He opened his eyes—milky white. The crowd gasped.

"…are cursed. Look into them, and you won't survive the night."

Carrying his blindfold, he turned and walked calmly offstage. The demoness flashed a vicious smile and raked her claws through the air before vanishing after him.

Silence hung in the air, broken only by unsettled murmurs. But then—applause exploded. Screams, cheers, whistles—someone even yelled that they'd peed themselves in fear. Stelle chose to interpret that as a theatrical exaggeration.

She exchanged a glance with Dan Heng, who met her eyes and nodded. No words were needed—they understood each other immediately. The competition wasn't going to be easy. That opening act had raised the bar high. Now, they'd have to truly bring their best if they didn't want to be forgotten among all the flashy costumes and characters.

Amber eyes flicked toward March and Ace—March was whispering something to him, face tense. And as for that gambler—still unreadable, hidden behind his damn glasses and hat.

Ugh. Whatever.

Stelle rolled her eyes and made a firm decision: she wasn't going to look in their direction again.

***

All sorts of pairs were now taking the stage—each one unique in its own delightful or just weird way. Stelle couldn't help but admire how creative some of them were. Take, for example, Pair No. 3—Fang and Chicken—where a guy dressed as a werewolf with wild eyes and patches of fake fur kept lunging at a girl in a plush chicken costume. She constantly broke free from his grasp, clucking with terrifying realism. The moment she shrieked, "I'll only become soup after the wedding!" the crowd howled.

Then came Pair No. 6—two guys lugging a coffin lid between them while singing in unison about their exclusive line of coffins for every taste and size. For the festival only, buy three and get the fourth one free. Kids under six ride free when buried with a parent. Bring a friend and get a bonus commission. Stelle knew she was definitely going to hell for laughing at that one.

There was also a pair of lovers dressed in white—bloodied, tragic. As the story went, they had killed each other because the cruel world wouldn't let them be together. Someone in the crowd even wept. And then there was a duo dressed as… a teapot and a teacup. A perfect match, probably.

Their turn came far quicker than Stelle had hoped. While they waited, they'd fine-tuned their idea—each impressive act before theirs only added pressure. At least, Stelle felt that pressure. But finally, after a few tweaks and nervous chuckles, they'd managed to come up with something—simple but fitting.

Her heart pounded as the host's voice rang out:

"And now, mortals and immortals alike, welcome pair number nine—Miss Raccoon Smart Paws and Imbibitor Lunae the Dragon. Oof, let's hope we avoid any raccoon meat onstage tonight!"

The crowd laughed while Stelle and Dan Heng exchanged a sly look. They'll be surprised soon enough…

She inhaled deeply and slowly let it out. Dan Heng, noticing her anxiety, placed a calm, steadying hand on her shoulder and offered her the faintest smile.

Warmth bloomed in her chest.

And this time—Stelle truly didn't glance once toward a certain blonde gambler. No matter how much she wanted to.

The lights dimmed. Voices hushed.

Dan Heng stepped onto the center of the stage with the smooth, almost spectral grace of something ancient. His silk sleeves, embroidered with dragon patterns, fluttered with each measured, thunderous step that echoed across the wooden platform.

It was as if he carved silence into the space around him. All eyes were locked on him.

In one hand, he held a long black silk ribbon trailing behind him like a shadow.

The young man came to a halt at the center of the stage. He lifted his gaze, and in a calm, low voice, he spoke:

"Every monster has its leash. And every moon—a sacrifice. Tonight… you'll be mine."

Suddenly, a shadow flickered behind him. He turned at once—but nothing. Only the faint rustling, like dry autumn, leaves skimming across the stone.

And then—she appeared.

Not Stelle. Not Ray.

Miss Raccoon.

Her hood concealed her eyes, but a sly smile was already creeping onto her lips. She stood just off-center as if she'd materialized from the air itself.

"Oh? Out hunting, are we?" came her teasingly innocent voice. "How sweet. Are you sure you haven't wandered into the wrong territory?"

He didn't reply. His eyes pierced through the raccoon girl with an icy stare, brow furrowing.

He took a step toward her.

She didn't retreat. Instead, she slid to the side with a playful grin, mocking the dragon. They began to circle one another—like beasts testing the air, gauging weakness, scenting blood.

Dan Heng raised the black ribbon like a weapon, like a vow.

"I'll wrap it around your throat, thief. You'll breathe only when I allow it—until you answer for your crimes."

But the silver-haired girl showed no fear. Quite the opposite—she let out a playful hum and, with a flick of unseen intent, closed the distance between them. Close enough that the dragon could hear her breath:

"Such confidence. Adorable~."

With those words, the amber-eyed girl reached out—and touched the ribbon. His hands froze. He tried to regain control, but she was already behind him, moving like smoke. And before he could react, the ribbon slid around his neck. Slowly. Precisely. As if she'd rehearsed it a thousand times.

He grabbed her wrist—firm, unyielding. His teeth clenched, and his eyes burned with resolve as he growled:

"You don't know who you're playing with. I won't yield to a criminal like you."

Stelle's lips curled into a cunning smile. She toyed with the ribbon, leaned in close to his ear, voice low, silk-laced:

"Then don't. That only makes it more delicious. But you're already here... on my leash, O Mighty One."

The dark-haired dragon tried to seize back control, but she stepped back sharply, tugging the ribbon—and instinctively, he followed. One step. Then another.

By the third, she jerked the ribbon sharply in the opposite direction.

And down he went, crashing to his knees, pulled by gravity and her command.

The raccoon girl stood over him—heel firmly planted on his crossed legs.

"Hunt's over," she giggled. "Let's play again sometime."

And then, slowly leaning down, she sank her teeth into his cheek.

A sharp hiss escaped his lips—low and ragged—as he clenched his jaw.

It was a declaration. A claim. A promise.

The dark-haired dragon froze, locked in place, looking up at her with a gaze that was defeated—but not broken. She straightened, sweetly dusted off her tail, stuck out her tongue at him with a mischievous glint, then snatched the numbered brooch from his chest. She twirled it between her fingers, studying it like a trophy, spun on her heel, and vanished into the shadows behind the curtains—gone as suddenly as she'd appeared.

And the Imbibitor Lunae was left alone.

On his knees.

His neck wrapped in black ribbon.

With a crimson mark blooming on his cheek.

In silence.

One exhale from the audience. Then another.

And suddenly—applause exploded. Cheers, whistles, and wild roars erupted through the crowd like a storm. Dan Heng rose from the ground and gave a composed bow, disappearing calmly into the wings—where he was immediately swept into a hug.

Stelle was practically glowing, bouncing on her feet from the adrenaline—more potent than any cider.

"We did it, Dan Heng!" she squealed, hugging him like a stuffed toy. "I'm sorry about what I had to do! I didn't mean it!"

He exhaled—low and deep, and the sound hummed through her chest like a tuning fork. Then, a soft, barely-there chuckle.

The corners of his mouth lifted.

He hugged her back, light and gentle. His hand moved comfortingly across her back.

"Good job," he said.

But Stelle had no idea that, from the other side of the curtain, someone had been watching. Looking anything but charmed by the scenery.

***

After their performance, watching the rest became a real pleasure. Those who had already gone on were allowed to leave the tents and watch the stage properly. And it truly felt like another dimension—now they could see everything in full, not just from the side. And the pairs, to their credit, continued to impress. Stelle found herself genuinely surprised by some of them, though their creativity also nudged her growing insecurity.

There was one act—two women. One, a maid all in black, huddled and scowling with a bucket and rag. The other, in a tattered evening gown as though just risen from the grave, shone like she was at a ball—her resurrected mistress. She demanded wine, flattery, and attention while the maid dutifully scrubbed death off her. In the end, the maid declared, "I've scrubbed your house for ten years—it was dreadfully dull. But these last three days since you died? Best time of my life." Then she kissed her mistress on the cheek—and the two walked offstage into the sunset.

…Chaotic but effective.

Another act: a bureaucrat of the underworld and his newly deceased intern. One had glasses, a folder, and a feathered pen. The other—draped in a sack labeled "Alive?"—scurried across the stage, begging to stop the onboarding interview.

"You died in a crosswalk. Now: thirteen questions, three copies, two forms, and a stamp from the Infernal Secretary."

"Please, can I just go to Hell already?"

"Of course. In that case, fill out Form No. 666, get it notarized by the Head of Underworld Recruitment, bring a copy of your birth certificate, ID code, and two signature samples."

Apparently, this was Hell.

So profound.

Another pair? An Eye and a Finger. That was it. The Eye ran across the stage. The Finger poked it. Finale? The Finger "blinded" the Eye. Maybe they were simply too intellectually avant-garde for the common mind.

And who could forget… the Tooth Fairy and the Tax Inspector. She—a glittering little sprite with a sack of teeth. He—strict and solemn, demanding forms, percentages, income declarations. In the end, she handed him an oversized fang.

Then came the moment Stelle had both anticipated and dreaded. The final pair… but worse, it was them. Their main competition. Losing to them? That would be unbearable. This was it. Her heart was thudding with anxious tension.

She told herself it had nothing to do with Ace. Nothing to do with the fact that he was about to take the stage with March. Nope. Completely unrelated.

She stood beside Dan Heng, and their eyes met. His presence, calm and steady, always brought her a sense of grounding. By now, it was instinctual—when anxious, she sought him out.

And yet, her heart skipped a beat, and her stomach twisted the moment the second announcer spoke in a grand, resounding tone:

"And now, the final note of tonight's festival, pair number fifteen. I feel the gothic passion just reading their names—Midnight Witch and her Cursed Beloved… the Vampire."

A wave of thunderous applause broke out. The crowd was surging with excitement—it was the finale, after all. Of course, her theory held true: the last pair always got the loudest reaction and stayed most vivid in the memory.

From sheer tension, Stelle clutched her beloved raccoon plush even tighter—by now, it had become a part of her, the sole witness to all her emotional turmoil.

Suddenly, the lights went out—only the pale glow of lanterns behind the stage remained. Stelle's eyebrows arched upward, and she blinked in confusion.

Then—footsteps. No, not footsteps… dragging.

Three figures in hooded cloaks wheeled something onto the stage: a coffin. Massive, carved from wood. They set it in the center, clearly on a slanted platform so that not just the front but the lid itself was visible to the crowd. Then, in eerie synchronization, the assistants slipped off the stage and vanished.

Where the hell did they get a coffin?!

Stelle's eyes went wide as saucers. She turned to Dan Heng to make sure she wasn't hallucinating. Judging by the sharp furrow between his brows, it was all too real. Her anxiety only deepened—just how far had they prepared for this?

The sharp clack of heels echoed across the wooden stage. In the silence, each step rang like a drumbeat.

March emerged—wearing her elegant witch's gown, this time without her broom, but holding a small vial of dark red liquid. Her face, half-shadowed by the brim of her dramatic hat, looked grave.

Slowly, with unnerving grace, she sank to her knees before the coffin, bowing as if before an altar. Her voice wasn't loud, but it cut through the quiet. And Stelle barely recognized it—so deep and solemn:

"I loved you. Foolishly. Obsessively. Hopelessly. Too much."

March paused and let out a bitter chuckle.

"And you? You loved everyone… except me."

She ran a single fingertip across the lid of the coffin. A soft click sounded.

The coffin opened.

He was lying there.

Still. Pale. Beautiful like a statue. Lips slightly parted. Hat covering the upper half of his face. A collective gasp swept through the crowd. Stelle swore she had seen many of them holding back a squeal; some blushed, and some whispered something about this man's hotness. Stelle rolled her eyes almost too hard.

March brushed a finger across his cheekbone—barely touching it.

"You chose death. Even that… was preferable to loving me."

She swirled the potion in her hand, its contents thick and shimmering.

"You know what happens to those who reject my gifts?" she whispered, a chilling smile curling on her lips. "They receive them… by force."

She uncorked the vial.

And then—drank it. The whole thing.

Stelle's brows creased sharply. She didn't like where this was going. Her poor raccoon plush bore the full brunt of her grip.

March leaned in close. Her hat obscured what was happening behind it—but the implication was clear: she was pouring the potion into his mouth.

Gasps erupted from the audience. And for Stelle, those endless seconds of the "potion-sharing" felt unbearable. Worst of all? She wasn't sure if they had actually kissed. It wouldn't mean a thing to Ace—he'd kissed her once, hadn't he? That same detachment, that same practiced charm…

A sickly, bitter feeling swept through her chest and throat. She tried to swallow it down—no use. Her lips tightened into a thin line.

March drew back. On Ace's lips remained dark red stains. Stelle's heart plummeted.

Did that mean…?

Sure, it could've been fake, a trick of lighting, makeup, or clever acting—but for some reason, the unease in her stomach only grew stronger.

The young man's body jerked.

He shot upright—so fast, like a beast erupting from the grave—and his hat conveniently slid right into place over his face. The angle of his head made it impossible to read his expression… but the butterflies in Stelle's stomach didn't seem to care.

A startled scream burst from someone in the crowd.

Ace gasped for breath—ragged, broken inhales, his hands trembling. He lifted his gaze to March, and his voice came out colder than a midwinter wind.

"You…" he rasped. His hand wiped at his mouth—and then he saw the blood on his lips. "What did you do?"

But the witch only smiled. Softly. So tenderly, it bordered on madness.

"I gave you what you feared most," she said. "Life. With a piece of me inside you—forever."

He grabbed her wrist without warning. A sharp yank.

The coffin slammed shut behind them, and March was flung backward onto the lid. The newly awakened vampire loomed over her, one hand smacking the wood beside her head. And she? She gazed up at him in something like bliss. That smile on her face shone like twisted starlight.

"I hate you," he growled.

"And I…" She traced her fingers along his lips. "Adore you."

He bared his teeth. A single second—and then he bit down into the witch's neck.

Hard.

Greedy.

It wasn't just a bite—it was punishment. A gift. A curse.

March gasped—a sharp cry. Of pain? Of pleasure? Her body arched beneath him, fingers digging into his shoulders. Her hat tumbled from her head.

A wave of loud gasps ran through the audience. From Stelle's perspective, she saw how the girls either hid their faces in embarrassment or gaped with flushed faces like they already put themselves in March's place and were delighted by it.

However, the raccoon girl felt utterly sick.

Disgust curdled in her chest, but she couldn't look away. Her lip curled involuntarily—she wanted to turn her head, needed to—but her eyes stayed locked on the scene, wide with morbid fixation.

It probably lasted only a few seconds.

But for the raccoon girl, it felt like an eternity.

She didn't breathe again until Ace finally pulled back, panting. That's when she—and the audience—saw the blood.

March's neck was crimson, two distinct puncture marks glistening. Stelle hadn't even realized she'd gasped aloud. Others in the audience echoed her shock.

Ace wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

And March, utterly enraptured, whispered:

"Now you're mine. Forever."

The vampire looked at her.

Still.

Then… that smile.

That cold, disdainful smile that stole the breath from the room.

Without a word, he grabbed her—

—and threw her back into the coffin.

The lid slammed shut.

The crowd froze. Ace stood over the coffin, eyes burning with ice. Then—he scoffed. A single, dismissive laugh, sharp as a blade. Without even glancing back, he turned on his heel, adjusted his gloves, and strode off the stage.

"Then, for the rest of my eternal life," he called over his shoulder, "I'll make sure yours is nothing but suffering."

He left behind nothing but silence.

And a coffin, inside which the witch was still faintly moving.

No one dared to breathe. The tension in the air was thick and suffocating, the audience locked in a collective stillness, their eyes wide. Stelle wasn't an exception—her heart was beating fast, too fast, and her mind was spinning with emotions she couldn't name.

Then—one person clapped.

Then another. A third.

And suddenly, the entire audience erupted into thunderous applause, louder and longer than anything that had come before. Cheers, whistles, even shouts. The ovation roared so loudly it made Stelle want to cover her ears.

Stelle didn't clap.

She stood perfectly still, face unreadable.

It was Dan Heng's hand on her shoulder that finally pulled her back to reality. He leaned in close and muttered in her ear:

"That's no good. For everyone other participant."

Stelle frowned, nodded stiffly, and whispered back:

"They went last! Of course, they did. Damn it—where did they even get all that equipment? And the helpers?!"

As if summoned by the thought, those same cloaked assistants silently carried the coffin offstage. The lights returned to normal.

The performances were over.

Now came the most nerve-wracking part of all.

A new figure stepped out onto the stage—the second announcer, a man with a massive pumpkin for a head. Ah, it was him—the one who'd cut the ribbon at the opening!

The crowd was still clapping and only began to quiet down when the host raised one hand in a call for silence.

"That was something!" he cried. "Chills down my spine—my pumpkin almost burst from the heat on stage! I'm still steaming!"

He flailed his arms dramatically, fanning himself.

Then came the unmistakable chime of a bell. A tap of a cane.

The flamboyant announcer returned, now completely adorned in webs and spiders—not just on his face but down his entire ensemble. Where did he even find all these props?

He stepped forward and stretched out his arms theatrically.

"The great night of shadows and passions reaches its peak… All who bared their faces, bodies, and… innards on this stage—know this: you are forever etched in the book of nightmares. None of you can hide. None of you…"

"…will leave without judgment!" the second host chimed in cheerfully, bumping his pumpkin head to the side like a wink.

"Ladies, gentlemen, spirits, pumpkins, witches, prey and predators! The competition has officially ended!"

He spread his arms wide, brimming with energy.

"We'll now take a short break to… deliberate a few things. Believe me, the esteemed judges have plenty to argue about!"

"Watching your meat-fueled spectacle…" the extravagant announcer purred again, "…were three beings whose judgment knows no age."

"First," he intoned, "last year's queen of horror and allure."

"Second—none other than the Lord of Needle and Lace, whose atelier spins its web across the land."

"And lastly…" he paused dramatically, almost whispering, "…the actor of the Gabrielle Wood Theater. And perhaps… not entirely human."

"After the break, we'll reveal the nominees and award the titles," the pumpkin-headed man announcer encouraged. "So don't go running off to your dungeons, woods, or crypts just yet. Come back—it's going to be… scarily delightful!"

They bowed in perfect sync.

And the lights went out once again.

Stelle took a deep breath, only now realizing how long she'd been holding it.

"I never would've thought they'd go all out like that…" she muttered in a hollow voice. "Well, of course! If I had a limitless wallet on me, maybe I'd have come up with something like that too."

She scoffed and rolled her eyes.

Dan Heng nodded. "They had more time to prepare than anyone. Makes sense now why they registered so late. I'll admit—it caught me off guard, too."

"I'm afraid no one else stands a chance," Stelle added bitterly. "Did you see the way all those girls were looking at him? Like they'd already stripped him down and married him in their heads."

Dan Heng frowned, folding his arms. "Unfortunately, that's true. March was right. However, perhaps that is for the best. She might finally calm down if she wins this once. At least we won't have to listen to her complain about how unfair everything was for the rest of the night."

Stelle let out a dry chuckle. No use arguing—it was the truth. March really had been right.

The girl could no longer deny the obvious: Ace knew how to present himself. He was perfectly aware of the effect he had on people, especially women, and he wielded that charm like a well-honed blade. Every move was calculated. Every smile, every adjusted tilt of his hat—it was all deliberate.

His charisma was undeniable. Damn him to the Abyss, the devil! It just wasn't fair!

If her tail were real, it would've been lashing behind her like a furious cat.

Suddenly—a bright, striking voice rang out.

"Sweetie Ray! Danny-Honey! There you are!"

Stelle jumped in place, heart nearly stopping. She spun around on her heel, blinking as March practically skipped toward them, holding out multiple cups of cider with a victorious grin.

"Here! For you two. You earned it!"

Ray and Dan Heng exchanged a glance, then each reached for a drink. Stelle gave a small nod of thanks, a tired smile tugging at her lips.

"You scared me to death just now! But thanks. I didn't think you'd already had time to grab more cider—you guys just finished performing…"

March winked, beaming. "You underestimate my power. I was counting the minutes till we went up just so I could finally drink again. Oh, thank the stars!"

To prove her point, she took a long gulp from her cup and let out a loud, satisfied "Ahhh!" Stelle couldn't help smiling—despite everything, March's over-the-top energy never failed to lighten the mood.

A shadow appeared behind March, slow and deliberate.

Even without seeing his face, Stelle felt it in her stomach before she saw him. The brim of his hat still hid most of his features, but he stepped closer—and only then tilted the hat up just enough for their eyes to meet through his tinted glasses.

Her breath hitched.

She looked away quickly, cheeks flushing like she'd been caught red-handed.

"Ohhh, and here comes our vampire!" March cooed, leaning her elbow against Ace a little too casually—but it was March, after all. "Now spill it, guys—you liked our performance, didn't you? I poured all my incredible acting talent into that!"

Dan Heng didn't hesitate.

"Not bad. Rating elevated by strategic use of props, closing slot in the lineup, and passable acting. It would've been better if you, March, showed more facial expression—your hat got in the way. And as for him…" he said it like this him wasn't even there, not sparing him a glance, "…well-calculated use of feminine fantasy triggers. Favorable appearance for that purpose. Realistic special effects, especially the blood and bite marks."

The bite marks were gone now—wiped clean.

March grinned devilishly. "For you, Dan Heng, that was practically a monologue. I expected you to grunt twice and call it a day. I knew you'd enjoy it."

Dan Heng rolled his eyes. "I never said I liked it. I merely gave an objective analysis and presented the data. Don't flatter yourself."

March snorted, still grinning. She knew Dan Heng too well—his clinical breakdown had, in his own roundabout way, been praise. Stelle, on the other hand, remained silent. She had no interest in dredging up memories of that damn scene. Not now.

Instead of teasing, March switched gears, her voice high and delighted:

"You guys really surprised me with your performance! So unexpectedly steamy. My dear Ray…" Her lashes fluttered as she looked at the gray-haired girl with faux innocence. "Like a playful little kitten. And that bite, hmm?"

The way she said it painted the entire skit in a far more scandalous light than intended.

Stelle flushed and took a long sip of cider, hoping the alcohol would calm her nerves—it was wearing off, and that was not ideal.

"It was hard trying to make our costumes work together," she explained, her tone clipped and a bit embarrassed. "Making me the victim would've been too obvious and boring, so we threw together the idea of a sly raccoon tricking the mighty dragon. As silly as that sounds. And the ending part…"

She lowered her voice, trying to pull her hood further down—it didn't budge.

"…That was improvisation. For dramatic effect. And I guess it… worked."

"It was painful, actually," Dan Heng added dryly.

Stelle gave him an apologetic chuckle.

All the while, Ace stood silently, unreadable. The corners of his lips were slightly curved—not quite a smile, not quite neutral. Then, with a quiet hum and narrowed eyes, he finally spoke:

"So our plushy raccoon turned out to have fangs. Though if you were aiming for terrifying, you might've missed the mark."

Was that a compliment or a dig?

Stelle shrugged, glancing at him briefly before staring into her cider.

"As you can see, I'm not so plushy after all. Turns out we both have fangs. So be careful."

March snorted again—if that was a threat, it was the softest one she'd ever heard. But on Ace's lips, a real smile finally formed—something more sincere than before.

"Utterly terrifying, Lady Raccoon. I beg mercy for all my past sins—just don't eat me."

Stelle's lips twitched. Her gaze flicked toward him, and for a moment, the irritation she'd felt earlier seemed to melt away. Cider's doing? Probably.

"If you behave," she replied with a sly smile, "you'll be eaten quickly and painlessly."

There was a pause. Ace tilted his head, lashes low, eyes narrowing with that signature gleam. His voice dropped—velvety, indulgent, just a little too smooth:

"And what if I'd prefer it… slow and indulgent, oh fearsome mistress?"

It slid over her ears like syrup. Sweet and dangerous.

And... It almost sounded like it had a second meaning.

Or was that just my cursed imagination?

She avoided answering. Instead, she took another, much larger sip of cider. Thinking? Bad idea. Very bad idea.

March, pleased as a cat basking in the sun took another sip of her beloved drink. She plopped down onto a conveniently placed wooden crate, elegantly crossed her legs, and released a theatrical sigh like a great actress after a performance. Her broom leaned lazily against the box.

"You guys did well, but no offense—ours was way more spectacular. And no wonder! It was genius, even though we didn't plan the ending. Ace improvised, and even I didn't expect to end up in the coffin. By the way, it was actually cozy in there. Why is it socially unacceptable to just sleep in coffins? Think about it—a comfortable bed during life, no sunlight ever gets in the way, and after death, you're already in it. Efficient!"

Stelle didn't even blink at March's self-confidence. At this point, it was impossible to deny the obvious. And really, confidence wasn't a crime—part of her even wished she could borrow a bit of it. As for the coffin… okay, sure, it sounded stupid at first, but when you thought about it… it did make a weird kind of sense. Was the cider turning March into an innovator?

The pink-haired girl continued, thrilled to have such a loyal audience.

"Did you see it? Did you see how I entered, how I moved? My witchy, dark allure?"

She pressed a hand to her chest like she was trying to calm a racing heart, sighing dreamily in admiration of herself.

"I lived that role. A true witch! Cursed, heartbroken, unhinged—perfection."

"…Unhinged, that part I believe," Dan Heng muttered.

March either didn't hear or decided to ignore him. Instead, she gestured toward Ace.

"And then he threw me on the coffin and bit me—did you see the audience's faces? I almost broke character from laughing! Come on, wasn't it, like, super-duper-terrifyingly hot? Ugh, I still get chills just thinking about it!" Her cheeks flushed, eyes fluttering shut. She clearly wasn't joking.

Stelle gave a crooked smile. Dan Heng wore his usual stone-faced expression.

Ace observed with that familiar, lazy half-smile. He turned to March and said calmly, "I admit, you performed well. At times—perhaps a little too well."

Stelle took another sip and exhaled thoughtfully.

"Yeah… well enough that now your groans, the coffin, fangs, and your blood on his lips will probably haunt my nightmares."

March turned to her with a bright, innocent smile, tilting her head.

"All for the sake of victory! Now everyone's seen it—the stage is my domain! And thank goodness there's an actor on the panel. Maybe he'll put in a good word for me, and I'll become a famous, professional actress!"

She proudly raised her chin to the heavens.

"I can't imagine what genre of actress you could be if they hired you for your moaning," Dan Han said quietly again. This time, he really hit a nerve.

March poked him with her finger, flaring up:

"You! Watch out so you don't get invited there when my broomstick finds its way into your private parts."

The dark-haired boy didn't look the least bit frightened. He simply shrugged.

"I didn't say anything inappropriate. Everybody judges according to his own flaws."

"You're this close to becoming a golf ball, I swear. One swing, and you'll land straight in the dormitory," March growled, eyes narrowing like a predator sizing up prey.

Dan Heng went quiet—whether from genuine concern or because he realized resistance was futile, no one could tell.

Satisfied with her victory, March beamed triumphantly and gave a curt nod. Her threatening expression immediately dissolved into something far more casual.

"But seriously, now, I'm curious who's actually going to win. There were so many performances, and a few were really good. I especially liked the maid with her resurrected mistress—and that chicken with the werewolf? Iconic."

"I preferred the Bureaucrat of Hell," Dan Heng replied, now fully recovered from the "terrifying threat." "For the first time, I truly felt death wasn't the worst outcome."

Stelle nodded fervently.

"Absolutely. I'd definitely take death over spending eternity in a coffin with a vampire."

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a familiar smirk tug at said vampire's lips. She didn't need to see his eyes to know they were sparkling with amusement.

March giggled, drawing out a playful "Mmm…" A sly grin danced across her face.

"Sweetie Ray, are you jealous? Or just mocking us? Feels like a cocktail of both~."

Stelle froze, looking at her friend like she'd just sprouted a second head. Her lips curled into a wry smirk, but her eyes stayed cold.

Instead of dignifying that ridiculous question with an answer—of course, she wasn't jealous of some poker-addicted playboy she'd only met twice—she turned toward the stage, where the lanterns had begun to flicker. A sign. Something was about to happen.

Right on cue, the distant sound of a bell echoed from behind the curtain.

Someone in the crowd murmured, "Looks like it's starting…"

March shot upright. Thank god she'd already finished her cider—otherwise, it would've gone flying. Her eyes sparkled like stars in a midnight sky, and she practically bounced in place.

"OH! This is it, this is it! The big moment! Come on, we have to move closer. I need to hear them say it clearly—me and my vampire crowned King and Queen of the Night!"

She said it with such absolute confidence like it was already an undisputed fact of the universe. Without waiting, she pranced off toward the stage, waving at them to follow.

Stelle and Dan Heng exchanged a look—matching expressions of tired exasperation.

The crowd thickened around the stage faster than the raccoon girl expected. But of course, March was already carving a path right to the front with the energy of someone who had caffeine, adrenaline, and raw ambition pumping through her veins instead of blood. The others followed close behind—Stelle, Dan Heng, and Ace, who looked like he couldn't care less about the outcome but was thoroughly enjoying the spectacle, the way a seasoned actor might enjoy someone else's play. To him, this contest was nothing more than a passing amusement.

The air buzzed with anticipation. People whispered, muttered, bickered, and even took bets. Many clutched snacks and cider cups. Contestants stood out amidst the sea of costumes—some looking like they were on the verge of fainting from excitement, others as calm as if waiting for a food truck, and a few so heavily disguised it was impossible to guess what they felt at all.

Then—light.

The stage burst into brilliance like the flash of a camera, momentarily blinding the crowd. Music was sliced off mid-note as if someone had cut its throat. The crowd's murmur melted into a collective hush.

Out from the swirls of artificial smoke came the host, moving with calculated theatricality as though born in a trunk of opera costumes. This time, he wore a raven-feathered coat, his face hidden behind a mask veiled with silver threads that shimmered like spider tears.

He stepped forward, tapping his bone cane against the wood. His voice—deep as an old phonograph echoing from a forgotten basement—rippled through the square.

"Oh, do you feel it… that scent in the air?" He inhaled, eyes fluttering as if he had truly caught the aroma of suspense. "The perfume of nerves, ambition… and sweaty palms. Delicious."

The audience chuckled—some with nervous snorts, others with outright laughter. The host extended a hand as though casting a web of inspiration over the crowd, continuing:

"You've waited… oh, how you've waited. Like hungry vampires locked out of the wine cellar."

March jabbed Ace in the ribs with her elbow, hissing under her breath like they'd just announced him the winner. Ace didn't flinch. Arms crossed, that strange little smile still lingered on his face. He watched the stage like he already knew what was coming and was simply playing along.

"And now," the host went on, voice dipping low and velvety, "we come to that glorious second—when we finally learn who shall be crowned the King and Queen of the Night… and who will have to console themselves with gallons of cider."

Right on cue, the pumpkin-headed assistant reappeared from the wings—this time with unsettlingly realistic glass eyes embedded in his gourd. He bounded onto the stage with an exaggerated, bouncy gait, arms flailing like a conjurer summoning thunder.

"And now, ladies and gentlemen, monsters and marvels! The moment is upon us! The judges have finished their vicious debates, bitten off the final chunks of each other—and are ready to reveal their verdict!" he bellowed, with all the glee of a school bell ringing at the start of summer break.

The host in the feathered hat spoke again—quieter this time, with a hushed gravity that made everyone instinctively lean in, ears straining.

"Let the night hold its breath in anticipation. Let even the shadows fall silent… for now, we unveil the names of the unholy few deemed worthy of fear, glory… and perhaps a chocolate medal."

The pumpkin-headed assistant clutched his chest dramatically and nodded with exaggerated solemnity:

"Nominations! Oh yes, dear monsters, it's not only the royal court we shall crown! There will also be… honorary horrors! The funniest! The weirdest! The most bewitching!"

The crowd erupted. Some cheered with delight. Some squealed in anxiety. And a few simply hiccuped—courtesy of too much cider.

The four of them stood at the edge of the stage, breath held tight. Or at least, three of them did—Ace looked perfectly at ease, as though this were all a scripted performance he'd seen a dozen times before. Stelle, on the other hand, felt her heart thrumming painfully against her ribs, fingers tingling, a dry knot wedged in her throat.

The moment of truth. And even if the outcome already seemed obvious… she and Dan Heng had to land some kind of nomination. To walk away with nothing while March and Ace took it all? Unbearable. Her teeth sank into her lower lip—nearly drawing blood.

"Don't worry so much, little raccoon," came a low voice by her ear.

She practically jumped out of her skin. Of course, it was the card shark—appearing out of nowhere like a ghost with a talent for jump scares. The gambler's tone was casual, too smooth to be sincere.

"I'm sure your savage little performance won't go unappreciated. If there's a prize for the cutest monster, that one's all yours."

Heat flushed across her cheeks.

Is… Is he actually trying to comfort me? But why? What does he gain from that?

Clutching her plush raccoon tighter, she risked a quick glance at him. Of course, the lamp light bounced off his glasses, shielding his eyes like always. Not fair!

"It's easy for you to say…" she muttered, pouting. "Hope you've already figured out how to strap a crown over that ridiculous hat."

A low chuckle escaped him, that infuriating smirk gleaming brighter than it had any right to. Only now did Ray realize how completely blind she'd been earlier—how had she missed those fangs? How the hell had he made them look so real?

"You'll be my favorite little beast in the royal menagerie," he teased.

Stelle scowled, narrowing her eyes with mock menace.

"I'll scratch your face off before I let you lock me in any cage," she snapped, sticking her tongue out before turning on her heel with dramatic flair.

But even with her back turned, she felt his smug eyes boring into her. Damn it—how did he have the audacity to flirt with everything that moved?

Up on stage, both hosts struck a synchronized, exaggerated pose—arms spread wide, like crows ready to take flight. The lights dimmed slightly, cloaking their faces in a veil of theatrical shadow.

Somewhere in the crowd, someone choked on a gingerbread cookie.

"And so..." the spider-clad host intoned like a necromancer casting a spell, "before we name the two who will be immortalized upon the pumpkin throne of glory…"

"…we absolutely mustn't forget our other beloved nightmares!" the pumpkin-headed assistant chirped, twirling dramatically. "So, give it up for our honorary, respected, mildly terrifying, and entirely incorruptible jury!"

Fanfare blared as three figures stepped onto the stage—each one looking as though they belonged to a different universe.

First came a woman with the posture of a queen and a gown made of black petals that shimmered like feathers. Her lips were wine-red, her nails like talons—last year's crowned Queen of Horror and Allure, as the host had introduced. Her wave was majestic, nearly regal. Somewhere in the crowd, someone let out an admiring whistle—promptly smacked upside the head by his wife. Deserved.

Second followed a tall, slender man in a tailcoat of lace and silver. His face was half-concealed by a delicate mask, and in one ear sparkled a diamond spider-shaped earring. He bowed with the fluid grace of someone who'd stitched his soul into velvet. The Lord of Lace, the couturier from hell.

And finally, the third… looked almost normal. Black cloak, tidy gloves, a blank, glassy stare. But the moment he smiled—radiant and calculated—Stelle felt it in her spine. Of course, he was the actor of the Gabrielle Wood Theater, the perfect representation.

None of them spoke. They simply took their places at the side of the stage like a ghostly pantheon, ready to pass judgment on humanity.

"Well then…" the dramatic host began again, dragging out the suspense, "let's not tug the spider by its web any longer! Let's begin with tonight's most absurd, most bizarre pair!"

"The nomination that gave our minds a migraine, made logic trip on its own feet, and sent psychiatrists into quiet existential despair!" the pumpkin assistant chimed in, whacking the side of his pumpkin head for flair.

The audience buzzed, whispers swirling as everyone tried to guess.

"This is where we'd insert a drumroll… but we blew the budget on glitter," the pumpkin-man added, sparking another wave of laughter.

"And so, the winners are…"

Silence fell like a shroud. God, the hosts loved these drawn-out pauses.

"…Pair Number Thirteen!"

"Eye and Finger!" the hosts cried in unison.

The crowd erupted into applause, whistles, and laughter. Somewhere near the center, a giant costumed eye bounced up in excitement—only to bonk into a looming foam Finger. The two embraced. Awkwardly. Slightly disturbingly.

Stelle's own eye started hurting from the inside. That… that was going to haunt her dreams.

"Absolutely incomprehensible, yet sheer genius!" proclaimed the couturier from the jury, theatrically dabbing a tear with a lace-edged handkerchief.

It was indeed a unique spectacle—watching Eye and Finger ascend the stage, clutching a clown-shaped statuette. Even more surreal was the way they awkwardly hugged every person they came across on stage, one blink at a time.

The next pause dragged longer. The host scanned the crowd as though searching for someone to devour with a single look.

"The nomination we feared to vote on," he intoned. "The most terrifying performance of the evening. One that drove infants to prematurely gray tantrums, adults to sudden confessions, and caused our resident actor's lashes to tremble with dread."

Stelle exchanged intrigued glances with her companions. Honestly, most acts weren't exactly scary—they were more funny or impressive. Still… she could think of one that gave her goosebumps.

And right on cue:

"Pair Number… One!" the hosts declared in unison.

"The Blind Diviner and the She-Devil!" added the spider-suited emcee with a dramatic gasp.

The crowd erupted—some applauding with enthusiasm, others squealing nervously at the memory of those vacant, ghost-white eyes set in that pale, haunted face. The victors emerged: the young man bearing his crystal ball like a cursed relic and the grinning demoness at his side flashing fangs and claws. They claimed a statuette shaped like a screaming man. The devil girl blew the crowd a kiss with her clawed hand. Her partner walked without reacting—perhaps he really was blind. That… would explain a lot.

Stelle nodded in approval—no one else really came close in the fear factor category.

"Mastery of atmosphere, dramatic tension, and theatrical restraint!" the actor juror declared with reverent breathlessness. "Her 'Say it… or die' line is nominated for a recurring role in my future nightmares."

The hosts gave the crowd a moment to recover before moving to the third award.

"And now…" the spider-draped host announced with a crack of his bone cane, "the final category before we crown the dark royalty of this accursed evening!"

The pumpkin-headed assistant leaped in:

"Our couturier and actor nearly came to blows over the winner—only the Queen of Horror's intervention spared us a blood-splattered runway!"

"Best Costume!" the spider host thundered.

Another pause. Another breath held in anticipation.

There were too many contenders for this one—Stelle's mind instantly flared with vibrant images. Really, nearly every pair could've claimed a rightful place in this category. No wonder it had sparked such a heated debate. Frankly, it was a miracle no one walked away with a black eye. Then again… maybe that's why the couturier was wearing a half-mask.

Hmmm…

"The final decision came down to aesthetic and atmosphere," the assistant explained, spinning theatrically in place. "Every costume was unforgettable, but this one—this one enchanted the very soul of the person whose second name is Style. And so, the winner is..."

A hush rippled through the crowd.

"The participant from Pair Nine! The dragon with tranquil danger. The ruler who fell before the raccoon…"

Stelle's eyes widened. She flinched slightly and glanced at her partner.

"…The Majestic Dragon Imbibitor Lunae! Congratulations!"

The reaction was… explosive. No one had expected the award to go there—but once the surprise passed, the applause rose in force across the square. Even Dan Heng blinked, raising his eyebrows slightly as he exchanged glances with the group.

March froze, fluttering her lashes like she'd just seen a ghost. Stelle clapped in shock, then immediately stopped herself. Ace let out a dry chuckle—whether in approval or inevitability, it was hard to say.

Dan Heng ascended the stage with enviable calm as if he were simply stopping by to pick up a letter. He bowed modestly as the couturier handed him a statuette shaped like threads and crossed silver needles.

"Perfect harmony of East Asian silhouette, symbolism, and textile," declared the couturier dramatically, hand to chest. "A vision! I was transported to my younger years, spent in jade qipaos with a divine Chinese beauty! I nearly embroidered myself a new soul out of sheer ecstasy!"

The actor beside him stood sullenly, one eye twitching.

The crowd didn't settle for a while—some clapped, some grumbled, others still tried to process how this reserved man had outshone so many dazzling contenders. The couturier quietly dabbed his eyes with a monogrammed handkerchief.

When Dan Heng returned to the group, Stelle greeted him with a sincere smile. March squealed and threw her arms around him in delight, squeaking how proud she was.

Dan Heng winced. "You reek of cider." A sweet moment narrowly avoided turning violent.

Stelle's golden eyes were warm with pride. She truly believed he deserved the win—his costume was exquisite in every detail, and the way the horns and tail completed the look? Flawless.

At last, they'd secured a title—and a great one at that. It wouldn't be as humiliating now, whatever came next. Stelle could finally let herself enjoy the rest of the show—be happy for March and… well, accept that competing with Ace was a fool's errand.

Onstage, silence fell once more.

The main host stepped forward, and the lighting shifted—subtly cooler, more solemn. His voice dropped low, deliberate.

"And now…" he exhaled with all the gravity of a necromancer about to raise a long-dead king, "…at last… the most important moment of the night approaches. The reason you came, dressed, danced, suffered in wigs and corsets…"

He stepped forward again—the stage warming with golden tones as if leaning in.

"It is time to name… the King and Queen of the Night."

The crowd released a sound somewhere between a gasp and a collective moan of delight. Someone screamed. Someone clutched their neighbor's sleeve. Someone started muttering prayers—just in case.

The music swelled behind the voices—smoky, haunting, violins rising with trembling tension and a thunderous drumbeat beneath.

"Two titles. Two symbols," the second host stepped forward, beaming. "One for the one who stunned with charm, style, presence, aesthetic, and undeniable magnetism—"

"—and the other," added the host in the hat, hands clasped behind his back, "for the one whose presence on stage was a spell in itself. Who seized the crowd from the first second and didn't release them until the final breath."

The crowd exploded in cheers. Applause echoed off every corner of the square. Stelle's heart was pounding mercilessly; her palms were slick with sweat. March bounced up and down, clutching the gambler's arm, squealing, "That's us! That's us!"

Ace wore a smile—subtle, sharp. Less joyful than calculated. Almost sly.

"The judges debated long and hard," added the pumpkin-headed assistant. "We're talking creaking chairs, threats to tear each other's wigs off, real chaos—"

"But… the decision has been made."

A hush fell.

Heavy. Viscous. Not a breath stirred.

Even the rowdiest guests held still now, hanging on that precipice. Stelle was sure everyone could hear the frantic drumming in her chest.

And then—

The main host slowly raised a hand into the air. His voice dropped to a near-whisper, the kind that slid down your spine like silk dipped in ice:

"The King of the Night... is..."

Every breath stilled. Hearts poised on tightropes.

"...The Cursed Lover of the Witch turned into a vampire against his will. A tragedy mixed with infernal passion. A drama that tugged at the most delicate strings of the soul..."

"…The Vampire from Pair Fifteen!" the hosts announced together—and the square erupted.

Cheers. Whistles. Wild applause. Someone leaped into the air. Someone else cried.

The pressure released in a crashing wave—this was what they'd all expected.

Ace, naturally, didn't look even remotely surprised. That lazy, barely-there smile tugged at his lips, and he gave only a faint tilt of the head as though acknowledging the inevitable.

March screamed with delight, clutching his arm and tugging him toward the stage with giddy urgency, nearly running ahead. She was already waving to the crowd, blowing exaggerated kisses, a tear of triumph glittering in her eye.

A few lazy steps—and the blond was already on stage. The judges watched him with approving smiles, nodding one by one, and last year's Queen of Horror beamed as she crowned him with a bone-crafted circlet carved in royal patterns. At its center gleamed a crimson heart dripping with sculpted blood. Ace was lucky—the crown was wide enough to sit perfectly over his hat, hugging its brim like it belonged there.

He flashed his signature grin, one hand in his pocket, and with the other, lifted his hat just slightly in gratitude—revealing those impeccable fangs. The crowd erupted. A few women—and several men—squealed. Someone shouted, "Bite me, vampire!" Another proposed on the spot. One poor soul fainted outright. Nothing out of the ordinary.

Ray wasn't surprised. Honestly, it had been inevitable from the moment he stepped on stage. No—from the moment he signed up. She would've been shocked not to hear his name. The competition had unfolded exactly as she and Dan Heng had predicted. They exchanged a dry glance and shrugged in perfect sync. Who would've doubted it?

The crowd was already shifting, anticipating the following announcement: the Queen. Of course, everyone knew who it would be. The vampire and the witch. The drama, the chemistry, the blood. Everything added up.

The hosts exchanged looks. The judges stood unusually still… no, more than that. They smiled—knowingly, slyly.

The lead host raised his bone cane, gesturing for silence.

"And now, the final title of the night… the Queen of the Night."

He paused for a long, drawn-out moment. It was too long, given how obvious the outcome seemed.

March stood right by the steps leading to the stage, grinning, nearly tripping over her own feet from excitement.

"...But!" the pumpkin-headed assistant suddenly cut in. "Don't rush! Let the judges explain. So that everyone understands that this isn't just a title. It's a statement."

The Queen of Horror stepped forward. With a single elegant motion, the crowd hushed to a near silence. She surveyed the audience like she was about to pass judgment not on a contestant—but on fate itself.

"When we deliberated…" Her voice was low and silky, with a drop of venom and velvet shadow. "…we weren't searching for the one who was just beautiful. Nor the one whose partner balanced the act perfectly. Nor the one who shone… simply because someone next to her was shining too."

A pause. A shiver rippled through the crowd.

"We searched for a jolt. A flame. Something unpredictable. We looked for the kind of presence that, when it steps onto the stage, you can't look away. Because you're afraid… and fascinated… wondering what could possibly come next. Who will break every rule you thought you knew."

March straightened where she stood, soaking in every word like sunlight. She nodded, starry-eyed as if each sentence were medicine for the soul.

The couturier stepped forward next. He raised one hand like a conductor's baton.

"Her costume wasn't extravagant. No jewels, no fake fangs, no blood-stained gowns. Only cohesion. Movement. Style." He pressed the word like a spell, reverent.

"She entered—and you knew. This was not just some girl in a mask. It was a character, whole and complete. Not a costume monster, but the embodiment of a creature—a blend of menace and magnetism."

March's smile grew broader. She practically purred with delight now.

And then—the actor stepped into the spotlight. Slowly. Purposefully.

He said nothing. Just stood there. Silent.

Waiting.

He swept his gaze across the crowd as if daring each soul to feel the weight of his stare. He even pointed at someone—whether in blame or for dramatic effect was anyone's guess. Somewhere in the audience, someone squeaked in fright.

And only then did he speak.

"I didn't want to vote for her. Not at first. She seemed too delicate. Too adorable."

A pause.

"But then… she stepped out. And sank her teeth right into the soul."

The crowd chuckled, but he didn't smile. His eyes remained fixed, unwavering.

"It wasn't a kiss. It wasn't a scream. It wasn't for show. It was… control. She owned the stage like a predator owns its prey. No wasted movement. No fear. Just precision. Purpose. Power."

He inhaled sharply—almost reverently.

"We called her the Predator of the Evening. The final vote was unanimous. Undisputed."

The stage went silent. Only the festival lanterns trembled in the wind. Everyone stood still. Stelle's heart pounded so loud it seemed to echo in her ears. Her fingers unconsciously clutched the raccoon plush tighter. She swallowed.

The first host tapped his cane on the stage. His voice was gentler now but lit with admiration.

"The Queen of tonight's Night…"

He raised his cane to the heavens. The wind whipped the hems of cloaks. The stage lights focused, holding their breath like lightning about to strike. March clenched her fists to her chest, silently pleading with every god in existence. Ace watched with a knowing smirk, almost amused.

"…the participant from Pair Number Nine. The Bold Lady Raccoon. Our enchanting Smart Paws."

Silence. One second. Two. As if even the air itself hadn't decided how to react.

Then—detonation. The crowd erupted in an explosion of noise. Clapping, cheering, gasping, whispering: "What?!" "Her?!" "Seriously?!"

Someone slipped in shock. Someone clutched their chest like they'd been stabbed. Shouts of "Justice!" and "They've lost their minds!" tangled in the chaos.

March didn't move. Her eyes had gone wide as saucers, mouth agape, brows nearly lost in her hairline. She didn't breathe. A living statue of pure disbelief.

Ace merely dipped his head, letting his hat cover his expression. His shoulders trembled—was it laughter? A grin? Hard to say.

Stelle stood frozen. It didn't register right away. The world slowed. She… what? Who? Was it her?

Her eyes were dinner-plate wide. Her lips quivered.

She hadn't even noticed when the raccoon plush slipped from her grasp—thankfully, Dan Heng caught it mid-fall. He gave her a rare, warm smile and gently nudged her forward, whispering in her ear:

"Justice served, at last."

The crowd parted before her like the sea, gawking, murmuring, watching her like she didn't belong among them.

It felt like a dream.

"Come forward, Huntress," the extravagant host called, his voice softer now, almost warm. "Your bite is already a legend. Now, all that's left—put on your crown and join your fellow predator. Only a huntress may rule beside a hunter."

Stelle trembled. She couldn't believe it. Couldn't meet March's gaze—guilt gnawed at her, though it wasn't her fault. And still, on legs like jelly, she ascended the steps and stood beside Ace.

At that moment, he was the only solid thing on a stage that felt utterly foreign. And though his gaze still burned with quiet mirth, it was the closest thing to comfort the raccoon girl had.

And then his voice slid over her skin like velvet. It sent a shiver racing down her spine when he leaned in and murmured into her ear:

"I never doubted you, my Queen."

Her heart skipped a beat. It was like waking up from a dream—she flushed instantly, eyes snapping to Ace's in stunned disbelief. But he only smirked and gave her a nod.

The crown was brought forth on a cushion of deep violet velvet. It looked as though it had been forged from darkness and sharp wit—jagged, curling spikes adorned with tiny fangs and crystals like the watchful eyes of night beasts. At its center gleamed a ruby in the shape of a spider.

How utterly perfect for Stelle. Spiders truly had become her symbol.

Each spike of the crown had a subtle notch—just enough to let it settle perfectly atop her hood as if it had been crafted specifically for the raccoon-eared Smart Paws.

The crowd erupted in applause as the Queen of Horror herself placed the crown atop her head with solemn grace. Stelle stood frozen in place, afraid to breathe too deeply lest she explode.

A crown. On her. On them. The Raccoon and the Vampire. Queen and King. What was even happening in the name of the stars?!

"And now!" roared the host with the cane, throwing his arms wide. "Bow before them—your new Rulers of the Night!"

The crowd howled. Thunderous clapping, stomping feet, wild cheers. Someone toasted them with cider. Candy wrappers rained like confetti. Someone cried. Maybe with joy. Maybe with envy.

She turned to Ace. Why, she wasn't sure—support? No, ridiculous. That gambler and the word "support" lived on opposite planets.

Then he stepped closer.

She froze.

That sly little smile again—it caught her off guard. And this time, she saw his eyes. Narrowed, gleaming. They looked straight through her, curling into her bones and tightening something deep in her gut.

I have an awful feeling about this...

And then he said, quite casually:

"Time for the encore."

Before she could even blink, his arm was around her waist—firm, unrelenting—pulling her flush against him. She forgot how to breathe. Her lungs emptied in a gasp as his warmth crashed into her, and the scent of him sent her spinning.

His breath scorched her skin.

His hair tickled her cheek.

"What are you—" she managed to whisper but didn't finish.

Because he leaned in.

And bit.

She felt the press of false fangs against the soft curve of her neck. It didn't hurt—more theatrical than anything—but his grip, his presence, his heat were overwhelming. His lips ghosted her skin, and every nerve in her body screamed. Her stomach flipped, her knees turned to mist.

Right there. On stage. In front of everyone.

Maybe the bite hadn't been real—but it looked it. Terribly real. Scandalously intimate. The girl's head tilted back reflexively, hands clutching at his shoulders. Her hood would've slipped off if not for the not-so-light crown now holding it in place.

Boom.

The entire plaza howled. No, really—exploded. Someone fainted. Someone shrieked so loudly that dogs outside the festival grounds started barking. The Queen of Horror's cider glass cracked right in her hand. The actor from the jury buried his face in both palms and rasped, "Oh God. The drama."

To say Stelle turned red would be a tragic understatement.

She went crimson from the ears—no, probably the eyes—straight down to her fingertips. She wanted to vanish into the floor. Adrenaline slammed through her like a freight train; her heart pounded like it was trying to flee her chest entirely.

"Y–You…!" she squeaked, flustered beyond reason.

Grinding her teeth, she shoved him—hard—right in the chest. Apparently, he hadn't expected that. He stumbled back a step, a flicker of surprise crossing his face. But Stelle… Stelle was furious. To pull something so brazen, so shameless, in front of everyone—and without asking?! She could strangle him.

Her glare said I will bury you where you stand. And before she could think better of it, she lunged forward—

—and bit him.

Right on the cheek.

The way she had bitten Dan Heng once. But this time, this was war, vengeance. No way he'd walk off the stage as the undisputed winner.

The crowd collectively lost their minds yet another time.

Ace's expression flickered into pure shock—then a low growl escaped his lips. But it wasn't pain.

The raccoon girl stepped back fast, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. When she saw his face—frozen, wide-eyed—her lips curled into a grin. Victory! With a triumphant giggle, she spun on her heel and bounced off the stage, waving at him cheekily over her shoulder.

He blinked once. Twice. Fingers brushing his cheek where her teeth had left their mark.

And then—

He laughed. For real. A low, delighted chuckle rolled out of him as he watched her go. Smirking now, he gave the crowd one last wink and sauntered after his Queen.

The stage was left speechless. Even the spider-laced host scratched the back of his head, having fully dropped the act. In the crowd, March looked frozen, her face screaming this has to be a dream. Dan Heng let out a deep, weary sigh, his brow furrowed.

Of course, the gambler had to pull something like that. And, of course, it had to be with Stelle. Shameless.

And above it all—thunderous applause. Real, ecstatic cheers. No one even remembered the other contestants anymore.

What remained in everyone's mind was the vampire King and the raccoon Queen.

The fiercest, most bite-happy pair of the year.

Notes:

i planned to finish the festival arc in this chapter..
... well not this time ...
im sorry, it always turns out longer than i planned XDDD

Chapter 7: The Raccoon in Glasses

Summary:

Stelle had stolen the gambler's glasses, yet still ended up being the lost one.

Notes:

i never imagined i'd ever post a chapter as long as this one!!! it has more than 30k words, i don't know how that happened. but yeah i wanted to end the 1st arc in this chapter so here you go XDD
IM SO SORRY I KEEP DOING IT

March instantly grabbed Stelle by the shoulders, her expression a strange mix of shock and seriousness. She squeezed tightly, eyes narrowed, gaze burning. The silver-haired girl was still recovering from the embarrassment on stage—but now, her concern shifted to her friend. March must've been devastated. In the end, everyone had won something—everyone but her. And they had only joined the contest because of her.

The guilt sliced right through her. Under March's gaze, she faltered.

"March, I…" Stelle began uncertainly, forcing herself not to look away even though she desperately wanted to. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to steal your moment—I swear…"

The pink-haired girl said nothing. She stared at her, gaze unreadable—was it anger? Sadness? Maybe even hurt? Stelle's mind filled in the blanks with the worst possibilities. Her heart sank, and her whole body seemed to shrink in anticipation of the scolding to come.

Then suddenly—a lump formed in her throat. March's eyes filled with tears, her grip loosened, her body trembled. Her gaze, once so sharp, softened.

"I'm so happy for you, Ray…" she whispered with a tender smile. She lunged forward and wrapped the raccoon girl in a fierce hug, swaying them side to side with a high-pitched squeal. "Of course, I wanted to be Queen. I was upset at first."

The newly crowned Queen of the Night blinked in disbelief. Like a weight had been lifted off her chest, she could finally breathe again—though March's iron grip on her ribs made that a bit more difficult.

"But the second I saw you up there—next to him—after what you did and how the judges reacted… I knew you deserved it more than me."

The little witch pulled back and raised her hand triumphantly, her grin radiant.

"All hail our Raccoon Queen!"

The people nearby caught the cheer and echoed it back, voices rising and multiplying, soon sweeping across the square. They began to chant in turns for both King and Queen. Stelle wanted to vanish and bask in the praise all at once.

She beamed and waved, shouting "Thank you!" as loudly as she could.

That's when Dan Heng joined them—standing quietly nearby. Stelle turned toward him—and flinched. He was smiling. Not just a polite twitch of the lips but a genuine smile. His eyes were warm.

Her heart skipped. Heat rushed to her cheeks. The dark-haired man's gaze, unwavering and strangely gentle, did something to her—stirred something unfamiliar.

In his arms, he still held the new member of Stelle's raccoon family. She smiled shyly and reached out for the toy, immediately hugging it close, whispering an apology for nearly losing him.

Ace had managed to sneak up on them. From behind, his teasing voice cut through the noise—recognizable instantly, no matter how many people stood around.

"So, does that make the little raccoon a prince now?"

Stelle raised an eyebrow and glanced back at him.

"Hm… Seems my baby's officially a crown prince. I'm so proud."

She played along, sniffling dramatically and pressing the plushie to her cheek. A soft chuckle from the blond made her chest bloom with warmth. Her lips curled into a quiet smile. Her heart fluttered.

"And what about me, huh? The godmother?" March huffed, nudging the plush raccoon's nose. "You have to name him, Ray! We can't keep calling him 'that raccoon' forever."

Fair point. The amber-eyed girl hummed thoughtfully, gaze drifting. A few names flashed through her mind—random objects, old words—but none felt quite right.

"What if we just call him Smart Paws?"

"Creative genius at its peak," Dan Heng deadpanned.

"Why not?" March shrugged. "Easy to remember." Then she grinned. "Perfect. The royal family is now complete. Long may they reign! Kiss the bride!"

Stelle lit up like a bonfire, snapping louder than intended:

"Hey! Don't say that!"

March smirked slyly, eyes half-lidded, and shrugged as she strolled ahead. There was nothing left to do—so the group followed her lead.

And Stelle tried desperately not to think about last night. Not when the gambler was now walking so close beside her.

Even if he wasn't looking her way.

***

They continued their festival adventure, though by now, it was much closer to its end than the beginning—a fact that didn't escape Stelle. It made her quietly ache. Still, she did everything she could to keep that ache at bay. And every time those melancholy thoughts of parting started creeping in—March, as if sensing it, offered another round of cider. And somehow, everything became lighter again. A miraculous little potion.

Conversation flowed easily now—Stelle could talk to Ace almost normally, even joke with him without flushing red every time he looked her way. However, some of his ambiguous remarks, teasing smiles, and casual touches still made her heart clench. But the feeling had shifted—less panic, more warmth. She didn't understand why. Nor did she think too hard about it anymore. She just let herself enjoy the moment.

March, meanwhile, acted like she and the gambler were lifelong friends. Not surprising—she could befriend a wall if given five minutes. Especially after their little bonding moment. The only one whose stance toward Ace hadn't shifted was Dan Heng. The two still hadn't exchanged a single word. They kept their distance—didn't even look at each other. Also unsurprising. Dan Heng was intensely private, letting only the most carefully chosen few into his inner circle. And from the start, they'd clashed like flint and steel.

Still, the festival was at its most alive now—lights, music, laughter everywhere. So much so that it was hard to know where to look, whether to stop and enjoy or press on to see more. At one point, they passed a stall advertising "cursed souvenirs," which turned out to be cheap little trinkets with festival emblems. Boring. But then, on the other side, something far more entertaining caught their attention—a scream-off.

A circle of spectators had formed around a platform where contestants took turns trying to unleash the most blood-curdling horror scream, the goal being to make the stoic judge drop his pumpkin punch.

"I think he's deaf," Dan Heng remarked flatly, watching as the man didn't so much as flinch—not once, despite the screams. If he was deaf, it was the most genius scam imaginable.

March wanted to try, but Stelle managed to drag her away by the sleeve just in time.

A few streets over, they stumbled onto something truly unsettling: an exhibit of unnatural anatomy. Inside a shadowy tent stood an array of twisted skeletons—extra limbs, skulls with third eyes, grotesquely wide jaws, distorted proportions. Far creepier than anything else they'd seen tonight. March clung to Stelle, and though she'd never admit it, Stelle clung right back, grimacing the whole time. They made a swift escape.

March immediately declared that after such stress, they definitely deserved more cider and a snack. Unfortunately, the only treats nearby were jelly molded into intestines and organs—March nearly threw up at the sight.

What did capture Ace's interest was something entirely different: an "adults-only" shadow theater. His intrigued "hmm" at the sight of the tent made Stelle raise a brow. Behind the screen, with only silhouettes and props, the actors portrayed scenes that were bawdy, grotesque, and laced with pitch-black humor.

March grimaced the entire time, mumbling something about still not being ready for adult life. Dan Heng stood expressionless as ever. But Ace and Stelle? They watched with interest. When one punchline landed—

"A dog named News found a bomb. News spread across the village instantly."

—Stelle laughed. And when the next followed—

"For a necrophile, 'till death do us part' is just the flirting phase."

—she snorted.

March gave her a wide-eyed stare of pure horror as though her friend had just grown horns. And maybe the horror was genuine.

Then came the final sketch:

"You finished inside me—what if I get pregnant?"

"Don't be ridiculous, son."

Stelle pressed her lips together, trying not to burst—but it was no use. She cracked. Ace, for his part, had a truly unfair Ace up his sleeve. He lowered his hat to hide his face, but the subtle shaking of his shoulders gave him away—he was very entertained.

March exchanged a long glance with Dan Heng, whispering:

"We shouldn't be at a festival—we need an asylum."

And for once, Dan Heng didn't argue.

For contrast, they later stopped by the Cat Theater.

Yes—an actual theater. With cats.

Tiny trained felines in costumes and performed miniature plays using puppets, all choreographed to music. The plot of the current show?

"The Mouse Seduced the Cat and Turned into Cheese."

The children were thrilled. Adults scratched their heads in confusion.

March, however, was completely enchanted. It took physical force to drag her away—and some minor wrist-locking to stop her from stealing one of the kittens. In the end, as she was pulled back down the path, she called out:

"I'll come back for you!"

Whether it was a promise or a threat, no one could say.

Another curious exhibit they stumbled across was the Confession Chair—a rickety old wooden seat perched on a small platform. A handwritten sign read:

"Sit and confess your sins."

No guards. No instructions. Yet people actually lined up, sat down… and confessed. Out loud. Personal things. Affairs. Petty theft. Secret grudges. One woman loudly admitted to stealing candy at age twelve and blamed it on her cousin.

Cider and a few whispered words—truly a potent cocktail.

But the next stop cast a quiet shadow over Stelle.

It was the Wall of Promises—"Until Next Night of Horrors."

A towering slab painted black, where people scrawled messages in chalk. Notes to themselves, to friends, or to the future:

"See you next year."

"Next time, I'll drink even more cider."

"Next time, I'm coming with a boyfriend."

March scribbled, "I will be Queen again!" with pride.

Stelle nearly lifted the chalk.

Almost.

Her fingers twitched—then pulled away. It hurt. More than she'd like to admit.

She nudged the others, gently encouraging them to move on.

Thankfully, the melancholy didn't last long. Between the cider and March's endless chatter, there wasn't a spare second left for brooding.

And then—they heard it. Music. Somewhere nearby.

Loud. Energetic. A mix of instruments. Someone singing.

Drawn to the sound, they followed it through the winding streets—until they emerged back onto the main square.

A crowd had already begun to gather beneath the towering statue of Blessed Xipe. A band was assembled at its base, musicians holding everything from guitars and portable keyboards to flutes, drums, an accordion, and even a saxophone. And that wasn't all.

One of them occasionally stepped forward to sing and call people to dance. And the festival-goers—especially those with a healthy cider buzz—didn't need to be asked twice. Within moments, the square transformed into a wild, swaying celebration.

March and Stelle stood side by side, jaws dropping in unison as they took it all in. The raccoon girl sparkled with delight—she loved music. And dancing was far from a last resort in her book. She could practically feel the heaviness from that damned Wall of Promises lifting off her chest.

"Oh my God, you guys, am I dreaming?!" March squeaked, eyes shining.

"Well?! What are we waiting for? Let's go shake those bones, my ancient darlings!"

The amber-eyed girl chuckled and gave a nod. Dan Heng was never one for dancing, but he also knew better than to waste time arguing. In the end, he'd be dragged in anyway. So, instead of protesting, he just shrugged.

He helped Stelle stash the raccoon plush—using one of his silk ribbons to tie it securely against his chest. The result? He now looked a bit like a kangaroo with a baby in his pouch. A very elegant, dragon-themed kangaroo.

Surprisingly, it was Ace who backed out.

"I think I'll pass," he said casually, arms crossed, eyes gazing off into the distance like he had somewhere far more interesting to be.

But March would not—could not—let that sort of blasphemy stand. Her expression twisted into something between a disappointed parent and a thundercloud. She marched toward him with slow, heavy steps, hands on hips, brows furrowed. She glared at him like he'd just stolen candy from a baby.

"I don't want to hear that," she declared sternly, blue eyes sharp as daggers. "I cannot believe you're refusing. You were born for dancing and drama—and now you're backing out? Seriously?"

Her pressure didn't seem to faze the blond. Ace stayed cool, his usual relaxed voice unwavering.

"That's my final answer, little witch. No offense."

March growled. Growled. Like a lioness defending her cubs. She took another step, eyes burning with challenge, like she was trying to burrow into his skull and shake his brain until it gave in.

Her voice dropped a pitch.

"You are going."

Ace's tone shifted as well—serious now, the usual playfulness fading beneath something cooler, more rigid. His face was mostly hidden behind the usual layers: the hat, the glasses, the slight tilt of his head. But no psychology degree was needed to sense the tension.

"I'm not. I think I've paid enough for my little… misstep, Lady March. Not this time."

He said it like a closing statement. No room for negotiation.

March opened her mouth, ready with another retort—

—but then he turned his head.

He looked at her.

Stelle couldn't see his eyes from where she stood, but whatever was in that look—it shut March up like a flipped switch. March. She blinked, cleared her throat, and stepped back.

She gave a sheepish little laugh, coughed once, and waved them all off:

"W-Well! Fine! Your loss! Come on, team, let's leave Grandpa in peace."

Hooking her arms through theirs, she led Stelle and Dan Heng toward the dancing crowd.

But as they slipped away, Stelle found herself glancing back.

What had happened?

Ace had never once hesitated to be the center of attention. He'd jumped into competitions, strutted on stage, flirted shamelessly in front of entire crowds… and now, suddenly, he refused to dance?

It didn't sit right. Not with Stelle.

Was it a grudge? A deeper dislike for dancing? Or something else entirely?

Whatever it was—Stelle couldn't shake the feeling that something about it was… off.

The band switched songs, and March immediately swept both her friends into motion, giving them no chance to rest. Whether she liked it or not, Stelle had no choice but to forget her wandering thoughts and surrender to the music.

Soon enough, she was smiling, moving to the beat as March twirled her around, tugged her into impromptu partner dances, spun her by the wrists—even lifted her clean off the ground once or twice. Occasionally, she switched to Dan Heng just to make sure he didn't try to sneak away. And sometimes, they danced all three together in a laughing, breathless tangle of limbs and momentum.

March danced with anyone and everyone—fearlessly, shamelessly. Stelle couldn't help but admire her for it. She wished she had even half that confidence.

When March finally darted off again, chasing some other victim into a two-step, Stelle took the opportunity to breathe—and glance around. Her eyes scanned the crowd, not really looking for anyone in particular—

No. That was a lie.

She was looking for one blond in particular.

But between the whirling dancers and bouncing lanterns, it wasn't easy. Everyone blurred together in their costumes and cider-flushed grins. When she was sure no one was watching her, she slipped off the makeshift dance floor, weaving between wobbling strangers in absurd outfits until she pushed past the edge of the crowd.

Out here, the air was cooler. Quieter. Less dizzy.

She looked around. No sign of Ace.

Not by the stalls. Not by the walls. Not perched lazily near any of the booths. And Stelle'd know him instantly—of that, she was certain. Her feet carried her in a wide arc, circumnavigating the square.

Nothing.

She huffed, cheeks puffing in frustration.

Where is he?

A troubling thought slipped in before she could block it:

Maybe he slipped away on purpose.

Maybe the dancing excuse was just that—an excuse to disappear. But… he could've just left without saying anything. He didn't need an excuse. Still… he hadn't even said goodbye.

She didn't want to admit it, but something in her chest twisted at that thought. Her heart felt like it dropped straight to her boots. Her mouth pulled into a small pout—but her eyes kept scanning.

She wasn't giving up that easily.

And then—fate threw her a bone.

Far off, leaning against a wall in the shadows, stood Ace. His back was pressed to the stone, his gaze unfocused, staring off into nothing. Between his fingers, a coin danced—flipped, spun, caught again. He looked… bored.

But he hadn't left.

Her heart jolted, warmth rushing in to replace the ache. A brilliant smile spread across her face before she could stop it. Without thinking—faster than she probably should've—she ran toward him.

"Ace!" she called, waving.

The man flinched, turned his head. The look he gave her was a slight surprise—eyes widening beneath the brim of his hat. His lips parted barely as she skidded to a stop in front of him, cheeks flushed from dancing and the dash across the plaza, breathing hard but grinning all the same.

"I thought you left!" she blurted. "Why'd you disappear so far off?"

"Wow. I didn't think you'd worry about my absence," the gambler said with a slow, amused smile, tilting his head. "I just wandered off a bit. Were you looking for me that desperately? You're completely out of breath."

His voice dipped lower, slowed just a bit. He was teasing her again. And judging by the way his lashes dipped, the situation amused him.

Stelle flushed, suddenly flustered. She looked away, toe scuffing the ground, already scrambling for some excuse.

"Not like that," she muttered. "I was just curious. If you wanted to leave, you could've just said so."

The hat-wearing rogue gave a thoughtful hum, and once again, his low voice sent an involuntary shiver down Stelle's spine. He paused for a beat, then flipped the coin in his hand—smooth, practiced. It spun, caught the light… and vanished between his fingers with a flourish.

Even his sleight of hand was theatrical.

"Don't worry," he said at last. "I promised I'd be your wallet until the end of the night. And me?" His grin turned playful. "I always keep my promises."

He winked at her.

But Stelle still felt… off about it. She didn't understand why he had agreed to any of this in the first place—why he joined them, what kept him here. What did he want from this? From them?

He was a puzzle no matter how you turned him.

Her gaze sharpened, serious now, as she studied his face—trying, just once, to read something past the usual smirk. Of course, it was pointless. The only thing she achieved was a sudden spike in her own pulse.

Wonderful. Tachycardia courtesy of a gambler. How poetic.

Still, she asked softly,

"May I ask what is the real reason you don't want to dance? Or is that a secret?"

Ace squinted, and his smile faltered just a little. Clearly, it was a topic he'd rather not revisit. He crossed his arms and looked away.

"No particular reason. I'm just not in the mood."

His voice was even but distant. "Sorry to disappoint, Raccoon."

Stelle furrowed her brow, sadness flickering behind her eyes. She didn't reply. The silence stretched between them, filled only by the pulsing music from the plaza. She kept looking at him, still trying—still failing—to guess what might be on his mind.

She used to think it was his smugness that bothered her. But apparently, that wasn't it. Because now that it was gone—now that he looked… off, somehow—it felt even worse.

Was he upset?

Worried?

No use asking. He'd only brush it off.

And yet… something deep inside her refused to just walk away.

Maybe in a sober, rational state, she wouldn't have done it. But at this moment—it felt right. The only right thing.

She sighed and shook her head.

"Well… okay," she said softly. "Then stay here. I'll head back."

The blond just nodded. Didn't even look at her.

That stung.

But fine. Let's see how the gambler reacts to this.

A sly smile spread across her face. Without warning, in one smooth motion, she hooked her fingers under the bridge of his glasses and swiped them clean off Ace's nose. Before he could fully process what had just happened—she was already sprinting back toward the center of the plaza.

Waving the glasses over her head, she shot him a mischievous grin.

"Don't get too comfy around raccoons—these are mine now!"

She caught a glimpse of his eyes—wide, stunned, and that same incredible color that had captivated her the very first time she'd seen them. The sight made her laugh out loud without meaning to.

But then… his expression changed.

His brows knit together, and he started moving toward her—purposefully. And his face didn't exactly promise sunshine and rainbows.

Uh-oh.

With a squeak, she turned and bolted, not particularly eager to test her luck with an irritated Ace. So far, her plan was working flawlessly.

She dove into the crowd, weaving between dancers and revelers, still clutching his glasses in her hand. They felt expensive—delicate but solid. The frames looked like silver, or maybe even white gold, with amber lenses that had always—always—kept his gaze just out of reach. A few small gemstones decorated the corners of the frame.

So very Ace.

She kept glancing back, just to be sure he was still following.

And he was.

Perfect.

When their eyes met across the movement of the crowd, she flashed him a wink—then stuck out her tongue before ducking down a side path with theatrical flair.

She thought she could keep the game going a bit longer.

But not even half a minute later—right at the heart of the crowd—a strong hand clamped onto her shoulder.

Before she could squeak again, she was turned around in one swift, fluid motion—face to face with the blond himself, who was now glaring at her with ice in his eyes.

Time for the finishing touch.

With a flourish, she slipped the glasses onto her own nose.

A grin lit up her face, and she burst out laughing, completely unable to hold it back. Seeing him—the Ace, usually so composed, so in control—chasing her across the plaza over a pair of glasses was downright glorious. The look on his face? Worth everything.

His brows shot up. The frost in his eyes shattered into sheer disbelief.

His lips parted slightly. He stared at Stelle like she'd just descended from a star.

He said nothing.

Just stared.

And the grip on her shoulder softened.

That was when Stelle grabbed his hand, slipped her fingers around his wrist, and tugged him forward before he could gather enough sense to resist.

"Oh wow, you did come after all!" she chirped. "Perfect timing! The next song's starting!"

To her surprise, he didn't pull away.

Without a word, Ace followed her lead, the confusion still etched clearly on his face.

The music shifted—slower now, punctuated by a steady drumbeat and a sultry saxophone, but still playful, still alive. Laughter echoed across the plaza. Couples twirled and swayed. Someone nearby burst into a spontaneous song, completely off-key but full of joy.

Stelle gently took both of his hands in hers—didn't ask, didn't explain—just began to sway them side to side like a pendulum. Her amber eyes locked onto his, finally visible without their ever-present shield. She looked at him like a pleading puppy, soft and tentative, head tilted slightly as if silently asking for a truce. Maybe even for a little kindness.

Ace didn't move at first. But he didn't pull away either.

His expression remained unreadable. And that was when fear crept in.

Had she gone too far?

What if he really didn't want this? What if there was some personal reason—something deeper she'd trampled over in her cider-fueled mischief? Maybe she'd hurt him without realizing it.

He was watching her closely now. Eyelids half-lowered. Not cold, but focused—like he was trying to solve her. Understand her. See through her.

That gaze always had a way of reaching somewhere deeper than she wanted. But this time—it struck something else entirely.

Guilt.

She was just about to drop her hands and apologize when—

He sighed.

A quiet, warm breath that broke the tension like a bubble.

His features softened, and he gave a small shake of his head.

"…Extraordinary girl," he murmured.

So soft, maybe not even meant for her.

Stelle didn't catch the words. The music was too loud. She opened her mouth to ask—but didn't get the chance.

Ace's hand slid to her waist. The other caught her wrist.

And just like that—he pulled her close.

Close enough to knock the breath right out of her lungs.

All that bravery she'd had moments before? Gone. Her cheeks lit up, flushed deep and pink—not from dancing this time. She blinked rapidly and gulped.

His touch burned. Branded.

Her stomach did a somersault. Then another.

But his eyes—his eyes were no longer distant or cold. The smallest smile had begun to form on his lips—not cocky, not mocking. Something more challenging to read. Something gentler.

Now that she could see his face clearly—truly see it—she fell all over again.

How is this fair? she thought. As if it wasn't enough for this gambler to have a voice like velvet and hands like fire, he had to have eyes like that, too?

Purple along the edges. Brilliant aquamarine within. Central heterochromia. Ocean and flame, layered in mystery. They pulled her in like gravity.

Her heart pounded—faster, louder. Dancing to its own rhythm.

They began to move. Slowly. Smoothly. Not quite close enough to touch entirely—but near. Just enough to feel the warmth between them. Just enough to want more.

Ace led the way. Controlled. Fluid. Effortless.

His hand rested lightly on her waist—not holding, not claiming. Just… there. Letting her breathe.

He moved like someone who could have stolen the show if he wanted to.

But he didn't.

He was holding back.

Why?

Stelle felt herself finally relaxing in the rhythm. The tension in her shoulders eased. Her pulse began to settle. The moment felt strangely safe.

Which was exactly when he chose to strike.

His lips curled—mischievous, familiar. His eyes glinted with something wicked.

And without warning—he spun her.

Fast. Clean. The world blurred—and then Ace's hand was back on Stelle's waist, catching her mid-moment, pulling her straight into him.

The girl yelped—a startled, high-pitched squeak.

She would've stumbled if he hadn't caught her. Would've fallen if he hadn't held her steady.

Right by her ear, a velvet chuckle rolled out of his throat—low, warm, and far too dangerous.

It knocked the breath right back out of her chest.

Her knees nearly buckled.

And somewhere in the middle of it all—she forgot why this had started in the first place.

At that moment, the music surged with new energy—and without waiting for permission, he spun her sharply, guided her into a side step, caught her by the back, and, nearly pulling her against him, dipped her low in one fluid motion.

Someone nearby squealed with delight.

It caught the attention of others, too, who only now seemed to realize what they were seeing.

"It's the King and Queen—together!"

The crowd rippled with realization. A wave of howls and cheers broke out, people stepped back, forming a tight circle around them. Applause and whistles followed, echoing in every direction.

Stelle laughed nervously, her cheeks blooming with color. The attention was dizzying—but… somehow, it wasn't frightening.

In fact—it was exhilarating.

A bright smile spread across her face.

The band seemed to take notice of the shift in energy, and suddenly, the lead singer called out:

"The King and Queen of the Night have graced us with their presence! A special dance—just for our star performers!"

The crowd erupted—cheers, whistles, delighted howls. Stelle blinked rapidly, stunned. She hadn't expected their festival titles to stir up such genuine excitement… or attention.

The melody shifted again—slower, steadier. Less festival frenzy, more ballroom waltz. The rhythm curled like silk around them, elegant and deep, with a faint bittersweet tone that belonged to another time.

And just like that, panic bubbled up.

Are they really seeing us as a couple?

Everyone was watching. Expecting. Stelle's nerves stirred again.

That was when Ace's hand returned to her waist—firm, grounding. His touch pulled her back from spiraling. He had only let go for a second, but the absence had felt like someone had pulled a blanket away on a cold night.

Now, he stood upright before her, composed and elegant, and extended his gloved hand in a single fluid motion. Almost exactly the way he had back when he'd offered her that ring—except this time, his smile was softer. More knowing. The slight dip of his lashes made her shiver.

"May I have this dance, My Queen?"

His voice purred low, teasing. He winked.

Her heart nearly exploded. Her entire face flushed crimson in an instant.

People were squealing in delight around them, but at that moment, Stelle was right there with them. She wanted to squeal, too.

Instead, she smiled.

She dipped into a curtsy—flawlessly executed, too perfect for a "simple girl from the streets," a move drilled into her from a thousand ballroom lessons. She only remembered halfway through that she wasn't in a gown—but in shorts—and ended up grabbing at the air where her skirt should've been.

Still, she straightened and offered her hand with a gracious smile.

"It would be an honor, Your Majesty," she replied, matching his playful solemnity.

Ace narrowed his eyes slightly—and smiled wider as though he'd just caught a glimpse of something very interesting. Yet when he took her hand, it was with the same care and finesse with which he handled cards—precise, reverent. Like she was the last ace in his deck.

His fingers closed around hers, warm and gentle. A cascade of goosebumps ran down the girl's spine.

Then, the music carried them away.

It flowed like silk—an old, half-forgotten waltz wrapped in spice and longing.

They moved together with effortless grace—no stumbles, no hesitation. He led, of course he led—but no longer restrained, no longer impersonal.

Now, his touch had a purpose.

Now, his gaze really saw her.

The gambler leaned in, and she felt his breath at her temple. Her chest tightened. His steps were smooth and patient. He didn't spin her to impress—but to listen to the music written in her bones. He followed her rhythm as much as she followed his.

He released her just to catch her again. Spun her, then reeled her close. And when he pulled her in, she could feel the heat of his body—the quiet drum of his heartbeat beneath his shirt.

"You move well…" she whispered, breathless from more than just the dancing.

His voice dipped, velvet and sharp, right by her ear:

"Bad players show their cards too early."

He leaned in, his breath brushing the curve of her ear. She shivered.

"Good ones? They dance."

The raccoon girl laughed—a quiet, breathy sound, half-sigh. At that moment, the world disappeared. No crowd. No music. No performance.

As if they were the only ones here.

Just that slow, pulsing spiral as he held her on the edge—letting her drift, only to pull her back.

Ace was like the night itself: elusive, dangerous in his mystery… irresistible.

The music picked up again—just a little. Like a whisper turning into a murmur. A heartbeat beginning to race.

Ace spun her, holding her steady—one hand at her waist, the other around her fingers. They twirled together, fluid and weightless, and her head started to spin from more than just the motion.

Then he spoke—softly, lips barely moving, the words meant for her ears alone:

"Everyone thinks I'm the one holding you in this dance. Funny, isn't it?"

His voice was low. Sent vibrations over Stelle's entire being.

"When really… it's the other way around."

Her breath caught.

She looked up into his eyes—and suddenly, everything stilled.

There was no game in them this time. No smirk. No teasing glint.

He wasn't joking. Or at least… not entirely.

He looked at her as though she were that one card he couldn't read.

Stelle wanted to answer. Something clever. Something biting, maybe. Something to break the tension.

But her tongue failed her.

Before she could speak, he caught her hand again, lifted it high, and spun the girl—graceful, effortless. And the moment she turned back into him, Ace pulled her in one last time just as the music drew to its final chord.

They stopped.

Face to face.

Too close.

She didn't move.

Neither did he.

Her breath came in short bursts. Her heart thundered—not just from the dancing.

And then—his hand reached up. Just one finger.

He hooked it beneath the glasses still perched on her nose—and gently slid them off.

Then placed them back on his own face.

And just like that, the wall was back.

His eyes disappeared behind amber glass, and the moment closed in on itself.

Stelle exhaled a soft, shaky breath.

"Thank you for staying and dancing with me," she said quietly.

Only then did she step back, heart still pounding, cheeks flushed. Stelle couldn't bear to stay that close any longer—not when everything about him still clung to her skin like heat.

His warmth. His presence. His voice. His eyes.

It was too much.

More intoxicating than ten ciders in a row.

The crowd erupted into thunderous applause—again. For what felt like the hundredth time that night. At this rate, Stelle worried she might start getting used to it.

But the way people clapped and shouted—it wasn't like they'd just seen a dance. It was as if they'd witnessed a full-blown royal performance, a triumph on a theater stage. Someone even raised their cider mug with a cheer:

"Now that's what I call a royal dance!"

And they weren't wrong.

What they'd done wasn't just mindless spinning on a cobblestone square. It had the poise and precision of a ballroom waltz. Controlled, graceful, almost too elegant for a festival crowd. Not a single step out of line. They moved with the kind of synchronicity that only came from experience—or instinct.

March, who had somehow elbowed her way to the very front, was clapping like a wind-up toy, bouncing on her heels in pure elation—and possibly under the influence of just a little too much cider. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes sparkled, and her voice trembled with excitement.

"AAAAH! THAT WAS AMAZING!" she shrieked as they finished their final turn. "My Queen! My Noble… Regal Vampire!"

She clapped again—hard—and nearly toppled over. Dan Heng, ever the sentinel, simply reached out and caught her by the elbow without blinking.

"Careful," he muttered. "I respect dramatic enthusiasm, but let's not go kissing the pavement."

"Oh c'mon, Danny, don't be so… mmf. Such a grump," she huffed, scrunching her nose and slapping his shoulder with affection. "Did you see them? They were like… like two falling stars! One with ears and the other with a hat kink!"

The dragon boy raised an eyebrow.

"Are you at the metaphor stage already?"

"I'm at the stage where I can admit," she said dreamily, resting her cheek against her palm, "I would gladly be spun around like that. Held by the waist. Whispered sweet nothings like… 'my little witch' or even just 'good girl'… mm, imagine…"

Dan Heng sighed. Deeply. The kind of sigh that said: There's no coming back from this. The cider has officially won.

The hopelessly enchanted, slightly inebriated witch forged ahead—dragging her grumbling companion with her. Her movements weren't quite as graceful now, but her resolve remained unwavering.

When she reached Stelle, she seized both of the silver-haired girl's hands with tender, intoxicated seriousness.

"Sweetheart, you sparkled like the Moon's own necklace," she gushed. "I—hic—I couldn't even be mad at you if I tried! You're like… like a little raccoon-shaped candy drop."

Stelle giggled, cheeks pink. Ace, meanwhile, adjusted his hat just enough to hide the one raised brow he was clearly directing at this glorious display of elegance.

The raccoon girl offered a sheepish smile.

"March… did you, by any chance, eat cotton candy soaked in cider?"

"Maybe I did," the witch sniffed with royal dignity. "I earned it! I was fabulous tonight!"

Then she slumped slightly, shoulders drooping.

"But ohhh my stars, I'm so tired… My legs feel like dumplings. If I try to twirl one more person, I'll evaporate and become the spirit of a wandering candelabra."

"A drunk ghost," Dan Heng added. "Honestly, not a bad concept."

"And when did you become a comedian?" March shot at Dan Heng, arms crossed, eyes narrowed with mock suspicion. "Go on, Mr. Genius, hit me with another dose of sarcasm!"

"That wasn't sarcasm. That was exhaustion."

"Exactly!" she cried, jabbing a finger at him. "Which is why we need to head to the overlook! The fireworks are starting soon, and I am not missing them, thank you very much. I heard—somewhere—that this year there'll be, like… spider-shaped ones! Can you imagine? Spiders! In the sky! Eek!"

"So romantic," Stelle deadpanned with a solemn nod. Somehow, the festival had managed to send her off with one final, poetic gesture—spiders everywhere.

"How symbolic," Ace murmured with a smirk. "Are you going to try eating the fireworks, too, since they're in your favorite shape?"

"Right! Spiders are totally your thing. It's all for our Queen!" March winked at the raccoon girl. "Let's go, royal family—while we can still walk!"

Dan Heng gave a silent nod and leaned toward Stelle with the ghost of a smile.

"I'll carry her if she starts decomposing on the stairs. Not ideal, but manageable."

"I heard that!" March huffed, staggering slightly as she turned. "Careful, or you'll be the one falling apart. I've got tricks."

And with that, the four of them made their way through the crowd toward the long spiral staircase that led up to the highest overlook in the city. It was a favorite tourist spot—offering a full panoramic view of the city glowing beneath the night sky.

Normally, the stairs wouldn't be much of a challenge.

Tonight? Every step was a gamble. A suspenseful, edge-of-your-seat experience focused entirely on March not tumbling to her doom.

Dan Heng hovered behind her with one hand lightly at her back while Stelle held her arm up front, guiding her forward at a cautious pace.

March mumbled something about "not needing to be escorted across the street like some elderly grandma" but didn't actually pull away. Thank the stars.

They really didn't need a corpse to deal with right now.

With much effort—and several close calls—they made it to the top. And honestly? It felt like a greater victory than the costume contest.

Dan Heng and Stelle both exhaled in perfect sync.

Now, all that was left was making sure March didn't go barreling into the railing.

The overlook was already set up: rows of tables for small and large groups, scattered chairs, and a few benches. Someone had clearly done their homework. There was even a cider stand to the left and a snack station tucked into the corner.

Honestly, what more could anyone ask for?

They weren't the only ones with foresight—people were already gathered in droves. Laughter echoed across the platform as groups in quirky costumes chatted, lounged, and helped themselves to drinks and food. Good thing the group had come early, or they'd be stuck pushing through the crowd for a glimpse of the sky.

This time, the group did everything in their power to keep March from even seeing the cider stand.

She saw it.

But somehow—miraculously—they convinced her not to go for a refill. For now, at least. Hopefully forever.

She let out a dramatic sigh like someone had just told her she had days to live and wandered forward toward an empty bench.

Despite her current state, it was an excellent choice.

The view from there really was breathtaking.

The overlook opened onto the city like it had laid itself down at their feet—arms outstretched, windows and lanterns twinkling in the dark like scattered gems. From this height, everything looked like a toy set. The winding streets curled like ribbons, dotted with bursts of costumes, garlands, and glowing pumpkin lights. Turrets and domes peeked through the golden haze below, and in the far distance, the mist had begun to lift, revealing the shadowed edges of the city park.

The air was cooler up here. The breeze tugged at their hair and clothes, lifted the hem of March's dress, and rustled the brim of Ace's hat. The scent of cider, roasted nuts, and something warm and caramelized drifted up from below—mixed with the faintest trace of smoke and ozone. Like the air before a storm… but better. Charged. Magical, despite the absence of any real magic.

That's what made it special: the illusion of enchantment, conjured only by light and noise and people laughing too loud. The sound of music, the pull of anticipation. The feeling that something meaningful was just about to happen.

Above them, the sky had begun to soften—not pitch black anymore, but streaked with velvet shadows, the clouds tinged orange from the city's glow. The stars blinked, bold and bright, undimmed by what lay below.

And something hung in the air—tense, trembling. Maybe it was the coming climax of the night. Maybe it was exhaustion. Or joy. Or cider. Or the weight of all the words left unsaid.

From up here, they could hear the music still playing down in the streets. Laughter. Shouts of delight. Somewhere, a child was singing—off-key but wholeheartedly. It all wove together into one great rhythm. The city had a heartbeat tonight. And for once, they were a part of it.

In that shining, humming in-between—between "not quite over" and "almost gone"—everything felt too real.

And that... hurt.

Stelle was there, surrounded by friends, the city resting in her palms like a snow globe… and her chest ached.

Because this wouldn't last.

The weight of it pressed into her lungs until it became hard to breathe. The end of the night loomed, closer than she wanted. So much had happened, and yet it felt like barely a moment had passed. All the best things always slipped away too quickly. It wasn't fair.

She wanted to rewind the clock. Return to the beginning. Dance more. Laugh harder. Stretch the night just one more day.

Her lips pressed into a tight line as she stared out across the rooftops, amber eyes misty with quiet longing.

The bench embraced them like an old friend. March was the first to flop down, letting out a low groan of bliss, legs stretched straight, arms up in a luxurious stretch like someone clocking out after a 12-hour shift.

"Finally! A real seat!" she sighed, practically purring.

Dan Heng sat beside her, and Stelle slid into place next to him. And only then did the final guest of their night—Ace—settle into the last spot.

And still.

Even now.

Dan Heng sat just as close to her as Ace did. There was nothing visibly unusual about it.

But Ace's presence hit differently. Heavy, electric.

She felt the heat radiating off him, like static before a storm. She was aware of every inch between them—between their shoulders, their legs. Of how he sat—one arm slung casually over the back of the bench, legs spread just enough to make her heart stumble. He wasn't even looking at her. He wasn't doing anything.

So why—why—was her pulse going haywire?

Why did it feel like one lean forward, one breath closer, would bridge the universe?

That tension between so close and so far burned.

She curled her fingers into the plush raccoon in her lap—returned to her by Dan Heng with quiet efficiency.

Stop thinking about gamblers, she told herself. Hug the cute raccoon.

March flung her arms out dramatically as if surrendering to the gods of exhaustion. She sat like that for a full minute before squirming in place. Then, with the theatrical sigh of someone burdened with feeding a family of ten, she groaned:

"That's it. I can't do this anymore! If I don't get at least a drop of something right now, I'll perish on this bench and become the spirit of unfinished joy and un-sipped cider!"

Everyone turned to her in unison, wearing the same deadpan expression.

"You've got enough alcohol in your system to sustain seven of you," Dan Heng muttered, frowning.

"You'll be joining the afterlife because of more drinking, not the lack of it."

"Exactly! So I'll just fling myself off the railing—and then everyone will know I wasn't bluffing!" she snapped, now fully entering the Threat Stage of the evening.

And honestly? With logic like that, it was hard to argue.

"Come oooon… just a little—one last drop! Ray, say something! Tell them you want some, too! They'll definitely listen to you!"

Stelle pressed her lips together and looked away.

Why is her life in my hands now?!

Everyone was staring. Like Ray was the judge and jury of this cider crisis.

She frowned, weighing the pros and cons like someone deciding between war and peace.

But March wasn't exactly famous for her patience. She stared her down with the eyes of an abandoned puppy—glassy and trembling. And unless the lighting was playing tricks… there might've been actual tears forming.

Is it really true what they say—that female alcoholism is incurable?

Stelle wasn't sure, but she wasn't about to test March's threats either. At this point, the girl was capable of anything. Besides… one more drink wouldn't kill her, right? March was an adult. She could decide for herself.

And anyway—if we're being honest—Stelle was the one who technically shouldn't be drinking tonight.

But that was a secret.

So, with a long, world-weary sigh, she delivered her verdict:

"Maybe… one more round wouldn't hurt? If we're going all out, might as well go all the way. One last one."

March exploded with joy. She leaped up, threw herself onto Stelle, and hugged her so tightly the raccoon girl saw stars.

The scent of cider clung to the pink-haired girl like perfume.

"Oh my gods, you precious creature! Can I kiss you?! Please?!" she squealed, swinging her side to side like a ragdoll.

"M-March—maybe let's not—" Stelle stammered, cheeks blazing.

But of course, the question had only been for show. March never waited for permission. Luckily, Stelle turned her head just in time—so the kiss landed on her cheek.

Ace whistled, clearly entertained.

Dan Heng choked on air—probably the last person who expected March to follow through this time.

"Alright, alright—easy, witchling." Ace rose to his feet, hand landing lightly on Stelle's shoulder as he gently pulled her toward him, placing himself between her and March like a shield. "Leave the Queen alone. Go encourage your alcoholism."

At the mention of drinks—and with coins now clinking in her hand—March lit up and darted off at light speed toward the stand of amber-colored ambrosia.

Stelle's heart was pounding. Wild, relentless.

Her insides felt tangled into knots and simmering in their own heat. Her face burned. That simple touch of Ace's hand had summoned far too many emotions at once. She cleared her throat and quickly backed away, plopping down on the bench again and looking anywhere but at him. The fact that the hood turned out to be too short was really a problem. She would've loved hiding there right now.

Did he really just… protect me?

From a kiss?

So weird.

And yet, as Ace sat beside her again, she finally managed to mumble:

"Thank you…" she exhaled, shaking her head a little. "I was starting to fear for my dignity. That might've been the end of it."

A deep, amused chuckle came from his side. He tilted his head, and when she risked a glance—

There it was. That smirk.

Smug, satisfied… and somehow no longer annoying. In fact—though she hated to admit it—it made the butterflies in her stomach start going absolutely insane.

"Didn't think March would go that far over a cider." Dan Heng cut in, arms crossed. "That's officially beyond the bounds of reason."

March didn't keep them waiting long.

She returned positively radiant—glowing like the midday sun—with "treats" in hand for everyone and a triumphant smile on her lips. Miraculously, not a drop had been spilled. Apparently, the drink was too sacred for even intoxication to endanger it.

"Your alcohol savior has arrived!" she declared grandly and began distributing cider with exaggerated flair. "This round's on me - well, I brought it. No need to thank me… unless it's with a kiss. Acey, how about being a gentleman?"

Stelle froze.

Okay—what was going on with March and the kissing tonight?! At this rate, she was going to start smooching random civilians.

Even if the silver-haired girl knew March wasn't serious, her heart still tensed reflexively.

After all, knowing Ace… he wouldn't say no to a kiss—

"I've already paid plenty. With cash," Ace cut her off with a dismissive wave, accepting his drink.

Stelle blinked. Her gaze flicked to him in surprise.

No witty quip? No wink? No anything?

That was… unexpected.

From someone like him, who flirted as easily as breathing, that kind of restraint was nearly unheard of. The memory that tried to surface got shoved right back down again—Stelle gave a tiny shake of her head to clear it.

"You chose the role of sugar daddy. Now suffer," March sang, sticking out her tongue. "Fine! Your loss."

She handed out the drinks and plopped back down into her seat. Reaching for her mug, she paused—then didn't drink.

Instead, she stared thoughtfully up at the sky with a low, dramatic hum.

Silence hovered for exactly three seconds.

Then—CLAP.

She slapped her hands together.

"OH!"

Her enthusiasm was dangerous. Everyone braced.

Stelle tensed, already terrified of whatever just bubbled up in that cider-soaked brain.

March's bright eyes glittered with mischief.

"Since we're all seated, sipping, and waiting for fireworks—clearly, it's the perfect moment for the perfect game!"

Groans followed instantly.

"March…" Stelle began quietly, wary. But her friend raised a finger in protest.

"No-no-no! You don't even know what it is, and you're already resisting! This one's a classic! 'Never Have I Ever.'"

"Oh gods," Dan Heng muttered. "Please, no."

"Please, yes," she snapped back. "Rules are simple: I say something like 'Never have I ever kissed someone in a cemetery.' If you have, you drink. If you haven't, you sit there sober and envious. Questions?"

"Just one," Ace said flatly. "You're not with the tax office, are you?"

That sent Stelle into a snort-laugh.

His tone had been so serious it almost worked.

March, of course, didn't get the joke. She pointed an accusing finger.

"Ew! How dare you suggest such a thing!"

The trio exchanged a look. The corners of Dan Heng's mouth twitched—just once—before he cleared his throat and snapped back into his usual poker face.

"I have a feeling we're going to regret this," Dan Heng sighed heavily.

Hard to argue with that.

The only one who didn't seem to agree was March herself. She spun her mug with gleeful enthusiasm and declared:

"Alright then, I'm starting! Then Dan Heng, then onwards. Okay… hmm…"

She took a deep, dramatic breath and let out a hum of contemplation. Though in reality, she'd already decided on her phrase—and had even said it earlier. "Well, since I already mentioned it… Never have I ever kissed someone in a cemetery."

Stelle stared at her, expression as flat as slate. Dan Heng's face remained exactly the same as it had been since the game started—stone still. They exchanged a look of mutual exasperation.

"Seriously?" Stelle sighed. "I thought the point was to pick something everyone's done… so people actually drink. And instead, it's—"

But March's eyes glinted mischievously, her grin spreading as she flicked her gaze sideways.

Stelle followed her look—just in time to see Ace raise his mug to his lips and take a sip.

No way…

Of course, she'd always assumed he had… experience. Probably enough to make most people's heads spin.

But… a cemetery? What on earth had led to that?

She caught herself staring—so did Dan Heng and March. Ace immediately cut them off with a curt shake of his head.

"Don't even think about asking for the story. We only agreed to drink. Not to talk."

March rolled her eyes with a huff.

"Ugh, you're so boring! Fine, whatever, keep your creepy secrets."

"I just hope she was alive," Dan Heng deadpanned.

That earned a snort of laughter from Stelle, who had to cover her mouth to keep from choking.

"Anyway," he continued, "I'd like to get this over with as quickly as possible."

He didn't even pause to think—like he'd known this game was coming and had prepared in advance. Spinning his cider gently, he stared into it as he spoke:

"Never have I ever gotten drunk to the point of blacking out."

The target was obvious. March jolted upright like an arrow had pierced her chest.

She let out an awkward laugh—and took a sip.

But she wasn't alone.

The vampire-dressed man drank, too.

Stelle blinked. Somehow… she just couldn't imagine it. Ace, drunk out of his mind? The idea was almost… funny.

Then, it was her turn.

She realized only after everyone was staring at her—waiting. March cleared her throat pointedly, squinting at her.

"Oh! Right—"

She needed to think of something—anything.

Her eyes darted around in a panic. All the clever lines she'd been stockpiling throughout the game suddenly vanished, her brain scrubbed clean like a freshly laundered sheet. She scratched her cheek, stalling.

Finally, a thought came to her. The most unoriginal, uninspired thought imaginable:

"Never have I ever kissed a girl."

Bingo.

It was an instant win—everyone took a sip. A small but glorious victory.

Ace paused. For a moment, he looked… lost. Like someone desperately searching the depths of their memories for something they hadn't done yet. His gaze was distant, empty.

Finally, he sighed, shaking his head slightly.

"Never have I ever worn a skirt."

Surprisingly… they all drank.

Stelle's eyes widened to the size of dinner plates as she blinked rapidly at Dan Heng.

He cleared his throat, looking away.

"Long story… blame her," he muttered, nodding towards March, who was giggling innocently—poking him with her elbow in a clumsy, uncoordinated jab that nearly toppled her sideways.

"Oh, come on, it was adorable!" she teased, slurring slightly as the cider finally took full hold.

Stelle was beginning to deeply regret letting her talk them into this.

"No more bets with you," Dan Heng grumbled, rolling his eyes. "Never again."

"Okaay!" March sang out, voice pitching unevenly. "How about this one, then?! Never have I ever had sex… in a cemetery."

Stelle's face went bright red. Her eyes flew wide open, lashes fluttering in shock.

What is it with her and cemeteries tonight?! And intimacy… of all places… seriously?

There's no way anyone would drink to that. That was just… wrong. Disrespectful. Immoral. Who would even—

Her hope shattered into a million pieces when she heard the soft clink of movement to her right.

Her heart seized in her chest like it had been pierced with a blade. The air left her lungs in one violent rush.

Of course, it was him.

Apparently, kissing in a cemetery… hadn't been the end of that particular story.

March squeaked.

"Wooow! Honestly didn't think anyone would drink to that one," she whistled, impressed.

"You're full of surprises, aren't you, mister? At least tell me it was on, like, a beautiful marble grave?"

Ace's expression didn't flicker. He didn't even glance at her. Instead, he rested his chin in his hand, eyes fixed somewhere far off in the dark. He let out a quiet sigh.

"I'll repeat myself: no unnecessary details."

Stelle stayed silent, staring down at the ground. The raccoon plush in her lap and the lingering alcohol warmth in her veins were her only sources of comfort right now.

For some reason, the realization hit her like a slap.

Of course.

Of course, he had experience. Anyone could see it—hell, even a blind person could sense it. She herself had always known… but knowing wasn't the same as truly understanding.

But… to have so much experience that it even included a cemetery?

Gods. That was… beyond comprehension.

"Oh my gods, what is wrong with you?!" March burst out, stamping her foot.

"Boring! At least tell us—did the ghosts haunt your dreams after?!"

The blond gave a quiet, tired chuckle, shaking his head.

"Luckily, no curses followed me home. Can we change the topic now?"

Dan Heng nodded curtly.

"Agreed. I have something less… indecent."

He leaned back against the bench, voice flat and calm as ice:

"Never have I ever stolen anything."

March immediately took a sip, like this was some competitive chugging contest. The blond man drank as well—so casually it was almost comical, as though this was the most obvious confession in the world. At this rate, he'd run out of cider before anyone else.

Had he even skipped a single round yet?

Gods, Stelle thought. What kind of life has he lived? How old is he, even?

He looked older than them but, somehow… still very young.

"Dare I ask what that was about?" Stelle directed her question at March—knowing Ace would never answer, no matter how badly she wanted to hear his stories. More badly than she'd ever admit.

March rolled her eyes and let out a dramatic sigh, swaying slightly in her seat, her movements slow and oddly graceful in a drunken way.

"Ahhh… it was nothing, my sweet little Ray. I just… 'borrowed'… a really pretty lipstick from my roommate once. But it didn't suit me, so it doesn't count."

"Tell that to the judge," Dan Heng quipped dryly—half-joking, half-not.

March huffed indignantly and stomped on his foot. He let out a quiet hiss and shifted away, glaring down at his boots.

Stelle sighed deeply. This time, she was ready. She'd already prepared her line and spoke up without hesitation:

"Never have I ever been abroad."

March looked at her with an expression full of sympathy… but didn't drink herself. Figures.

Dan Heng took a sip, as did Ace—though the latter did it with the bored indifference of someone answering the world's dullest question.

"I moved here from abroad, so technically, I'm still abroad," Dan Heng explained simply, shrugging.

Stelle hummed in understanding, nodding softly. That explained his slightly unusual features… though from his speech alone, she'd never have guessed this wasn't his first language.

March quickly jumped in, eager to contribute:

"Yeah! Danny's from… that one place… what was it…"

She trailed off, scratching her head with a pitiful little hum. All brain function had officially been claimed by the cider.

"Xianzhou," the aquamarine-eyed boy supplied with a resigned sigh. "Thanks for remembering."

"Ahhh, right!" she exclaimed—and promptly burst into laughter.

There was no joke. None at all. But March laughed anyway, folding over herself, giggling so hard tears prickled at her lashes. "Gods, I'm such an idiot!" she wheezed between giggles.

They say drunk mouths speak sober truths… or something like that.

Ignoring March's meltdown, Ace spoke up next. This time, a slight smirk flickered across his lips—and Stelle's heart clenched hard in her chest.

Should I be worried…?

He turned his cider mug slowly in his hand, then glanced sideways at the others. When his gaze finally landed on her—Stelle froze. It felt like electricity dancing across her skin. Like every nerve ending woke up all at once.

And after everything she'd just learned about him… his presence, his eyes, his smile… burned even hotter. But strangest of all—

It wasn't unpleasant.

"Never have I ever kissed a man."

His lids were lowered, his gaze locked directly onto hers.

Her stomach flipped. Then flipped again. Her breath faltered, coming out in small, uneven bursts. Heat flooded her cheeks, blooming into a fierce crimson. Her lips pressed together tightly, brows drawing in toward her nose.

Unconsciously, she pressed her thighs together, something hot and pulsing swirling low in her belly.

Tightening.

He knew what he was saying.

Stelle had almost managed to convince herself that the last time had been a dream. A hallucination born of fever and fear and a mind that desperately wanted to believe in something that didn't exist. But now—any doubt was gone.

Her hands curled into tight fists, trying to stop the trembling. The breeze was cool up here, but she felt unbearably hot—flushed from cider, from these brazen conversations, from the heat radiating off Ace's body even at this small distance… and from the way he looked at her.

Still… she had to drink. Of course, she did.

March drank, too, unsurprisingly. The pink-haired girl had never shied away from telling them all about her romantic escapades—and how each inevitably ended in comedic disaster.

But then March's eyes went wide with disbelief. She'd been halfway through her sip when she noticed Stelle raising her own mug—and nearly choked.

"Wha-wha-WHA—?!" she squeaked.

"Hold on, just a SECOND! What's this, huh?! Ray! My innocent, sweet little flower—you're cheating on me?! Men?! MEN?!"

The amber-eyed girl kept staring up at the sky, refusing to meet anyone's gaze, her cheeks burning hot enough to ignite.

"It doesn't matter. It was… it was nothing. Just an accident. Nothing special."

"Nothing special?!" March wailed dramatically.

"We trusted each other! You were supposed to save your precious little bud for our wedding!"

Only March's absurd, overly theatrical shrieking was enough to break Stelle out of her mortifying train of thought. She sighed, shaking her head slightly. Anyone overhearing would probably think March was being serious…

"What a tragedy," Ace drawled lazily. His voice sent a shiver through her.

And then—she felt it.

His arm, previously resting along the back of the bench on the opposite side, shifted. It slid behind the raccoon girl, settling there like a living barrier. His knee brushed against hers, a fleeting touch that seared heat into her skin, even through the thin stocking fabric.

The world tilted.

The summer sun had never made her feel this hot. Her breaths came quick and shallow, her chest tightening with every inhale. She kept her eyes fixed firmly ahead, refusing to look at him… but she didn't move away. Didn't even try.

She swallowed hard, frozen in place, her pulse roaring in her ears.

Gods, please… please help me survive this night without a heart attack because of this gambler…

And yet.

Deep down, in a secret place she didn't want to acknowledge—she realized she didn't hate his closeness. She didn't hate the casual brush of his leg against hers, him in his trousers and her in sheer stockings. She didn't hate the way his presence enveloped her like something possessive and warm.

In fact…

Some small, treacherous part of her wanted to lean into him. To rest her head against his chest. To feel his hand tighten around her waist.

She shook her head, trying to clear it, but her thoughts spun in dizzying, uncooperative circles.

"Oh, what, is it my turn again?" March giggled—far too long, considering there was absolutely nothing funny about it.

"Alrighty, let's see here…"

She pretended to think—if "humming drunkenly with her eyes half-closed" counted as thinking. Then, her lips curled into a devilish grin.

She was clearly planning something.

Finally, she announced it with theatrical gravity, like a judge delivering a death sentence:

"Never have I ever… slept with more than one person at a time."

Silence.

Well—between them, anyway. Around them, festival-goers still chattered and laughed, oblivious to the moral collapse happening in their little circle.

Dan Heng and Stelle stared at March like she'd just started speaking in some long-dead ancient tongue.

And then—

The gambler took a sip.

Like it was nothing. Like he'd just drunk to "never have I ever gone to the market on a Tuesday."

Is this real life?! Stelle's brain screamed.

What even is he? Some sex-demon masquerading as a human? Did someone write him straight out of an adult novel?!

And why… why did it bother her so much?

It doesn't matter.

It shouldn't matter.

I don't care.

At all.

Her heart clenched painfully in her chest. Her mind tried to push away the images that came unbidden—of him with not just one woman, but two… or more… doing things she couldn't even imagine. But the damage was done. Her lip trembled as she bit down on it hard enough to sting.

March attempted a whistle.

It came out sounding more like the faint wheeze of wind through a broken flute.

"Well damn, you really do live in a whole other world." She wagged her finger at him in drunken judgment. "I envy you! Honestly, what are you even—some walking embodiment of the Seven Deadly Sins?!"

She hiccuped loudly—nearly sloshing cider onto her lap—and then burst out laughing like a wild hyena. Stelle sighed, shaking her head miserably.

This was such a terrible idea. Agreeing to more cider? Worst decision of her life. At this rate, she wouldn't even survive to see the fireworks.

Dan Heng seemed to agree, judging by his expression. Though instead of trying to stop March from drinking again, he chose the pettiest route possible:

"Never have I ever… been late."

…Excuse me?

"What the…" Stelle whispered, staring at him like he'd just admitted to being an alien. She had no choice but to drink, as would any normal person in existence.

Figures. Only he would be so impossibly punctual.

March snorted and downed her drink with defiance.

"And I'm proud of it!" she declared. "It means I live in the moment. You're just boring!"

"Time is a concept invented by humans," the man in a hat added lazily, swirling his cider as if he were pondering the secrets of the universe. "So technically, lateness is just another interpretation of a non-existent phenomenon."

March squinted at him with glassy eyes, visibly straining her last sober neuron to process his words. In the end, she just hummed in confusion. And then she hiccuped again—this time, a couple drops spilled onto the ground.

She didn't notice.

That… wasn't a good sign.

And just like that—it was Stelle's turn again.

Everyone else had been so bold, so casual, confessing to things she could barely even imagine. Compared to them, her life felt… boring. Small. She wanted to think of something interesting, something that might reveal a secret about her friends and force them to drink.

A thought came to her immediately. But embarrassment bubbled up in her chest, making her hesitate.

It's not like me to say something like that…

But… maybe just this once…

Alcoholic courage surged through her veins. She took a shaky breath—and blurted it out before she lost her nerve:

"Never have I ever… slept with anyone."

Silence fell. Heavy. Absolute.

March, despite her inebriated state, didn't even blink. She simply took a sip, unbothered.

Dan Heng drank too—his face perfectly blank, though the tips of his ears turned a suspicious shade of pink.

And Ace… he drank as well. Slowly.

But his gaze didn't leave her.

It lingered—too long, too direct. There was something about it… something unreadable. Heavy. Curious. Almost dark. She didn't dare look back at him, but she could feel it. The weight of his eyes on her skin burned hotter than the cider ever could.

She held her breath, cheeks blazing bright crimson.

March shook her head, her motions loose and swaying.

"Ohhh, my sweet little thing…" she slurred, her voice syrupy-slow, eyes glassy as they fixed on Stelle. "My… sweet raccoon. You still have everything ahead of you—hic!"

Her gaze softened, turning almost… languid. Not with desire but with some hazy, drunken affection. Her voice dipped low, and her bleary blue eyes bore into Stelle's golden ones.

"You're the prettiest… the kindest… who in their right mind wouldn't want you? Hnn… Want me to show you all the delights of adult life? Say yes—it's a one-time offer…"

For a moment, Stelle actually thought March was going to say something serious. Something comforting, something to lift her spirits.

Instead—she exhaled a shaky sigh and shook her head firmly.

Gods… March should never be allowed to drink again.

No wonder she has all those wild stories. If she says things like that to everyone she drinks with…

But even as Stelle watched her friend with gentle worry, she noticed March was really starting to look unwell. Her head was swaying—literally spinning on her shoulders. Her eyelids kept trying to close, only to flutter open at the last second, each hiccup jolting her back awake. Her hand trembled where it clutched her mug—but still, she refused to let go.

That's… impressive, in a worrying way, Stelle thought.

But gods, please let her survive to the fireworks…

Last in this round—and hopefully last in the entire game—was the undisputed champion.

Ace.

He had drunk to every single confession. Without fail.

At this point, all they could do was applaud.

Stelle didn't know how to look at him the same way anymore. He had revealed a side of himself that… well, it had always hinted at being there. Anyone could've guessed. But hearing the direct confirmations—seeing them stack up like that—it was different. Real.

But then again… he hadn't done anything wrong. This was his life, his choices. And he hadn't even bragged about them. Not once.

Her mind, desperately clinging to reason, whispered logical arguments: He's his own person. His past doesn't define him now. You're overreacting. You have no claim to him anyway.

But her emotional, drunken side didn't care for logic.

Because all it saw—felt—was how painfully small she was compared to his world. Like a dust mote floating in the endless dark.

Nothing special.

Probably just another passing amusement to him. Something fleeting. Forgettable.

No wonder that kiss hadn't meant anything to him. Just a game. A whim. Of course…

And her feelings? Meaningless. Unseen.

Her chest tightened, aching with a sharp, lonely pain.

Meanwhile, the object of her spiraling thoughts sat silent, longer than usual. The gambler lazily twirled his mug in one hand, gaze unfocused, staring straight ahead. It was as if he'd forgotten about the game entirely. March tried to keep her eyes open, swaying dangerously before snapping them wide again, pretending she was fine.

In that pause, Stelle tilted her face up into the cold air, letting it soothe her burning cheeks. She inhaled deeply—slowly—and exhaled just as slow. It helped. A little. Some of the tension melted away, even if only for a moment.

The sky above was a deep, velvet blue, fading toward something clearer and brighter in the east. Dawn was coming.

She sighed softly, lips pressing together.

Why does it even matter, what his past holds? Why does any of it matter?

These were her last moments of freedom. Her final taste of a life that belonged only to her. And here she was—wasting them on pointless worries, on pain, on something that shouldn't concern her.

She would have plenty of that waiting for her in the future.

Maybe… maybe she was the problem. Maybe if she'd had more experience, she wouldn't feel so trapped. So tightly wound. Maybe her body wouldn't go haywire from a single look or touch. Maybe her mind wouldn't short-circuit from a single sigh breathed in her direction.

And then—his voice broke the silence.

It was low. Softer than usual. Almost intimate.

At that exact moment, she felt his knee brush against hers again. His arm shifted behind her, fingertips grazing lightly across her back.

Her breath caught sharply in her throat, her chest jerking with the sudden inhale.

She was very awake again.

"I… never fell in love," Ace said.

His words struck like a silent thunderclap.

Everyone froze. The blond man's tone was so serious, so devoid of humor, that no one dared treat it as a joke. But believing it… that was another matter entirely.

Never?

After everything he'd done, everything he'd lived through… he'd never once loved?

So all those moments—every touch, every kiss, every fleeting encounter—none of it was out of love? Just desire. Curiosity. Momentary pleasure?

Stelle's mind, trained since childhood by etiquette teachers, moral guardians, and thick volumes on how a proper lady should behave, struggled to comprehend a life like that.

She'd been taught to keep herself pure until marriage. That letting desire rule over virtue was the greatest shame. It was why she'd felt so guilty all day—and night—after what had happened with Ace. It felt like days, not hours, since the kiss… so much had happened to her mind since then.

The raccoon girl's lips parted slightly as she gazed at his profile. The blond looked just as pensive as she felt, staring off into the dark horizon. His drink was long gone, the empty mug discarded somewhere near his feet.

March let out a low, sad hum, draining the last of her cider in a single gulp. She flipped her cup upside down as if to summon a refill, then sighed and set it aside. Dan Heng did the same—calmly, with quiet finality.

Only Stelle sat frozen.

For the first time all night… she didn't know what to do.

Her first impulse was not to drink. After all, she'd never been in love. She didn't even know what it felt like. Dan Heng was the closest man in her life after her father, and her feelings for him were purely platonic—warm and strong but not romantic.

But now… now something else pulsed within her chest.

Was this infatuation or something close to love? Stelle didn't know. She'd never known. But she knew one thing with painful clarity:

She didn't feel indifferent.

She tried—oh, how she tried—to tell herself it wasn't real. That this damn gambler wasn't worth it. That he was selfish and manipulative and everything she shouldn't want.

But…

Even after everything she'd learned about him tonight, despite all his darkness, all his flaws—her heart still beat faster when he looked at her. The space between them felt suffocating. It wasn't a barrier; it was a punishment.

The girl wanted to look at him without flinching. Wanted to keep looking at him. Wanted to feel his arms around her again—holding her, anchoring her. Even if it wasn't real. Even if he felt nothing. Even if, tomorrow, they would part as strangers.

If this night is all I get… then why keep lying to myself?

With trembling fingers, she tightened her grip around the plush raccoon in her lap. Then, slowly, as if her entire life depended on it, she lifted her cup to her lips.

Her heart pulled tight in her chest as she drank down the last of her cider.

And then she exhaled.

Long. Shaky. Relieved.

It felt… lighter. Like she'd just confessed a secret to herself. Like she'd stopped fighting an unchangeable truth.

And for the first time all night, despite the bittersweet ache in her chest—

Stelle felt at peace.

In that very instant—as if the world itself decided to seal their silence and her quiet confession—something flared bright in the sky.

A low, powerful boom rolled through the air, vibrating in her chest.

The first firework shot into the deep, pre-dawn blue, trailing a long golden tail behind it. It exploded in a burst of sparks—thousands of tiny lights scattering across the heavens in the shape of a spider spun from countless glowing stars.

Everyone on the overlook immediately tilted their heads back. Applause erupted, whistles pierced the air, people shouted and cheered. Some jumped up in delight.

March's eyes flew open, shining with childlike wonder. She beamed and shot to her feet—only to nearly collapse face-first onto the ground if not for Dan Heng's reliably steady hand catching her just in time as she flopped back to the bench.

The sky blossomed with all the colors of the autumn festival: ruby reds, emerald greens, sapphire blues, flashes of scarlet and amber. It was as if the festival gods themselves had spilled their treasure chests across the world, jewels raining down on the city, reflecting in the eyes of the crowd, in the slick cobblestones below, in the glowing lantern glass.

Stelle stared upward, entranced, lips parted slightly. For a moment, every thought left her mind. Her heart seemed to stop beating altogether.

She watched as each firework burst and faded. Each new flare burned a bright imprint onto her vision, leaving her breathless. The fleeting beauty of it all ached somewhere deep inside her chest.

March had been right. In the sky bloomed spiders and pumpkins, skulls with flickering eyes—how they created such magic, Stelle couldn't begin to fathom. It looked like a miracle. As if the very stars themselves were celebrating alongside them.

In Ace's glasses, the lights danced and sparked. He gazed at the sky too, but—when Stelle wasn't looking—his eyes shifted sideways. They lingered on her parted lips, on her eyes shimmering with firelight, on her flushed cheeks glowing with warmth and cider.

His gaze held there, longer than it lingered on any of the fireworks.

Dan Heng sat like a stone statue, eyes fixed skyward. But Stelle knew… he saw something in those lights, too. Something private. Something hers would never touch.

Even Smart Paws, snug in her arms, seemed mesmerized by the brilliance overhead.

And in that moment—when the sky cracked and thundered with bursts of color, when the city below and the crowd behind hummed with joy, when each firework's boom reverberated through her ribs—

She allowed herself, just for a single heartbeat, to feel…

Happy.

Even if tomorrow brought terror.

Even if her heart broke.

Even if her life ceased to belong to her again.

Right now—

Right now, the sky blazed just for her.

The fireworks were coming to an end.

The last golden sparks drifted down from the sky like slow-falling snowflakes, fading into the cool morning air. The crowd applauded here and there, a few cheers still scattered among them, but the collective wave of excitement had ebbed, leaving behind only a soft, tired contentment.

March now sat slumped against Dan Heng's shoulder, her cheek pressed to his sleeve. Her eyelids fluttered up and down like the wings of a butterfly caught in the web of sleep. Finally, they closed for good, sealed shut like a sleeping child's.

When Stelle gently shook her by the shoulder, March only let out a muffled hum, waving her hand in lazy protest without opening her eyes.

"That's it," Dan Heng sighed.

"We've lost a soldier."

He rose to his feet, slipping an arm under hers and lifting her carefully until she was standing, albeit swaying on unsteady legs. Once he was sure she wouldn't topple over immediately, he looked to Stelle and Ace and nodded.

"It's a shame it ended this way. But I'll need to get her back to the dorm before she collapses somewhere in the plaza."

Stelle clutched her raccoon plush tightly to her chest and stood as well.

Her heart scraped painfully against her ribs, sinking all the way to her feet. Dan Heng's words felt like a final verdict, a death sentence echoing into the silent dawn. A tremor ran through her body.

The night was truly ending… and now every remaining second felt unbearably short. The girl wasn't ready to say goodbye. Not yet. Not like this.

She felt tears prickling at the edges of her eyes, but forced herself to hold them back.

In a thin, trembling voice, she whispered:

"Thank you, Dan Heng."

In her gaze lay a tenderness, a bottomless ache she didn't bother to hide. Dan Heng looked back at her, and for the briefest moment, something warm flickered behind his usually cool eyes. Something almost… familiar.

And gods, that only made it harder.

"When will we see each other again?" he asked, his tone steady, unchanged—but those simple words shattered her heart completely.

What could she say? Lie to him, promise it would be soon? Confess she didn't know? Make up some excuse?

Stelle felt disgusting, lying like this. Every cell in her body burned with the urge to tell Dan Heng everything—to drop to her knees and beg forgiveness for every lie, to promise him the truth, to ask him to stay—

But outwardly, her expression barely shifted. Only the trembling of her hands around the plush raccoon betrayed her desperation.

"I… I don't know…" the grey-haired girl's voice broke. "I think… it might be a while. I have… important things I need to do. I have to leave for a long time. But when I come back—I'll let you know. I promise."

On those last words, she forced a smile onto her face, though tears threatened to spill over at any second.

And then—

"I'll help."

Ace's voice cut through the thick, aching silence.

Both Stelle and Dan Heng turned to him, equally surprised.

"If you try carrying her yourself, you'll both end up tumbling down the stairs," he continued, rising fluidly to his feet. "Besides… I already feel guilty enough that last time it was a girl carrying her instead of me."

Dan Heng froze for a moment, staring at Ace with narrowed eyes.

If this had been the same Dan Heng from when they first met, he would have scoffed, said Ace's help wasn't needed, and said that no gambler's hands should touch March.

But now… he hesitated.

His gaze shifted to Ray, then back to the gambler. Finally, he sighed in quiet defeat.

"Fine."

Stelle couldn't help the small smile that lifted the corners of her lips.

At least they'd end the night on something like neutral ground.

And so, with the two men supporting March's half-limp body between them, the descent down the long stone steps passed quickly and almost painlessly—at least, as painless as it could be when carrying a living corpse.

The entire time they walked down, Stelle felt the ache in her chest tighten.

Step by step, it grew sharper, each footfall echoing like a countdown to execution.

She wished the staircase would stretch on forever, just so she could remain with them a little longer.

But the path, cruel as ever, ended much sooner than their climb up.

The cold air hit her at the bottom, making her shiver. Goosebumps prickled along her arms. Only then did she notice how cold it truly was. Up above, the warmth of her friends, their game, the alcohol, had kept her flushed and glowing. Now, with all of that fading, the chill seeped through her skin and into her bones.

"Thank you," Dan Heng said with a nod to the gambler.

Ace only dipped his head in silent acknowledgment.

At that moment, as if sensing the end was near, March stirred. Her gummy, sleep-stuck eyelids fluttered half-open, though she didn't manage to fully raise them. With a sleepy groan, she reached her arms out toward Stelle.

"My little Ray…" she rasped, her voice hoarse and heavy with exhaustion. "Come here… one last hug…"

Stelle rushed to her without hesitation, careful not to knock her off balance.

Every second felt harder. Every breath burned with looming loss.

March wrapped her arms around her tight—so tight it nearly hurt—and pressed her lips softly to Stelle's temple.

"Don't ever forget…" she whispered, breath warm against her skin, "…you were incredible tonight… my Raccoon Queen…"

Before Stelle could even reply, March's head lolled back down onto Dan Heng's shoulder, her eyes sliding shut once more.

Dan Heng shifted her weight carefully, then looked at Stelle. And she understood—without words—what he was saying.

She stepped forward, pressing herself into him. Hugging both him and March at once. Clinging to them like a drowning girl to driftwood.

Dan Heng let out a small, relieved sigh. Gently, he wrapped one arm around her, the other bracing March. His hand rose to the back of Stelle's head, guiding her to rest against his shoulder. He closed his eyes.

And in a voice quieter than dawn, he murmured:

"Take care of yourself. We'll miss you."

His quiet voice carried a warmth that seeped straight into her bones. It was as if he, too, understood that this was goodbye—even if he didn't know it for certain.

A soft smile curved his lips, and Stelle pressed closer to him, trying with everything in her to hold back the sob threatening to spill out.

In a trembling whisper, she murmured:

"You too… I'm going to miss you so much. No… I already miss you."

His low chuckle rumbled softly against her chest, vibrating into her heart. With one hand, he stroked her back—slow, gentle, comforting.

"I'm sure we'll see each other soon. Don't look so sad… your smile suits you so much better… Ray."

The way he spoke her name—it cut straight through her chest. Like claws scraping down her heart, leaving burning lines of pain in their wake.

She pulled back slightly, her eyes shining with unshed tears. Amber met aquamarine for what felt like the last time, and between them sat a silent understanding that both warmed and broke her.

She gave him a trembling smile, ready to step away—but then—

He leaned in. His breath brushed against her cheek and nose, and then his lips pressed softly to her forehead. Just for a moment. Light as a blessing. Warm as dawn.

That was it.

A single tear escaped, sliding down her cheek, and he brushed it away with his thumb, a quiet smile flickering on his lips.

"This isn't goodbye. Hear me?" the dark-haired man said, voice so confident she almost believed him.

She nodded, though her heart screamed otherwise. Gods, how she wished that were true. Maybe… maybe fate would smile on them, and they'd meet again sooner than she feared. Better to think that way.

Finally, she pulled back, and the cold rushed back in to embrace her from head to toe. She gave a bittersweet smile and waved.

Dan Heng looked at her with a tenderness that carved deeper cracks into her chest. He lifted his free hand and waved back.

The raccoon girl watched them disappear into the crowd. She counted every step, watched as March's pink hair melted into the swirling ocean of cloaks and masks and lantern light. Even after they were long out of sight, she kept staring at the spot where they'd vanished, her gaze empty and unfocused.

Her chest ached with a deep, gnawing pain. Tears slid down her cheeks, heavy and silent, and she didn't even have the strength to brush them away.

Her knees trembled. She wanted to run after them, to scream for them to take her with them forever. Or, failing that, to just sink through the earth and vanish completely.

Then the knees gave out.

At that moment, it felt like the entire festival ended then and there. Everything else was just echoes, flickering out into the coming dawn.

A broken sob tore from her lips, shoulders shaking with the force of it. The girl lowered her head, tears falling onto Smart Paws' little plush head like warm rain.

Maybe she would've collapsed completely, knees to the cobblestones, but a hand landed softly on her shoulder, holding her in place.

Stelle blinked through blurred eyes, surprised, turning her head.

Ace was looking at her, his face serious. The usual smile was gone. Without the glaring lantern light, she could finally see his expression clearly—his furrowed brow, the faint shadow of concern.

Then the corners of his lips lifted—not in mockery, but in a quiet, reassuring way.

Without a word, he pulled her into his arms in one swift motion.

As if he sensed that words were useless right now.

One arm wrapped firmly around her waist, the other settled between her shoulder blades, holding her against him. Close. Protected. His hand stroked her back in slow, calming circles.

And that was it.

She broke.

Her whole body shook as she sobbed, loud and ragged, tears flowing in an unstoppable torrent. The raccoon girl buried her face in Ace's jacket, clutching him as though she'd drown without his warmth. Her heart hurt—gods, it hurt. The pain was so sharp it stole her breath, made her chest feel like it was splitting open from the inside out.

His fingers stroked her head through the hood, her back, quiet and steady. His arms were strong around her, shielding her from everything else. His warmth anchored her in place—something solid to hold onto when everything else threatened to sweep her away. She clung to him with desperate force, terrified that if she let go, he would disappear too.

She held him like he was her last lifeline.

Because in that moment — he was.

The girl had no idea how much time had passed. How long they stood there, pressed against each other, his arms around her, her face buried in his chest. Time blurred, melted away. Eventually, her sobs quieted, dwindling into shaky breaths. The tears stopped flowing, leaving only damp lashes, a flushed, tear-streaked face, bitten lips, and smudged traces of makeup.

Ace waited patiently. He didn't move, didn't rush her—only held her until she was ready to lift her head on her own.

Slowly, she pulled back just a little, her eyes drifting up to his. His perfect, composed face looked almost surreal next to hers—tear-stained and trembling.

A gentle smile curved his lips. The young man's hands slipped away from Stelle's back, and she felt the loss of their warmth immediately, a chill running down her spine.

But then one of his hands rose again, cupping her cheek softly, thumb stroking her skin with delicate precision. His other hand rummaged in the inner pocket of his coat. Between his fingers appeared a cloth—a fine, emerald-green handkerchief, elegant and expensive-looking.

Without hesitation, he brought it to her face and carefully wiped away the streaks of tears and makeup. His gaze never left her—not for a second. And she couldn't look away either. She was trapped in the moment, spellbound.

He touched her with such quiet gentleness, as though any wrong move might shatter her entirely.

When he finished, a low chuckle rumbled from his chest. He tucked the handkerchief away and reached into another pocket. The raccoon girl heard a soft crinkle and tilted her head curiously toward the sound.

And then—just like that—between his fingers appeared…

A spider lollipop.

Stelle's eyes went wide, lashes fluttering rapidly as her mouth fell open in stunned silence. She glanced from the blond man's face to the candy and back again as if trying to confirm it was real and not some dream conjured by her exhausted mind.

The blond gave her a small nod.

Hesitantly, with trembling fingers, she reached out and took it. Her lips curved into a small, shy, but grateful smile. The lollipop was wrapped in a pumpkin-patterned foil and tied with a thin orange ribbon. With one swift motion, she tore the wrapper away and gazed at it for a fleeting moment… before popping it straight into her mouth.

A tiny squeak of delight escaped her, and she broke into a glowing smile.

Cherry.

It was cherry—her absolute favorite.

Realization hit her like a spark, and she blinked up at him with wide eyes.

For the first time in many long minutes, she spoke—her voice still small and hoarse:

"How… how did you know this was my favorite?"

A quiet laugh rumbled from his chest. His eyes softened as he lowered his lids slightly.

"Lucky guess."

The answer was so simple, so understated, Stelle nearly choked.

Of course. She almost forgot—she was talking to a gambler. Luck itself walked with him like a faithful shadow. It made her laugh—a tiny, breathless giggle that slipped out before she could stop it.

But she did feel lighter. Like a child who'd been rocked in strong arms and given a sweet to dry her tears. It worked.

A quiet hum came from the vampire-costumed man. Stelle lifted her gaze questioningly.

"So," he murmured, "when you offered me a spider earlier… it was your favorite one you were giving up?"

The girl blinked, then nodded as if it were the most obvious truth in the world.

For a moment, surprise flickered in Ace's eyes. Just for a heartbeat. Then she heard it.

His laugh. Soft and low, half-muffled, but unmistakably real.

And this time, her heart clenched—but not with pain.

Every note of that quiet, rumbling laugh resonated through her body, flooding her chest with warmth. It spread through her, wrapping around her like a gentle blanket.

And this time... she didn't resist it.

"You really are… something else," he breathed out softly, his voice low with an almost hushed wonder. "What an honor for me."

Stelle smiled, waving a hand dismissively as she shook her head.

"It's nothing…"

"Little modest raccoon," the vampire-costumed man cooed.

His hand came to rest lightly on her shoulder, giving it a gentle, playful ruffle. "Want me to walk you home?"

Her heart stopped.

Without thinking—without even a second of hesitation—she shook her head vigorously. No. Not yet. She wasn't ready to go back to reality. Not tonight. Not while the warmth of the festival still clung to her skin, while his presence still wrapped around her like something she didn't want to lose.

It was too soon.

The blond let out a low hum, his eyes lowering with sly interest.

"Oh? Then… what am I supposed to do with you, little raccoon?"

The phrasing—it was definitely intentional. The subtle, dangerous lilt in the man's tone, the playful glint in his half-smile. She was getting to know him well enough now to recognize when he was baiting her. For a fleeting moment, she wondered how someone who could be so gentle a moment ago could instantly slip back into this teasing charm. But that was Ace.

That was who he was.

The girl pouted, cheeks blooming pink, her eyes falling to the ground as she mumbled:

"I don't know… I just… I don't want to go back yet. But… I don't know what to do now. Now that the festival is over…"

Her voice dropped lower and lower until it was barely above a whisper by the end. The blush spread further across her cheeks, warmth flooding her skin. Her heart hammered painfully against her ribs.

"Could we… go somewhere else? Just for a little while?"

She couldn't bring herself to look at him. Fear twisted her chest—fear that he'd laugh, or scoff, or brush her off with some careless remark. That he'd leave her standing there, exposed in her quiet longing.

But gods, she hoped he wouldn't.

A thoughtful "hmm…" rumbled low in his chest, vibrating softly through her body.

"Interesting…" he mused, eyes narrowing slightly. "Hard to imagine a place open at this hour that a girl like you would actually want to visit."

"Why?" she asked, tilting her head to the side, blinking up at him with innocent curiosity.

Ace actually paused at that—caught off guard by her genuine naivety. A smirk twitched at the corner of his mouth, his gloved hand slipping casually into his trouser pocket.

"Are you interested in low-quality pubs, gambling dens, or brothels?"

Stelle's nose scrunched up in immediate disgust, her expression saying it all before she could even open her mouth. That reaction made the blond let out a quiet, rumbling laugh. He shook his head slightly, his voice dropping lower, softer, but edged with something sharper.

"I thought so. So… have you changed your mind? Ready to go home?" The blond leaned forward a fraction, and his eyes locked onto hers—suddenly more intense than before. It made Stelle swallow hard. "Or… will you hear out another offer?"

His gaze was piercing, burning straight through her hesitation. For a moment, fear prickled at her chest—fear of what exactly this "offer" entailed, especially coming from him.

Stelle's eyes flicked away, focusing instead on the glow of the street lamps and the quiet stone steps leading back to the overlook. Her heart thundered in her chest, each beat echoing with nervous anticipation. The tips of her fingers tingled, a phantom pulse dancing under her skin.

But no.

She wasn't about to give in and go home like some obedient little girl. Not tonight.

Curiosity flared, hot and bright. And beyond that—something deeper. A quiet, aching desire for more. Anything to keep her from returning to that gilded cage of duty and expectation. Anything to keep this taste of freedom on her tongue just a little longer.

Mother told me to do whatever I want tonight…

But why did it feel like she'd spent the entire night not doing that? Like something essential was still missing. Something unforgettable.

And maybe… just maybe… that missing piece was standing right in front of her now. Smirking lazily, his eyes dark and knowing. His presence pressed down on her like gravity—heavy, undeniable, and hot enough to set her skin alight.

As Stelle's thoughts twisted and unfurled, another realization flickered through her chest.

This tingling anticipation…

It wasn't about where they would go.

It was about going somewhere…

With him.

Of course, it was reckless. Foolish.

Logically—if she listened to what was "right," to what any decent etiquette teacher or protective friend would advise—she'd just go home. She wouldn't wander off into the night with a gambler she'd met less than twenty-four hours ago over a poker table.

But…

Her heart wanted something different.

And for what felt like the first time in her life, she decided to just—let go. To stop thinking. To let the night carry her wherever it wanted.

If you're going to live… then live fully.

A decisive smile curved her lips, and she nodded.

Ace's grin unfurled slow and sly, fox-like. He tilted his head slightly, and in his eyes flickered a spark that sent tingling pulses skittering down her spine.

His velvet voice broke the quiet:

"There's… another option."

His tone dropped lower, softer. Almost intimate.

"You could come have a drink with me. Not outside. Not in some noisy bar."

Her eyelids fluttered, her breath hitching in her chest. There was nothing overtly suggestive in Ace's words—nothing explicit—and yet they struck her heart with a sweetness so deep it almost hurt. Butterflies erupted in her stomach, wings fluttering wildly in delighted chaos.

A soft pink blush spread across her cheeks.

"Oh…" she breathed out, too quietly to be anything but reflex.

But the raccoon girl didn't look away. Even as his gaze burned into hers—intense, dark, heavy enough to crush her chest. Eyes that seemed like they could see straight into her soul… and steal it if they wished.

No, her rational mind whispered. You should say no. Nothing good will come of this.

That was her angel speaking.

Come on, murmured the demon curled around her heart. He's not really bad. Besides… you'll never see him again after tonight.

The demon's voice rang louder. Clearer.

And so, despite every instinct screaming against it, she gave him a small, nervous smile. Her lips trembled as she whispered:

"… Okay."

His answering smile lit up his entire face. Smooth, effortless, devastating.

Then his hand rose, brushing lightly across her opposite shoulder as he stepped closer. The heat of his touch seared into her skin, making her breath catch in her throat.

"Brave little Queen," he murmured, his voice curling low and warm around her ears.

"I like you more and more."

She flushed instantly, clutching the plush raccoon tighter to her chest as she mumbled,

"Don't… don't say things like that if you don't mean them…"

A soft chuckle rumbled from him. Quiet, amused.

"… Clever too," he hummed in reply.

Then his hand pressed gently against her back, nudging her forward.

And she let him lead her.

Let him guide her away from the fading lights, away from the emptying festival streets, away from everything safe and known—straight into whatever lay waiting in the shadows.

Maybe it would end badly.

No—almost certainly, it was a terrible idea.

But… didn't everyone make mistakes?

Maybe… maybe she wanted to make a mistake. Just this once.

It was stupid. Thoughtless. Dangerous. Every warning bell in her head screamed at her to turn back. But her heart was tired of obeying.

Let it be.

No one would ever know, whatever happened.

And after tonight, she'd never see him again.

Maybe that was for the best.

***

The room welcomed her with a gentle half-darkness.

High ceilings stretched above her. The walls were painted a warm ashen hue and looked smooth as silk. A massive window was covered by heavy dark-blue curtains, with only a thin sliver between them letting in the dim glow of a sky slowly lightening beyond the street lamps.

To the left stood a large bed, its tall headboard upholstered in grey fabric woven with an almost invisible pattern of braided branches. The sheets were perfectly smooth, like the frozen surface of a still lake. At the foot of the bed lay a folded dark blanket, plush and inviting.

Directly opposite was a low dresser, its corners inlaid with silver filigree, and above it hung a wide mirror framed in glossy black metal that caught and reflected what little light there was. In the corner sat a deep graphite sofa and a small coffee table laid out with crisply folded napkins and a crystal carafe of water.

No excess. Nothing gaudy. Only refined simplicity—the kind found in the highest cards of a deck: restrained elegance without showy luxury.

The girl stood at the threshold, clutching Smart Paws tightly to her chest.

Her breathing was uneven. But not out of fear.

Rather… everything felt like too much. Too beautiful. Too intimate. Too unreal. Stelle felt like a character in someone else's story—one she'd stumbled into by accident. A story she had no right to belong to.

Her heart beat so fast it felt like it might bruise her ribs. Beneath them, hundreds of tiny bees seemed to hum and tickle, filling her with something sweet and sharp like wild honey. She felt every single thread of her stockings against her skin, every curve beneath her sweater, every millimeter of air that separated her from Ace.

Her gaze drifted up to the mirror.

Reflected there stood a girl in a hood with little grey ears, wearing a hauntingly beautiful crown she'd already gotten used to—she'd almost forgotten it was there. Her makeup was no longer perfect, her cheeks flushed crimson, her lips parted slightly. But it was her eyes that startled her most.

She didn't even recognize them.

Why did they look so… hazy? Unfocused?

How strange…

Behind her came the quiet click of the door closing. The room seemed to fall even more silent in its wake.

His presence enveloped her from behind—warm, heavy, like a velvet blanket you wanted to sink into forever.

And in her chest bloomed something that felt like molten gold.

Warm.

And terrifying.

All at once.

Ace's soft voice sliced cleanly through the heavy silence:

"Sorry for bringing you to a place like this," he sighed, gesturing for her to come further inside.

The ember-eyed girl nodded awkwardly, clutching Smart Paws tighter against her chest. The anxious thrum in her ribcage refused to settle. She perched herself carefully on the very edge of the sofa, feeling sweat begin to gather on her brow.

Why is it so hot in here?

Meanwhile, Ace moved about with effortless ease. He slipped off his tailcoat jacket in one fluid motion, and her breath caught in her throat.

Shame burned hot beneath her skin—she couldn't tear her gaze away. For the first time, she could truly see the man's body; the crisp white shirt fit him perfectly, sculpting over the lean lines of his chest and arms. Every slight shift pulled the fabric taut in ways that made it difficult to breathe.

Gods…

Every inch of her felt like it was melting straight into the sofa cushions. Heat bloomed low in her stomach, humming there like a swarm of bees.

When she didn't answer, Ace continued, his voice quiet:

"I would've taken you somewhere nicer if I could. Or… just back home with me. But I'm not from around here. Hotels are the only option." He paused, looking at her with an unreadable flicker in his eyes. "Don't think I'm implying anything… improper."

He's… explaining himself to me?

Trying to reassure me?

She blinked, eyes wide, lips parting slightly in surprise.

"O-oh…" her voice trembled, cracking softly before she cleared her throat, forcing a steadier tone. "It's okay. I understand."

A lazy smile curved his lips, but his eyes told a different story. They searched the grey-haired girl's face as if doubting she truly did understand.

Then he stepped closer, speaking in a voice dipped lower than before:

"We're just going to talk, alright?"

His gaze deepened, sharpening with quiet sincerity as he lowered himself onto the sofa beside her—keeping a respectful distance between them.

"I might not look it, but… I didn't bring you here to seduce you. Don't be afraid. I won't touch you against your will."

A small, reassuring smile tugged at his mouth, softening his entire expression.

And Stelle hadn't even realized how badly she needed those words—until the stone lodged in her chest loosened and fell away. For the first time since entering the room, her lungs felt able to expand.

How ridiculous, she thought. How my mind builds entire stories from nothing—and then believes them so easily.

The corners of her lips curved upward, a faint, embarrassed smile breaking free. Slowly, she scooted a little closer to the blond—just enough to keep from toppling right off the edge of the couch.

"That's better," he nodded, leaning back against the couch.

"Has anyone ever told you… you have a beautiful smile?"

Her blush only deepened, burning her cheeks so hot she wondered if they might catch fire. She pouted, mumbling under her breath:

"Do you say that to everyone?"

A mock look of pain flashed across his face. He pressed a gloved hand to his chest dramatically.

"You wound me. Not to everyone—only to those who actually have beautiful smiles. Don't be so suspicious."

She rolled her eyes, grumbling softly.

"Easier said than done…"

A quiet laugh rumbled in his throat. He reached toward the minibar, humming softly as he inspected its contents. Soon enough, he retrieved a bottle of dark, expensive-looking wine, eyeing the label with an approving nod.

The glasses, already set out neatly by the hotel staff, were soon filled with the rich, deep, burgundy liquid.

After only a moment's hesitation, Stelle reached for her glass, gripping it by the stem just as she'd been taught. She swirled it gently, watching the rippling waves of color catch what little light there was. A small, involuntary smile curled her lips.

Of course, it's expensive. What else would he pick…

He lifted his own glass, tilting it toward hers.

"Then… to honesty," he said with a soft smile.

She shot him a skeptical look—like he'd just suggested the dumbest toast imaginable coming from someone like him.

But after a short sigh, she clinked her glass against his anyway. What a ridiculous toast, she thought. Especially coming from a gambler…

Still, she brought the glass to her lips with quiet grace, eyes fluttering shut as she took a small sip. Her eyebrows shot upward in surprise.

"Oh…"

She couldn't help herself—she took another sip, a little larger this time.

"It's… so rich. Sweet."

She smiled at him—genuine, grateful. Sweetness was always her weakness.

How does he keep guessing everything right…?

If only she could have that kind of luck in her own life.

All the while, his gaze never left her. He watched her intently, eyes flicking over every detail—the delicate curve of her fingers around the glass, the perfectly straight posture she held even when relaxed, the way her knees were pressed neatly together, her movements graceful and careful, almost too careful. His lashes lowered slightly as he studied her.

"If you don't mind me asking… what do you do?" he asked thoughtfully, swirling the wine in his glass.

"Are you studying? Working? Or… something else?"

She blinked, her mind spinning. Oh… right. We came here to talk…

A simple, harmless question.

One that wouldn't trouble any normal person with a straightforward life.

But for her… the truth wasn't an option. Not tonight. Not ever.

She inhaled softly, preparing to summon the story she had told so many times before—the legend she wore like armor whenever anyone asked who she really was.

"Ah, I live in a village nearby," she began softly, reciting the story she knew by heart.

"I take care of my grandmother and help her run her little flower stall. Sometimes, when things are stable enough, I come into the city to meet friends. Nothing special, haha."

She'd perfected this legend long ago. It came with built-in excuses for every possible question, crafted carefully to keep her real life hidden.

Ace hummed thoughtfully, his expression neutral, unreadable.

"I see…" he murmured after a pause, glancing at her sidelong.

"That's it? No school? You look like a smart girl… don't you plan on university? An academy, maybe?"

She smiled gently, shaking her head.

"I can't leave my grandmother. She… raised me. That flower stall is her whole life—and I've been helping her since I was little. There's no one else to take care of her."

He leaned back, resting an elbow on the couch and propping his head against his palm, his gaze locking onto her with quiet intensity. Studying her. Analyzing.

Under that stare, she tensed instinctively.

With him, it always felt like he could read her down to the syllables of her soul—just by looking. She'd have to be careful. Very careful.

Before he could fire another probing question that might unravel her carefully spun truth, she shot first.

"And what about you?" she asked quickly, leaning forward a little.

"You must be… someone important, right? I mean, you're rich enough to buy an entire coffin and hire actors just for a minute on stage."

A low chuckle escaped his lips.

"What an interesting conclusion," he mused, his voice taking on a lazy, teasing cadence.

"Depends what you mean by 'important.' Let's just say… my work is indeed quite serious. I don't just sit around casinos all day, manipulating poor drunks into playing with me."

His sly smile flickered across his lips, sharp and bright, and it felt like an arrow shot straight into her chest. She flinched inwardly.

Did he realize that's what I've been thinking about him this whole time?

He continued smoothly:

"That's just a way to pass the time. I don't play with them for profit. Of course, there are serious games in my life, too—not just with tavern fools. But those are… very different. And the minimum stakes there make everything wagered in that tavern look like pocket change."

Her lips parted slightly, forming a small, breathless "oh…"

She stared at him with wide eyes.

"Wow… Have you ever… lost much, then?"

His mouth curled into a playful smirk. He almost laughed at Stelle's phrasing.

"Lost?" he echoed, his tone smooth as velvet, drawing out the word. He took another sip of his wine, and the girl, almost on reflex, mirrored him.

"My Queen… last night was the first time I've lost in years."

Her eyes went round as coins. She nearly choked on her sip, coughing lightly as she gaped at the blond.

"W-what?"

Expecting such a reaction, he let out a quiet sigh.

"Before you jump to conclusions—I didn't let you win on purpose. Remember, I didn't touch the cards."

She nodded, her lips pouting slightly as she mumbled, almost sulking:

"Yes… I admit, I didn't like that strategy. It felt like you weren't taking me seriously…"

She took another small sip of her wine, puffing out her cheeks slightly. It was more playful than truly upset.

Ace simply shrugged, replying with complete calm:

"That's because I wasn't."

Stelle huffed, glaring at him.

"Why not?"

He tilted his head, smile edged with something dry and knowing.

"Think about it. A timid girl in a hood, dressed like a street mouse, comes up and challenges me for something absurdly valuable. She looks like she has no idea what's even going on. And she's doing it… for someone else's sake." He chuckled softly, shrugging again. "It was ridiculous. I almost felt sorry for you."

She wanted to argue. To call Ace out for being rude. But… he wasn't wrong. If their positions had been reversed, she probably would've thought the same.

So, instead, she let out a resigned sigh. But then a sly little smile tugged at her lips. Stelle tilted her head, eyes glittering mischievously as she winked.

"And yet… in the end, you lost to the little mouse in the trap. How ironic."

He didn't look offended at all. If anything, his smile softened further, warmth flickering across his features as he leaned forward slightly, gaze locking onto hers.

"I admit… I misjudged you. And I paid for it. Fair and square."

She giggled victoriously, raising her chin in playful pride. Lifting her glass high, she declared in a grand voice:

"To my glorious victory over the great gambler himself!"

A quiet laugh rumbled from his chest. He didn't argue. Their glasses clinked gently, the clear sound filling the room with its quiet music.

Before she realized it, her glass was empty again. Well… she thought, a little light-headed, it really is delicious…

Combined with all the cider she'd had earlier, the world felt slightly fuzzy around the edges. Almost… pleasantly so.

Ace didn't comment on her pace. Like a true gentleman, he simply refilled her glass. His own, now empty, was also replenished—perhaps deliberately emptied faster so as not to make her feel embarrassed about her speed.

The crowned raccoon girl hadn't even noticed when exactly they'd ended up sitting so close. Close enough that his knee occasionally brushed against hers again.

It had already been hard to breathe before. But now, with the realization sinking in—the quiet pressing down on them like thick velvet—it hit her all at once, sending her head spinning even faster. Everything felt hazy, dreamlike.

His warmth seemed to vibrate in sync with her own. Every rise and fall of his chest as he breathed, every slight shift of his long, gloved fingers, the lazy curve of his half-smile, the side profile of his sharp features—

Everything about Ace was too much.

Too good.

So good it almost angered her. Angered her that her body reacted to the man's mere presence so violently. Just him sitting there on the same couch, not even an arm's reach away, made her heart pound so loud she feared he could hear it.

In fact… she was pretty sure the whole city could hear it right now.

And the knowledge that they were alone here… that no one could interrupt them… and that all his attention was focused solely on her—

That didn't help.

At all.

Then his deep voice rumbled through the quiet, cutting straight through her chest.

"Tell me…"

Her heart stuttered painfully. The blond man's gaze locked onto amber eyes, pinning her in place.

"Your grandmother… is she a poker-lover? Or is there a secret high-end casino in your little village I've never heard of? Texas Hold 'em isn't common knowledge. Most people I've played with didn't know it existed. And those who did… they've never been to villages."

Oh.

Stelle's heart, which had been racing just a second ago, suddenly froze.

Her eyes widened, lips parting soundlessly. Panic lit up in her mind, crackling like wildfire.

Of course. Of course, something would slip through, even in Stelle's carefully constructed story. She'd given him so little, and yet… this gambler saw right through her in an instant.

She needed to come up with something—fast.

But in her fuzzy, slightly drunken state, her mind was refusing to cooperate. The girl's eyes darted around, desperately searching for words. Her poker face refused to settle back onto her features.

"Y-Yeah… you're right," she blurted out, trying to keep her voice steady. "My grandmother was really into poker. Sounds funny, I know… but instead of bedtime stories, she used to tell me poker legends. We'd play together at night. I remember… our bets were always something silly, like 'If I win, you go straight to sleep,' and mine was, 'If I win, I don't have to go to school tomorrow.'"

The girl forced a shaky little laugh, shrugging lightly.

"Guess who always won?"

She could only pray that the quickness and detail of her answer would be enough to convince him to drop it.

She watched his face intently, scanning every micro-expression in his features. The blond's eyes narrowed slightly, a flicker of doubt glinting within them, but he didn't say anything further.

His lips curved into a soft smile, his gaze suddenly gentler.

"I see…" he murmured, his voice quiet, thoughtful.

"That's probably the most touching origin story for a poker interest I've ever heard."

A quiet laugh escaped him. Ace lifted his glass and took a slow sip, gesturing for the girl to do the same.

"Mine wasn't nearly as charming."

Stelle tilted her head slightly, blinking at him with curious eyes, silently asking him to continue.

His gaze grew distant, almost wistful.

"Nothing special. Just… the thrill. The money. The anticipation of what'll happen next—victory or defeat. Not knowing if you'll lose everything… or gain far more. It pulls you in."

She nodded in understanding.

Though her grandmother story was fabricated, the truth wasn't so different. Her mother had loved poker. She'd been surrounded by cards since childhood. So she didn't feel too guilty about twisting the details.

But then—

"By the way…"

His tone dropped lower, huskier. Stelle's chest tightened instantly.

His eyes drifted down from her face to her hand. Clutching the plush raccoon.

"Did you really not like the ring?"

The grey-haired girl's eyes flew wide. She froze, going completely still like a deer caught in moonlight.

Her gaze snapped down to her hand, as if to double-check its absence—even though she knew perfectly well where it was. She'd thrown it away in frustration that night, unable to sleep, haunted by the phantom burn of his kiss.

A blush blossomed hot across her cheeks. Words tangled on her tongue. There was no way she could tell him the truth.

A nervous laugh escaped her lips as she scrambled for an explanation, her voice trembling despite her best efforts to sound casual.

"I… I did like it. Really. It's just… it didn't match my raccoon costume, you know? I didn't want to stand out with something so expensive. But I kept it, don't worry. Thank you… really."

The gambler hummed softly, tilting his head to the side as he studied her. A small, warm smile curved his lips, and right then and there—she melted inside.

His free hand slipped off the back of the couch. Before Stelle realized it, his fingers brushed gently against hers, curling softly beneath her palm.

She flinched at the contact, her breath hitching in her chest.

But she didn't pull away.

If anything—her fingers tightened slightly around his. Her heart fluttered wildly like a trapped bird.

Then his voice—low, velvet-soft—washed over her, making her shiver:

"That's a shame. Because if you ask me… there isn't a single person in this world who could wear something beautiful like that better than you."

Her face flushed bright red once again. She let out a shaky breath, her eyelashes fluttering against her cheeks.

"Can I… ask you something?" she whispered.

There was a question—no, several questions—that had been gnawing at her since their last "meeting." Truthfully, she'd never imagined she'd get the chance to voice them. Least of all to him.

But now, in this quiet, intimate space, it didn't feel quite so impossible.

He turned to her with a curious look, silently giving her permission.

She swallowed, gathering every ounce of courage as she asked:

"Why… why did you give it to me? Why… that finger?"

The last part came out in a tiny, hesitant voice. Stelle barely recognized herself, feeling so shy and exposed under his gaze. But she couldn't stop.

His fingers tightened gently around hers. The blond still hadn't let go of her hand—and every passing second of that touch sent her chest fluttering with frantic butterflies.

A quiet sigh left his lips.

"I wasn't lying, you know." His voice was calm, almost thoughtful. "I really did want you to have something… to remember me by. For managing to completely surpass my expectations. For wrapping me around your little finger."

He shrugged slightly, lips twitching with the barest hint of a smile.

"As for the finger… well. I'm not sure if my answer will disappoint you, but… that was the only ring that fit you. The others were too big. This one… fit your ring finger perfectly."

The simplicity of his explanation nearly made her laugh.

Laugh at herself.

Laugh at how she'd spent the entire day spiraling into wild thoughts, how her dreams had twisted a simple keepsake into a pair of shackles.

Overthinking is always dangerous, she thought, a quiet exhale slipping from her lips. This is exactly why…

But instead of disappointment, relief flooded her chest. Another heavy stone lifted from her shoulders.

"I see…" she breathed out softly. "Then… since we're already on this topic…"

There was one more question.

One that flashed in neon-red inside her mind, burning so bright it hurt. She hadn't dared even to whisper it to herself. Even thinking it made her heart seize up painfully, made her lungs refuse to take in air.

Her knees pressed together tightly, her hands trembling where she clasped them around her plush raccoon. She swallowed hard, trying to muster the courage.

His waiting gaze… the soft warmth of his fingers wrapped around hers… none of it made it any easier.

In fact—it made her feel like she might fall apart entirely.

The ember-eyed girl downed the rest of her wine in one gulp, grimacing slightly as the alcohol burned its way down her throat. Setting the glass aside with trembling fingers, she exhaled shakily—and asked:

"Why did you kiss me?"

The question slipped out so quietly, so suddenly, that for a moment she didn't even realize she'd said it out loud.

Then, its full weight hit her.

Her entire body ignited in an instant, burning from her cheeks to the tips of her ears. She squeezed her eyes shut as if bracing herself for a blow.

And in a way… one came.

Stelle's heart thudded so violently in her chest it drowned out every other sound. Every muscle trembled, her stomach curling in tight, anxious knots.

There was a pause. A silence so heavy it pressed down on her lungs, refusing to let her breathe.

The young man's grip on her hand loosened. The warmth she'd clung to all this time faded, bit by bit.

Stelle held her breath, feeling it catch painfully in her throat.

And then—

His voice, cool and calm, delivered its quiet verdict:

"I promised the first lady that her kiss would go to whoever won. You won. I always pay my debts."

She froze.

Her heart, so loud just moments before, went utterly still.

Her vision blurred slightly as tears pricked behind her eyes. Her breath came out in a shaky, silent gasp. Slowly, mechanically, she turned her head to look at him.

He sat there, expression unreadable, glass still in his hand.

She stared at him like she was seeing a ghost.

Every question that had haunted her, every hope that had kept her awake last night, every fluttering dream she'd let herself believe in—

All of it shattered in a single, mundane explanation.

The truth hit her like a rogue wave in a raging sea, crashing over her, dragging her down, leaving her soaked and freezing in its wake.

Of course.

Of course, it was just that.

Stelle had completely forgotten about that "bet," never once connecting the dots in her mind. Never once thinking it could have been that simple.

Everything her imagination had built—every fantasy, every secret longing—was just that. A fantasy. A misinterpretation. A lie she told herself.

His words from that night—"You forgot something."

They weren't teasing. They weren't flirting. They were… just the truth. A reminder to pay up.

She felt his fingers slip away completely as she pulled her hand back into her lap, clutching Smart Paws to her chest like a lifeline.

She felt so stupid.

So unbearably foolish that it made her stomach twist painfully with shame.

Her breath escaped in a ragged exhale.

"I see… so it was just a debt."

Stelle tried to keep her voice steady. Tried to keep the bitterness from seeping out. But it was there, woven into every quiet syllable.

She refused to look at him. Her eyes dropped to the floor, her shoulders curling in as she shrank inward.

And gods… it hurt.

So much more than her rational mind could ever understand.

A hollow, echoing ache spread through her chest, leaving her empty and cold.

What a fool I am…

"The first kiss—yes." His deep voice cut through the suffocating silence, making her flinch and her heart clench painfully tight. "But the second one… that was from me."

Stelle turned to him sharply, her wide eyes searching his face in stunned confusion. The words sank in slowly, like honey melting through her chest.

And then she remembered.

She had pulled away from him after that first kiss. She'd broken it off herself.

But then… he'd kissed her again. Deeper.

Just the memory of it sent heat coursing through her entire body despite everything. Despite the sting that had throbbed in her chest moments before.

Could it really be…?

The emptiness inside her slowly began to fill again, and this time, warmth spread through her chest with quiet, gentle strength. Her cheeks flushed pink, her brows trembling as her eyes softened. A shy, relieved smile curved her lips.

The girl hadn't meant to show so much. To let her relief bloom so openly across her face. But she couldn't control it anymore. Not with the wine blurring her thoughts, not with his presence wrapping around her like a velvet shroud.

Ace exhaled softly, his gaze tracing her glowing eyes.

"You want something deeper from me," he murmured. There was no teasing in his voice this time. No smirk. Just quiet honesty. "But I'm not that kind of man. I don't have any profound or sentimental answers to give you."

His words held no cruelty, only truth.

But then…

The blond leaned in closer, and his warm breath danced across her flushed cheek.

He reached up, fingers curling around the glasses perched on his nose—those same glasses the raccoon girl had so shamelessly stolen from him before—and slipped them off. Carefully, he placed them down on the table beside them before turning his head back to her.

Allowing her to see them.

Those unusual, mesmerizing eyes. Purples and aquamarines against each other, truly a wonder.

She let out a quiet, breathless exhale, blinking in wonder.

And for the first time, without illusions clouding her sight—without rose-colored fantasies—she truly saw him.

No, there wasn't love in those eyes. But there was warmth. A gentle, flickering heat reached out to her, sinking into her chest and wrapping around her soul.

Her lips twitched upward in a small, unguarded smile as she let herself drink him in, her gaze lingering on every glimmer of his irises.

His following words fell like a feather between them, soft but heavy, brushing over her trembling heart.

"…What if I told you," he whispered, his voice lower, rougher now, "that I kissed you… just because I wanted to?"

His face was so close. So unbearably close. But it wasn't enough.

Her heart ached, her lower belly burned with restless heat, her breaths came quick and shallow—and she knew he could feel every single one against his skin.

Her half-lidded, hazy eyes never left his.

Her cheeks glowed with a deep, flushed pink.

Their noses were barely an inch apart. The blond man's hand rested casually on the back of the couch behind her, but his fingertips brushed lightly against her thigh.

It was nothing. Barely a touch.

But for her… it felt like a sweet, excruciating torture.

She forgot how to move. How to breathe. How to exist.

The stretch of distance between them—those last few centimeters—felt like a universe. So close, yet everything hung in the balance.

Then, with a trembling, desperate little movement, she tilted her head just enough for the tip of her nose to brush against his, sliding gently along the bridge.

Ace's breath hitched.

For a split second, something flickered in his eyes—something hot, dark, and electric—before his eyelids lowered.

And his lips found hers.

In that instant, it felt like an atomic bomb detonated inside her chest. No—inside her entire being.

Every drop of tension that had been gathering within her all night overflowed at once, bursting through her in a tidal wave of molten heat. It spread everywhere—down her arms, across her stomach, between her thighs.

Her hips squeezed together involuntarily as tingling, pulsing heat coiled low in her belly, setting every nerve alight.

Her heart felt like it was about to stop. Or explode. There was no in-between. Her whole body trembled, a shiver running down her spine and blooming out into her limbs.

All from a simple touch of the lips.

But this time, it hit so much harder and felt so much more intense than it had the night before.

The aching pull in her lower stomach throbbed so sweetly it was almost painful. She squirmed slightly on the couch, unable to keep still, her thighs pressing closer together as a soft whimper slipped from her lips into the blond man's mouth.

His arm, which had been draped casually along the back of the sofa, moved down. His hand slid firmly around the girl's waist, pulling her closer. Closer until their bodies pressed flush together.

A tiny, high-pitched squeak escaped her throat, muffled by the kiss.

Gods, it was so hot.

Stelle regretted that she was wearing only her sweater and that ridiculous hood. Heat pooled under the fabric, radiating outward, making her feel like she was boiling alive.

His lips were hot. Soft.

He kissed her slowly, unhurriedly, savoring every second their mouths were connected. He gave attention to each of her lips in turn, never pulling away, never breaking the intoxicating rhythm. The heat radiating from his face burned against hers, making her forget how to breathe.

And she… she tried to follow him, to move in sync with his lips, cautious and trembling—like she was tasting a forbidden fruit for the very first time.

Ace exhaled a low, ragged breath, and the deep, guttural sound rumbled through his chest, vibrating straight into hers. It rolled down her stomach like warm honey, settling low in her belly where it pulsed and throbbed with heated intensity.

She gasped softly, a small moan slipping past her lips.

His fingers tightened around her waist, pulling her closer. Closer still, as though the few inches left between them were unacceptable.

He pulled back just slightly, just enough to look at her with those mesmerizing eyes of his. His gaze was heavy, searing right through her. She was panting, her chest rising and falling rapidly, struggling to keep up with her racing heart. Her cheeks burned, her thighs trembled, and a sticky, cloying heat pooled low in her belly, leaving her aching with a sweet, unknown anticipation.

Ace's breath came out uneven, his darkened eyes glazed with a heat that sent her head spinning. A small, amused chuckle ghosted across his lips, and she felt it against her mouth, every vibration shooting straight down her spine.

His gaze flicked to her parted lips. He waited—giving her time to pull away if she wanted.

But she didn't move.

She didn't want to.

With one smooth motion, Ace pulled her onto his lap, his strong hands gripping her thighs as he settled her astride him. His fingers squeezed her waist firmly, holding her in place as he leaned in again.

His lips captured hers in a kiss that was deeper, hungrier than before. His tongue slid along Stelle's lower lip, and she parted them instantly, letting him in. Her entire body shivered at the new sensation.

His tongue was warm, his movements confident and deliberate, exploring her with slow, teasing strokes. Every touch felt commanding, purposeful, making her melt into him further with each passing second.

Her hands found their way around his neck, fingers curling into his hair as she pressed closer, wanting—needing—to feel every inch of him. The world around her blurred into nothingness. There was only him—his taste, his scent, his warmth, his presence that consumed her entirely.

A low groan escaped his throat, vibrating against her lips, sinking into her bones. The sound made her whimper softly, her body tightening in response. His hand slid down from her waist to her thigh, gripping it firmly.

Even through the leather of his glove, the heat of his touch burned into her skin.

She shifted restlessly in his lap, her hips rolling forward slightly, desperate for more contact. Her body felt like it was on fire. Every nerve ending screamed with sensitivity. She could feel his firm chest pressing against her through her sweater, the warmth of his skin bleeding through the thin cotton. She could feel the taut muscles of his torso flexing under his shirt, feel every solid line and curve of him as though nothing were separating them at all.

And she felt him, hard and unyielding beneath her. Every tiny movement of her hips sent a molten wave of pleasure curling through her, leaving her dizzy and breathless with want.

The young man's fingers on her thigh tightened, sliding just slightly lower.

His kiss deepened, turning rougher, more demanding. He caught the girl's lower lip between his teeth and bit down softly.

A quiet, broken whimper escaped her throat as her head tipped back instinctively, exposing her neck to him.

Ace wasted no time. His lips left hers, trailing across her flushed cheek, down to her chin, and finally found the sensitive skin of her neck.

He inhaled her scent deeply, the tip of his nose brushing along her milky skin before his teeth grazed the delicate flesh just beneath her ear and bit down lightly.

Stelle's entire body trembled violently. Her legs shook where they straddled him. A high, airy moan slipped from her lips as her fingers dug into his shoulders, clinging to his shirt so hard she was sure her nails might leave marks on his skin beneath.

He still wore those vampire fangs from the festival. She could feel them—not only when he bit her lips earlier, but now, as they pressed into her neck. They weren't sharp enough to pierce her skin, but the sensation was still so vivid, so biting. It sent waves of searing heat straight to her lower belly.

A ragged exhale tore from his chest. His breath was hot, heavy, fanning across the grey-haired girl's skin.

His lips teased her neck with kisses—slow, insistent kisses that made her entire body erupt in goosebumps. Her breaths came out quick and shallow, each one trembling. She was panting so hard now it could only be described as hyperventilation. Her moans and gasping cries slipped out between each breath, raw and uncontrolled.

When he bit down softly on her neck just above her collarbone, her body jolted, and she let out a breathless, desperate little cry of his name.

At that moment, he crashed his lips back onto hers—kissing her slowly this time, deeply, savoring every trembling sigh, every delicious shiver that coursed through her body, every soft, embarrassed sound that fell from her lips.

When his tongue brushed lightly against hers, she let out a tiny, squeaking gasp that was so honest, so vulnerable, that Ace exhaled into her mouth—a quiet, rough chuckle that was more surprised than mocking.

His hand on her thigh slid higher, fingers brushing the hem of her sweater but not slipping underneath. Instead, he gripped her firmly there, his touch possessive, grounding her in place—reminding her silently that she was here, perched atop him, entirely within his power.

But he didn't push further.

Stelle felt like she was losing her mind.

Her thoughts tangled into a dizzy haze, her brain felt like it was simmering in its own heat. Her lower belly ached with a deep, pulsing throb that was almost too much to bear.

She didn't even understand what was happening anymore. Every time her mind tried to process it—tried to truly realize that she was sitting in Ace's lap, letting him kiss her like this, touch her like this—her thoughts short-circuited.

What terrified her most was how much she loved it.

Gods… she loved it. Every single second. Even though she knew it didn't mean anything. Even though she knew she'd only end up hurt.

His lips returned to her bottom lip, nipping it softly, tugging lightly before letting go.

A small, broken sound slipped from her lips. It was quiet, so quiet—but soaked with sweet, breathless need. She barely recognized her own voice anymore.

When he finally pulled back, their lips still brushed faintly together—close enough to tease but no longer fully kissing. His breath came out hot and steady, while hers was ragged, uneven, trembling.

His eyes were half-lidded, lashes casting long shadows across his sharp cheekbones. Ace stared at the girl so closely she could see every fleck of color in his irises, every delicate swirl of that rare, beautiful heterochromia.

Then his voice, low and velvet-smooth, rumbled softly:

"The little raccoon queen has turned into such a sweet kitten…"

His thumb brushed gently across her lips, swollen and damp from his kisses, wiping away the moisture with delicate precision. A small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

Stelle flushed even deeper, the heat rising to the tips of her ears. She tried to look away, overwhelmed by the intensity of his gaze, but his hand moved up to cradle her cheek, holding her in place, forcing her to meet his eyes.

Her heart felt like it might burst.

"When you make that face…" The blond's voice rumbled low and rough, tinged with a stained rasp that sent shivers cascading down her spine. His thumb stroked gently across her flushed cheek, each caress making her heart flutter. "…it makes it a lot harder for me to control myself."

His other hand traced soothing circles along her lower back. Stelle exhaled shakily, eyelashes fluttering against her cheeks. But his next words—

She didn't like them.

"But we should stop here."

The warmth of his palm left her face, leaving her skin burning in its absence. His hand moved to her waist, guiding her gently, carefully off his lap.

Stelle's thighs tightened around his hips, holding him firmly in place. Her arms wrapped around his shoulders, clutching his shirt tightly between trembling fingers.

A molten wave of heat rippled low in her belly, spreading out in sticky, cloying pulses when a deep, surprised groan tore from his chest.

She looked up at him, her amber eyes hazy and unfocused, lips parted slightly as she swallowed hard. The tips of her ears burned red.

His eyes widened, flickers of surprise flashing across them—surprise battling against the smoldering heat already burning bright within their depths.

Yet still, his iron self-control did not waver. He let out a slow breath, shaking his head slightly.

"Ray." He rarely called her that. Hearing it now pulled her from the haze wrapping around her mind. Her eyes widened, blinking up at him in surprise.

"You don't even understand what you're doing…" he murmured, his voice low and serious. "Don't play with me like this."

His tone made the girl's insides twist and clench with a strange, sweet tightness. She knew she probably should feel afraid. But instead… an entirely different kind of heat flared low in her belly, curling around her chest like hot silk.

The ember-eyed girl exhaled shakily, her eyes flickering down to his lips—those same lips that had driven her mad with their kisses moments ago. Now, they felt so impossibly far away again.

Thinking was hard. Speaking was even harder. But Stelle forced her scattered mind to gather enough to form the question in a soft, trembling voice:

"…What do you mean?"

Judging by the flicker in his brow, the small click of his tongue, and the quiet, almost exasperated sigh that followed—this question had caught him off guard. Especially coming out in that curious tone… with that confused, wide-eyed gaze.

"I can't believe I have to explain this…" he muttered under his breath, almost to himself.

He let out a heavier sigh.

"Ray, what do you take me for? I'm no knight in shining armor. If we keep going, if you keep looking at me like that… you're going to regret coming here. I'll lose control, and I'll take you. Do I really have to spell it out?"

Stelle's breath hitched.

His words weren't romantic. They were blunt, unfiltered.

But pierced right through her, like an electric shock sparking through every nerve ending. The heat pooling low in her belly pulsed even stronger, throbbing with an intensity that made her thighs clench tighter around the blond. She swallowed hard, eyelashes fluttering as she gazed up at the gambler through half-lidded eyes.

"Don't… look at me like that…" Ace rasped, turning his head slightly away from her burning stare.

But Stelle didn't stop.

Her grip on his shoulders loosened, hands sliding down his chest instead. The girl could feel the rapid thrum of his heart beneath her palms, the heat radiating through the thin fabric of his shirt into her trembling fingers.

"Why?" she whispered softly, her breath ghosting against his ear.

The blond man shivered beneath her, a deep, guttural sound rumbling from his chest, vibrating through her hands and down into her belly.

His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed hard.

"Because…" his voice came out low and strained, almost broken. "…I don't want to take your innocence. You're different. Even someone like me has enough of a conscience left not to steal something like that from you."

Her eyes widened, brows arching high. She stared at Ace's side profile, searching for any hint of dishonesty, any flicker of falsehood.

But found none.

Someone like him… caring about concepts like innocence? Calling her different?

Did he really mean that?

Or… was this just an excuse? A gentle way to reject her? To turn her down without hurting her pride?

Perhaps he found her undesirable, pitiful, and this was simply his way of sparing her feelings.

A quiet, trembling doubt curled coldly around her heart.

Her heart twisted painfully in her chest.

Of course… that's it. That's the problem.

If Stelle were sober, she would have stayed silent. This situation wouldn't have even happened in the first place. But now—now that her entire soul ached with longing, now that her untouched, aching body screamed silently for more of his warmth and attention—she couldn't hold it back.

Tears welled at the corners of her eyes as she whispered, voice trembling:

"You don't like me, do you…?"

Of course not.

The raccoon girl wasn't surprised. Her appearance was plain compared to others—compared to someone like March, for example. Especially when hiding behind grey clothes and that stupid hood.

Ace froze.

His eyes widened slightly, his brows pulling together. Finally, he looked at Stelle again.

When the blond didn't answer right away, when he paused, her heart sank deeper into cold, suffocating darkness.

He didn't deny it.

He didn't say no.

He… thought about it.

Which means it's true.

The grey-haired girl curled in on herself, crushed by self-loathing. Her heart felt like it was being shredded apart, each beat scraping painfully against her chest.

If that was the truth, then… it was better to stop bothering him with her pitiful neediness.

Her amber eyes broke away from his as a quiet, broken apology slipped from her lips:

"Sorry…"

The girl swallowed, her throat burning. Her fingers slipped from his shoulders as she slowly slid off his lap, down onto the couch beside him. The sudden loss of his heat felt like being plunged into icy water.

Stelle couldn't bear to look at him now. She felt so pathetic. So small. Clinging to him, interrogating him like a desperate child when the truth had been obvious all along.

Mustering what little strength remained, she reached out with trembling fingers for Smart Paws, abandoned in the corner of the sofa during their heated moment. Hugged the little raccoon tightly against her chest as she forced herself to stand on unsteady, shaking legs.

Her knees nearly buckled beneath her. Entire body felt weak, trembling with humiliation and heartbreak.

She drew in a ragged breath, her voice barely a whisper:

"Then I'll go. It's late…"

I just want to disappear. Hide in the nearest gutter and never come out again. Forget that my first rejection ever happened.

The word rejection cut deeper than she thought possible, slicing through her chest and leaving it hollow.

Stelle hoped—foolishly—that he would stop her. That he would tell her she'd misunderstood. That it wasn't like that.

But he remained silent.

Hugging Smart Paws tighter, she took a single hesitant step toward the door.

Maybe… just maybe…

One last chance for him to stop her.

But…

Nothing.

Biting her lips until they hurt, she turned and bolted for the door. Her only thought was to escape—escape from this humiliation, from this burning shame boiling her alive from the inside out.

Her fingers grasped the cold metal handle. Its chill seared against her feverish skin.

She pulled... almost.

Before strong hands yanked Stelle back with force, spinning her away from the door. The girl's back hit the nearest wall with a soft thud, and before she could process what was happening, two hands slammed down on either side of her, caging her in.

The blond man's palms pressed firm against the wall, trapping her in place. One slid down, gripping her waist tightly.

For the briefest moment, she caught sight of his eyes—

And in them burned a dangerous, dark fire that reignited every smoldering flame within her as though they'd never gone out at all.

His lips crashed against hers, rough and demanding, stealing her breath in an instant. A soft, broken gasp slipped out of her mouth, her knees buckling beneath her.

This kiss was unlike those earlier ones.

If she had thought his earlier kisses were intense, then this… this was something else entirely. This was fire. This was hunger so consuming it burned away everything else.

Every movement of Ace's lips, every sweep of his tongue, every teasing bite left her dizzy, gasping, unable to think. He gave her no chance to catch her breath—kissing her again and again and again, as if even a single second apart might kill him.

Poor Smart Paws slipped from her shaky hands once more, landing softly on the floor.

Stelle couldn't stand. Her legs felt like melting wax beneath her, threatening to give out completely.

But his knee pressed firmly between her thighs, pinning her in place against the wall. At the same time, a bolt of electric heat shot through the girl's entire body, leaving her crying out in a shaky, ragged moan. Her fingers clawed desperately at his back, digging into his shirt as her mind spun wildly out of control.

Stelle's head felt dizzy, thoughts dissolving into incoherent fragments. All she could focus on was him. The way his leg pressed against her pulsing, aching heat. The delicious friction that made her want to grind down against him, to chase that pleasure building low in her belly.

His hot breath, the iron grip of his hands, the heat of his body—all of it stole away the last shreds of her rationality.

And Stelle didn't care.

She didn't want it back, anyway.

One of Ace's hands slid up to her neck, fingers curling gently around her slender throat. Not squeezing—never squeezing—but guiding, tilting her head to the side, exposing her delicate skin to him.

His lips tore away from hers, trailing a feverish, wet path down her jaw, across her throat. Pressed hot, open-mouthed kisses against every inch of her sensitive neck, his tongue teasing, his teeth nipping softly at her racing pulse.

Stelle's head fell back, hitting the wall lightly, eyes fluttering closed as another breathless moan slipped from her parted lips. It felt good. Too good. Each kiss sent a tingling shiver rolling down her spine, making her toes curl.

His lips brushed along the shell of her ear, planting a gentle kiss against the earlobe before his teeth tugged it lightly.

Stars exploded behind Stelle's closed eyelids.

A high, trembling cry tore from her throat, so loud she barely recognized herself. Her entire body shivered violently in Ace's hold, trembling like a leaf caught in a hurricane.

His hand slid up to cradle her jaw, thumb stroking softly across her flushed cheek. The tender touch burned hotter than anything else, making the girl's chest tighten with overwhelming emotion.

Stelle was overflowing.

She wanted—needed—to give something back to him. To show him just how much she wanted him. Just how much he was breaking her.

Breathing heavily, her lips—swollen, red, slick from his kisses—pressed lightly against the pad of his thumb. Kissed it softly, shyly, tasting the salt of her own skin mixed with his faint smokiness.

A deep growl rumbled from his chest, vibrating through her ears and down into her belly. The sound sent another sharp, thrilling shiver coursing through her, and a small, high-pitched whimper escaped her lips at the way it tickled and ignited every nerve ending inside her.

He liked that…

Ace was giving her so much. Touching her, holding her, driving her to the brink of madness with every kiss and every brush of his tongue.

Then… can't I do something for him, too…?

Stelle pressed soft, lingering kisses against his thumb again and again, her lips brushing over the rough pad delicately, almost worshipfully. The blond's breath hitched against her neck, ragged and uneven, sending jolts of heat darting down her spine.

Gods, his reactions awakened something inside her that she hadn't even known existed.

Without thinking, without even realizing what she was doing, she parted her lips and took his thumb into her mouth.

Wet heat enveloped his finger as her tongue slid slowly along it, tasting the faint salt and smokiness of his skin.

Ace froze.

A sharp, low hiss tore from his chest as his body pressed flush against hers. It was only then that Stelle felt him—hard, pulsing hot where he pressed against her hip—and a shaky whimper escaped her throat at the sensation.

"Ray…"

Her "name" fell from his lips in a quiet, throaty growl—deep and raw, almost feral—and the sound rippled through her entire body, leaving goosebumps in its wake.

The girl's eyes fluttered open, half-lidded and hazy, darkened with an unfocused, molten glow. There was no trace of rationality left within them as she sucked softly on his thumb, her tongue playing around it as though it were the little spider lollipop she'd treasured so much.

His sharp, desperate moan was worth it a thousand times over, sending an explosion of fluttering butterflies through her stomach and lower belly, leaving her thighs clenching involuntarily around him.

"Damn…"

He bit down hard on his lower lip, his head tipping back for a moment as his eyes screwed shut. When he looked back down at her, his gaze burned hot enough to set her alight, every flicker of purple and aquamarine swirling with dark, molten want.

"What are you doing to me…"

The words slipped from him in a quiet, almost broken murmur, so soft it felt like they weren't meant for her to hear. Carefully, almost reluctantly, he pulled his thumb free from her mouth, the wet sound it made as it slipped out, sending a fresh wave of heat pulsing through her core.

For a brief, terrifying moment, panic flickered through her chest.

Did I do something wrong? Did I go too far?

But he didn't give her time to spiral.

In one smooth, effortless motion, his firm arms scooped her up against his chest, lifting her bridal style. Stelle let out a startled, breathy squeak, clinging to his shoulders as he carried her with ease.

He tossed her gently onto the soft bed behind him. She bounced lightly against the sheets, her crown slipping free and tumbling onto the nightstand with a quiet clink. The hood fell back completely, releasing her silver hair to spill out around her head like a glowing halo across the pillows.

Honestly… who cares at this point?

Stelle reached up with shaking fingers, sliding the hood entirely off. Her hair fell freely around her, glimmering in the low light like strands of moonlight against the bedding.

Ace loomed over her, braced on his hands, caging her in completely. His eyes roamed slowly across her face, dark with heat but softened by something else. Something that almost looked like tenderness.

It made the girl's lips curve up in a small, shy smile, her chest tightening with warmth.

The man's gaze locked onto hers, burning with quiet intensity.

"You're beautiful, Ray,"

He reached out, brushing a stray lock of her silver hair away from her face, curling it gently around his fingers. Then, lifting it to his lips, he pressed a slow, reverent kiss against the shimmering strand.

Her cheeks flushed a deeper crimson, eyelashes fluttering rapidly. That small gesture—so quiet, so unexpectedly intimate—made her chest burn with molten heat.

Then suddenly, Ace reached up to his head, fingers curling around the brim of his hat. For a brief second, he paused, frozen in place.

Stelle held her breath as well.

There's no way...

In one smooth movement, he lifted the hat and tossed it aside, sending it to land next to her discarded crown. Just like that. Like it didn't matter in the first place.

Stelle stared up at him, completely forgetting how to breathe.

His perfect blond hair fell down in messy, tousled waves, framing his perfectly balanced between sharpness and softness features in a way that was almost painfully beautiful. Every strand caught the dim light, shimmering like threads of gold. It suited him—made him look softer, more human, and yet even more breathtaking.

Their eyes locked, neither of them looking away. It felt like they were truly seeing each other for the first time. And in a way—they were.

For the first time, neither of them wore their armor.

Another wall between them shattered.

They moved at the same time. Stelle's hands slid up, wrapping around his neck, fingers tangling gently in his soft blond hair. Ace let out a low exhale as his arm snaked around her waist, pulling her up closer until their lips crashed together again.

Their kiss was a dance of hungry passion. Every brush of the blond's mouth against hers sent ripples of heat coursing through Stelle's body. She melted against him, pressing closer, her chest tight with overwhelming emotion.

She felt his deft fingers at her waist, working their way up to the buttons of his shirt. One by one, he popped them open.

When the fabric finally left his shoulders, Stelle's breath caught in her throat.

Her hands trembled as they rose to touch him, resting lightly against the bare, heated skin around his shoulders. Could feel every inch of him now—every line of muscle, every slight twitch beneath her palms as he moved. He was so warm. So alive beneath her fingertips.

The gloves slipped off next, tossed aside carelessly. Ace's now bare hands slid down the girl's sides, fingers curling around her waist. Even through the thick cotton of the sweater, his touch burned hot and commanding.

He squeezed her firmly, grounding her in place. But then—

Pulled back from her lips.

A faint whimper slipped from Stelle's throat at the loss, her gaze snapping up to meet his with desperate, pleading eyes.

The girl's chest tightened with a sudden, painful ache. The familiar cold of anxiety prickled at her skin.

Did I do something wrong?

He looked at her then, his gaze dark and unreadable, flickering with hesitance.

Stelle's heart skipped a beat, the world narrowing down to the space between them and the echo of her ragged breathing.

Ace turned his head slightly to the side, his blond hair falling forward to obscure his side profile. The raccoon girl couldn't see what he was doing, but his arm moved subtly, reaching down toward his pants pocket. When he turned back to her, his eyes burned with renewed intensity.

Before she could even process what he had taken off or put away, his lips crashed down onto hers with sudden, desperate force.

A startled squeak slipped out of Stelle's mouth, quickly melting into a soft, relieved moan as his tongue swept across hers. Her belly clenched tight, molten heat pooling low between her thighs. Every small shift of her hips sent slick friction skimming along her already-soaked underwear, making her gasp softly.

That shameful thought that she might be leaking through the shorts sparked fresh heat across her cheeks. Still, it vanished almost immediately under the burning sensation of Ace's kiss.

Then it hit her.

The sharp press of his fangs was gone.

Stelle couldn't feel the tips of them anymore, couldn't feel their teasing bite against her lips. It felt strange. Strangely… normal. Almost disappointingly so. A small, breathless giggle bubbled up in her chest at the realization, escaping against his mouth as their lips moved together.

He swallowed her laugh with a deeper kiss, his tongue sliding against hers before he bit down lightly on it. The sudden sting sent a tremor jolting through her chest, stealing her breath in an instant.

The grey-haired girl didn't realize she was falling until her back hit the mattress, the softness of the bed cradling her. Ace hovered above her, his hand braced beside the girl's head. His thigh pressed firmly between hers, and she squeezed her legs around him instinctively, drawing a rough groan from deep in his chest.

Stelle's skin burned.

Ace's other hand slid down to the girl's stomach, his palm spreading wide across the trembling muscle. She gasped sharply at the touch, her breath coming out in broken, desperate pants.

His thumb brushed teasing circles over her sensitive skin, and the faintest movement sent buzzing ripples of pleasure pulsing down between her thighs. Her hips shifted unconsciously against his leg, rubbing herself shamelessly against the hard muscle as a high, needy whine slipped from her lips.

Ace chuckled softly, a dark, deep sound that rumbled through his chest and vibrated against Stelle's lips. His eyes sparkled with quiet amusement at her raw, unfiltered reaction.

He pulled back just long enough to smirk down at her flushed, trembling face before claiming her mouth in another deep, possessive kiss.

His long fingers hooked under the hem of the sweater, dragging the soft fabric up slowly. His hot palm slid underneath, gliding across the smooth, trembling skin of Stelle's waist.

She cried out softly at the contact, her back arching up off the bed as goosebumps erupted across her stomach. The gambler's thumb stroked along the delicate curve of her ribs, and every brush of his touch made her chest tighten with desperate, aching need.

Her breath came in ragged gasps, her eyes fluttering open to meet his as tears pricked at the corners of her lashes from sheer overwhelming sensation.

The girl shifted restlessly against the sheets, her hips rocking unconsciously against his thigh. Each brush of her heated core against his leg sent bright sparks shooting up her spine, leaving her trembling with pleasure.

This was the first time someone had ever touched her like this. Just days ago, she could never have imagined it happening—never believed that her body could feel like this. The realization alone made her head spin, dizzy with disbelief and yearning.

Ace's fingers traced slow, feather-light paths along her skin, moving from the soft curve of her waist down to the navel. His touch was teasing, almost ticklish, sending waves of shivers skittering across her stomach. Every brush of the blond man's fingertips left her panting, her breaths shallow and ragged as her chest rose and fell rapidly.

He pulled back slightly, his glazed eyes dark with heat. A lazy, half-lidded smirk curved across his lips as he rose up just enough to take in the sight before him.

Stelle lay there, flushed and trembling, her silver hair fanned out messily across the pillow. One trembling hand lay against her cheek, half-covering her face as her half-lidded, amber eyes gazed up at him—drunk on more than just alcohol. Her lips were swollen and red, parted slightly as broken gasps spilled out with every quivering exhale.

Ace's smile turned almost predatory, his eyelids lowering as he drank her in. Slowly, his hand under her sweater pushed upwards, tugging the fabric along with it. The girl's breath hitched in her throat, her chest tightening with sudden anxiety at being so exposed. But the haze clouding her mind was too thick, too heavy with want and warmth to care anymore.

Stelle let him pull it off completely, shivering as the cooler air of the room kissed her heated, damp skin. Relief washed over her as the suffocating heat trapped beneath her sweater finally dissipated.

Ace exhaled shakily, his eyes narrowing slightly as he let them roam across her body.

He didn't even try to hide it.

His gaze traced over her smooth, pale shoulders, down the graceful line of her delicate collarbones, following the long, silver strands of her hair that tumbled over her bare skin. His eyes lingered on her narrow waist, trailing down to the gentle swell of her hips before drifting back up to her chest.

Her breasts rose and fell rapidly with each ragged breath, the pale skin flushed a soft pink with heat and embarrassment. The lace of Stelle's white bra was delicate, intricate—clearly expensive, the fine craftsmanship visible even in the dim light. Which didn't escape his sharp gaze.

Ace's eyes darkened further when they caught sight of the small birthmark nestled just above the edge of the lace, resting in the gentle hollow between her breasts.

Without thinking, his fingertips traced over the mark, outlining its star-like shape with slow, reverent precision.

Stelle's breath hitched sharply, and a soft, high-pitched whimper escaped her throat at his touch. She squirmed slightly beneath him, thighs pressing together as embarrassment bloomed hot across her cheeks.

A part of her wanted to hide—wanted to cover herself with her arms to shield herself from his scorching gaze.

But she couldn't.

Not when she was just as captivated by him.

Stelle's eyes drank the blond in hungrily, tracing every line and curve of his exposed torso. No, he wasn't built like a soldier or a bodybuilder. But he didn't need to be.

His body was lean, perfectly proportioned, every muscle defined in a way that was strong yet elegant. His chest was sculpted, his stomach flat and toned with subtle abs that flexed with every movement. His shoulders were broad, tapering down to narrow hips. Every inch of him was honed, balanced, beautiful.

A quiet, breathless sigh slipped from her lips, unable to hold back the soft, trembling sound of admiration.

Ace lowered his head, his warm breath ghosting across her collarbone before his lips pressed a soft, lingering kiss against it.

Her body shivered beneath him, every gentle touch sending electric shivers dancing across her skin.

Slowly, he began to trail kisses across her shoulders, his mouth brushing over her sensitive flesh with maddening tenderness. Each kiss felt like it seared into her soul, branding her with invisible flames.

Then he moved lower.

His lips dipped between the gentle swell of her breasts, finding the birthmark nestled there—such an important, vulnerable part of her body. His mouth traced its shape delicately, worshipping it with gentle kisses.

An unsteady sigh slipped from Stelle's lips before she could stop it.

The gambler's hand slid under her back, searching deftly for the clasp of her bra. In a single practiced flick, the fabric loosened. Her eyes widened slightly, cheeks burning in hot, embarrassed crimson. Even she couldn't do it herself, yet it looked so easy for Ace.

The lace fell away from her chest, sliding down her shoulders and onto the sheets below, leaving her completely exposed. Helpless.

This time, Stelle couldn't stop herself.

Her arms flew up, covering her chest as she turned her head away, trembling with embarrassment.

"Don't… don't look…" she whispered in a tiny, broken murmur, her voice trembling like a frightened kitten.

A quiet laugh rumbled from the blond's chest, deep and warm. Stelle felt his breath on her skin as he shook his head softly.

"Don't be shy, pretty girl..."

His voice wrapped around her like silk, soft and teasing.

The man leaned down, pressing a tender kiss to her trembling hand that shielded her chest. His lips brushed lightly against her fingers, sending sparks of heat skittering down her arm and into her belly.

Stelle could feel his gaze trailing over what little he could see—the gentle curve of her breast peeking out from beneath her arm, pressed together in a way that felt more erotic than just showing it right away.

His hand slid beneath hers, firm fingers curling around her trembling palm. Their fingers intertwined, his warm grip swallowing the girl's smaller hand completely.

Stelle held her breath.

At first, she resisted, clinging desperately to her own modesty. But then—Ace's lips pressed soft, butterfly-light kisses across each of her trembling fingers. The tender gesture melted every last bit of her resistance.

Before she realized it, her arm relaxed, letting him guide it down and away.

The girl's chest rose and fell rapidly with each shallow, shaky breath. The cool air of the room brushed across her newly exposed skin, making her nipples tighten and her breath hitch in her throat.

Ace's gaze fell to her chest, and the girl's entire body tensed with embarrassment. Her rosy, hardened nipples peaked against the cool air, breasts softly trembling with each ragged inhale.

He smiled.

It wasn't a leer. It wasn't a smirk. Just a quiet smile that made Stelle's chest tighten and her eyes sting with sudden, overwhelming emotion.

The girl let out a shaking exhale, her eyes fluttering closed as relief washed through her.

Then his lips were back on her skin.

He started where her birthmark lay, kissing it so delicately it felt like the flutter of butterfly wings. The focused attention to such an intimate, hidden place left her trembling with embarrassment and heat, her thighs pressing together with restless want.

And somehow… she didn't mind.

She liked it. She liked the way his touch made her feel small and protected all at once. The way he controlled every movement and yet made her feel like her reactions mattered.

A trail of hot, wet kisses marked its path down from her birthmark to the sensitive spot just beneath her breast. Stelle hadn't even realized how sensitive that area was until his lips found it—she couldn't hold back the soft moan that slipped out, her head tipping back against the pillows.

But when his tongue flicked out to taste her there, her moan returned sharper, louder, vibrating deep in her chest. Her entire body burned with desperate, pulsing heat. The ache between her thighs throbbed unbearably, every nerve ending tingling with raw, unfulfilled desire.

And he knew exactly what he was doing to her—drawing it out, keeping her trembling at the very edge, teetering on the brink of madness.

His tongue trailed slowly from the underside of her breast up to her nipple, caressing the sensitive bud before his lips closed around it. A strangled cry tore from her throat as her back arched off the bed, a hand flying up to cover her mouth in embarrassed reflex, trying to stifle the desperate, needy sounds pouring out of her.

Stelle's legs fell open wider, shifting restlessly against the sheets, her hips squirming as her body moved instinctively, seeking any kind of friction, any kind of relief.

But he anchored her firmly in place, his hand pressing her hip down, keeping her pinned beneath him as his tongue teased and flicked at her nipple. He sucked gently, then harder, teeth grazing the sensitive bud before the gentle bite.

She screamed.

There was no other word for the sound that ripped from her throat, high and ragged and soaked in want. Her hand flew from her mouth to his hair, fingers tangling tightly in the soft blond strands as her entire body trembled beneath him.

A low, amused chuckle rumbled from the blond man's chest, the vibrations tickling her skin where his mouth pressed against her breast. His other hand moved to her neglected breast, kneading the soft flesh gently before his long fingers pinched and rolled her other nipple between them.

Stelle lost herself.

There was no sense of time, no sense of place—only the blinding pleasure coursing through her veins, clouding her mind in a thick, pulsing haze of heat and want.

She forgot who she was.

All she wanted was more. More of him. More of his touch. More of this scorching closeness.

She gasped his name, voice shaking with need as her back arched once more, her half-lidded eyes meeting his from under heavy lashes. The girl's pupils were blown wide, lips parted, cheeks flushed crimson.

Stelle hoped—prayed—that he would understand what she couldn't put into words. That he would see just how badly she needed him at that moment. Needed more.

His gaze flicked up, half-hidden beneath his tousled blond hair as his lips teased her nipple again. The sight alone made her insides twist and clench with raw heat.

The gambler pulled back slightly, lips curling into a lazy, satisfied smirk as he looked up at her, eyes smoldering with quiet triumph at the sight of her flushed, trembling body beneath him.

"My Queen…" he whispered, his voice low and rough as velvet before his mouth claimed hers again in a deep, lingering kiss.

Stelle whimpered into his lips, melting completely under the demanding touch.

His hands slid down to her waist, thumbs brushing teasing circles along the girl's trembling stomach, sending fresh waves of ticklish heat coursing through her. Then his fingers hooked under the waistband of her shorts, tugging them down slowly.

Stelle's heart thundered in her chest as her breath caught, body tensing in anticipation. Worry and desire twisted together, sending her mind spinning as he peeled the fabric away from her hips, down her thighs, and tossed them aside to join the rest of her discarded clothes.

His hands gripped the girl's knees firmly, pushing them apart until her legs were spread wide open for him.

A soft, strangled sound slipped from her lips, knees bent instinctively, her body curling in on itself as she squirmed under his intense gaze.

But his strong hands held her in place, keeping Stelle exposed.

And gods… it only made the heat between her thighs burn hotter.

She gazed down at him with wide, hazy eyes, chest heaving with every ragged breath as he lowered his head between her trembling thighs, his hands gripping her hips to hold her steady.

Her body shook with anticipation.

Stelle held her breath when his deep gaze locked onto hers.

Her eyelashes fluttered rapidly as she bit down on her lower lip, wholly lost in the intensity of his stare. Stelle didn't know what to do with herself—where to look, where to place her hands. Every nerve ending burned under his gaze.

The blond man's strong hands gripped her thighs firmly, fingers pressing into the soft flesh of her inner thighs as he pushed them apart further, spreading her open for him. Then his lips pressed down against the sensitive skin there, and—

A desperate, broken cry tore from her throat as her head fell back against the pillows.

The grey-haired girl’s hands flew to the sheets beside her, grasping at them with trembling fingers, clutching them so tightly her knuckles turned white. Anything to keep herself grounded in the reality of the sensations coursing through her.

At that moment, her mind flickered to that one dream she'd had before the festival. The one where Ace was in a similar position, touching her the same way. But even as the memory flashed across her mind, she realized—

That dream was nothing compared to reality.

In the dream, there had been fear. Anxiety. A cloying sense of wrongness mixed with guilty pleasure.

Now, her body burned with desperate, overwhelming need. Chest ached with raw want, belly twisted with tense anticipation. Only yearning. The only fear she felt was that he might stop.

Ace's lips pressed slow, wet kisses along her inner thigh, inching closer and closer to her throbbing core. Her hips flinched at each touch, her breathing unsteady.

She could feel how wet she was. So embarrassing. Even without touch-checking, the damp heat between her thighs was obvious. Every shift of air against her slick folds made the girl shiver with overstimulated sensitivity.

Stelle bit down hard on her lip, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes as her hands flew up to cover her flushed, sweat-slicked face.

A strangled, needy moan slipped out when his tongue flicked against the most sensitive part of her inner thigh, so close to where she craved him most. Her legs clamped around his shoulders involuntarily, her hips bucking up against his mouth in desperate, unconscious need.

A low, rumbling chuckle vibrated against her skin, sending sparks of electricity shooting down her spine and straight into her belly. It made her want to sob with how good it felt.

Then, without warning, his lips pressed firmly against her soaked panties, right over her pulsing heat.

The girl's entire body jolted with blinding pleasure. Her fingers dug into the pillow beside her.

His quiet, amused laugh rumbled against her core, driving her further into madness.

"I barely touched you…" His voice was deep, rough, tinged with a husky amusement that made her toes curl. The sound alone sent another hot wave of pleasure washing over her. "You're so sensitive…"

His tongue pressed against Stelle again, this time dragging slowly along the thin fabric of the panties, right over the slit. Even through the soaked lace, she felt every stroke, every flick, every hot breath.

Her back arched, and a loud, desperate moan ripped from her throat before she covered it with her hands as if it'd help.

In one practiced motion, her panties were gone—pulled down her thighs and tossed aside like they were nothing but trash.

Only after the cool air kissed her exposed heat did she realize what he'd done. Embarrassment flooded through her, thighs trying to snap closed to hide herself, but his firm hands held her open, refusing to let her shy away.

"You're so cute…" The blond man’s voice was quiet, deep, and so gentle it made her chest ache. He pressed a soft kiss to her mound, then another, and another. "…Everywhere."

A long, broken cry tore from her throat. It sounded almost like a sob, but it wasn't sadness.

Actually, her emotions had never been farther from sorrow than they were at that moment.

Ace's hands slid around to grip her ass, squeezing the soft flesh firmly. His hot mouth pressed against her most sensitive spot—and that alone was enough to draw another long, shuddering moan from the girl's lips.

And it was only the beginning.

His mouth closed around her clit, wet tongue flicking slowly along the slit before caressing the pulsing bud. Paused there only for a moment before dragging the tongue down again, slower this time, tasting every drop of her.

Stelle's hands were clutching the pillow by her head like a lifeline as she buried her flushed face into it. But even the muffling press of the fabric couldn't hide her ragged cries.

Every flick of his tongue sent electric jolts racing through her veins, each one snapping another thread of her sanity. Her mind felt like it was floating somewhere far away, untethered from her trembling, burning body.

She bit down on the pillow, hard, trying desperately to hold herself together.

When his lips closed around her clit and he sucked gently, the girl's vision went white at the edges. A choked scream ripped from her chest, thighs clamping around his head.

He didn't stop. Didn't let up.

Instead, teased her mercilessly, his tongue dipping dangerously close to her entrance only to slide away again, leaving her empty and aching. He was driving her insane—holding her right at the edge and refusing to let her fall.

But she couldn't even be angry.

Not when he made her feel better than she'd ever imagined possible. Stelle wanted more, craved more, but she didn't even know what more meant anymore.

With one final kiss pressed against her clit, he pulled back, and his hands slid up from her thighs to the waist.

Stelle let out a broken whimper of protest, chest heaving with ragged, unsteady breaths. The pillow was pulled gently away from her face. At first, she tried to hold onto it. But under his dark, hooded gaze, her fingers loosened, letting it slip from her grasp.

Suddenly, she felt exposed. Vulnerable. Embarrassed.

She tried to look away, tried to hide her burning face from his smoldering gaze, but his hand caught her chin, turning her head back to him firmly.

His lips crashed down on hers in a fierce kiss, stealing her breath away and banishing every thought from her mind. The kiss was short—just a few seconds—but when he pulled away, his breathing was heavy, ragged.

Ace's eyes were clouded with lust, dark and molten, and a dangerous spark flickered within them that made her stomach tighten with anticipation.

"I can't… I can't do it anymore…"

At first, fear pierced through her chest as she didn’t get the meaning.

The blond pushed himself up, rising over Stelle. Panic bubbled in her throat, and she scrambled up onto her elbows, eyes wide and confused as she watched him move.

Stelle needn't have worried.

His hands moved to the waistband of his pants, fingers deft as they undid his belt in one smooth, practiced motion. The sound of the leather sliding free sent goosebumps racing down her arms.

Her breath caught in her throat as her wide eyes flicked down, only now realizing—

The prominent bulge straining against the fabric of his pants.

The material clung so tightly to him she could see the hard, throbbing silhouette pressing against it.

Stelle's lips parted in shock, eyes fluttering rapidly as her entire body trembled with tense anticipation.

Her heart pounded so hard she wondered if he could hear it.

She swallowed hard, blushing all the way to the tips of her ears. So embarrassing, yet...

She looked.

No, she didn't just look—she stared, unable to tear her eyes away, breath caught somewhere between her lungs and throat as her chest rose and fell in quick, trembling pants.

Damp hair clung to her flushed, sweat-slicked cheeks, strands sticking messily to her face.

Then his gaze caught hers.

Their eyes locked.

The quiet, heavy sound of his zipper being undone sliced through the silence between them like a blade.

The blond's hand reached for her cheek, and he leaned down to capture her lips in another hungry kiss before she could fully process what she was seeing. His mouth moved against hers with a desperation that sent sparks skittering down her spine.

He kissed her to keep her from feeling embarrassed.

Kissed her so she wouldn't look away, so she wouldn't shy from him now.

Ace knew that when she saw him—truly saw him—she'd be embarrassed, overwhelmed. And he wanted to soften the shock as much as he could.

The gambler's lips claimed hers with fervent urgency, his tongue teasing, coaxing hers to dance with his. He bit the girl's lower lip softly, tugging it between his teeth before letting it slip free.

Stelle didn't even realize when his last remaining clothing slipped from his hips, joining the rest in a scattered pile on the floor. She only noticed when he shifted forward, nudging her back down against the pillows.

Her head sank into the softness, silver hair fanning out around her flushed face. One pillow cradled her head while the other, he tucked carefully under her lower back, lifting her hips at a comfortable angle.

Stelle didn't know why but decided to trust him this once.

Her trembling hands reached up to touch his face, palms cradling his sharp, beautiful jawline. A quiet, shaky sigh escaped him, warm breath brushing across her lips.

Then—

His strong hands gripped her hips and pulled her down, sliding her closer until her thighs were draped over his own.

And then she felt it.

His hot, hard length pressed firmly against her dripping pussy, heavy and throbbing.

A small squeak escaped her throat as her entire body flinched in surprise. Amber eyes snapped open, wide and glassy with overwhelmed shock, as she broke the kiss to look down between them.

Ace chuckled softly, the sound low and rough, lips curling into a playful, almost teasing smirk. He straightened slightly, tilting his head as he looked down at her, his tousled blond hair falling messily over his dark, hooded eyes.

His hands slid down to Stelle's knees, curling around the soft undersides of her thighs, thumbs stroking gentle circles against the heated skin. Just held her like that, giving a moment to adjust, to breathe, to steady herself.

Her amber eyes were blown wide, pupils dilated. Soft lips trembled as she tried to speak, her breath coming out in broken, shaky exhales.

She raised trembling hands to cover her flushed cheeks, hiding her burning face from his gaze. But her palms weren't cool enough to douse the fire roaring in her chest.

His voice came low and warm, curling around her hammering heart like silk.

"My sweet girl…"

The words broke through her haze, wrapping around her chest and squeezing tight. She peeked at the blond man from between her fingers, eyelashes fluttering as tears welled in her eyes from the overwhelming torrent of feelings crashing over her.

His smile was soft. Reassuring. Infuriatingly calm amidst the storm raging inside Stelle.

"Are you okay?"

His thumbs stroked along her thighs again, grounding her with his touch as he looked down at her, waiting patiently for her answer.

His hand, which had been resting against her trembling thigh just moments ago, slid up to cup her flushed cheek.

Stelle leaned into his touch, pressing her cheek against his palm like a kitten seeking comfort.

A quiet chuckle rumbled from his chest, deep and low.

"My adorable little raccoon…"

His fingers combed softly through her hair, smoothing the silver strands away from her face as his gaze softened further.

"Are you sure?"

Stelle nodded immediately. There was no doubt left now. No fear strong enough to hold her back. They had come too far to pretend otherwise.

She didn't want to pretend anymore.

Summoning every scrap of courage left in her trembling body, she whispered, her voice soft and melodic:

"It's okay… I…" Her words faltered, her lashes lowering as she glanced away for a fleeting second before she gathered herself again. "…I want to."

When she looked back at him, there was something unreadable flickering deep within his darkened gaze. His pupils dilated as his lids lowered heavily, his stare dark and consuming.

He clicked his tongue softly, shaking his head as a strained, almost pained growl tore from his throat.

"Oh, God…" he rasped out, his hips pressing forward slightly, the hot, heavy length of him sliding against her. "Forgive me…"

A shaky, ragged breath shuddered through her chest at the friction, her eyes fluttering closed as a quiet whimper escaped her lips.

But that wasn't all.

He shifted his hips again, dragging the thick head of his cock along her clit once more, sending sparks of electric pleasure shooting up her spine.

Then he lined himself up with her entrance, the swollen tip pressing lightly against her soaked, fluttering core. His teeth sank into his lower lip, his entire body trembling with restraint as he forced himself to go slow.

He couldn't—wouldn't—rush this.

Their eyes met one last time, her wide, tear-filled gaze locking with his dark, burning one, before he began to push forward.

Slowly.

Carefully.

Stelle’s eyes flew wide open, her mouth dropping into a silent gasp as her hands shot up to cover her lips, stifling the high, desperate whine that slipped out despite her best efforts.

He was barely inside her, but the girl's body was already trembling beneath him, thighs clenching around his hips. She felt full already—stretched in a way that burned but sent waves of trembling pleasure skittering down her limbs.

But Ace… he couldn't stop now.

His hands tightened around her hips as he slid in deeper, his breathing uneven.

Stelle tried so hard to stay quiet, but the slow push drew out soft, shaking cries from her lips, muffled against her trembling fingers.

About halfway in, she let out a small, sharp cry, her body tensing around him. He paused, thumbs rubbing soothing circles against her hips as his voice rumbled out softly, low, and rough:

"Shh…"

His hand slid up to cradle her cheek again, thumb brushing gently across her flushed skin as his eyes locked onto hers, dark and intense but brimming with quiet reverence.

"Good girl…" he whispered, his voice trembling with restrained desire as he pressed a gentle kiss to her trembling lips. "You're doing so, so well..."

His praise melted through her like honey, her chest tightening painfully as tears welled in her eyes from the sheer overwhelming torrent of sensations.

Her inner walls clenched tightly around him at his quiet praise, and a sharp, sibilant hiss tore from his chest.

Every broken moan she made, every shaky breath that caused her softly rounded chest to rise and fall beneath him, drove him closer to the edge. And Stelle didn't even realize how seductive she was—how every innocent, trembling reaction ripped at his already frayed self-control.

After a few long, careful moments, after his soothing touch and whispered praise, she finally relaxed around him.

Ace leaned down over her, bracing himself on his arms as he pressed his forehead against hers. He could feel the heat of her ragged breathing ghosting across his lips. His jaw tightened, he bit down hard on his lower lip, fighting to stay still.

But then...

His hips rocked forward again, a little faster, a little deeper than he intended.

She tensed beneath him, a high, broken squeak slipping from her throat as her hands flew up to clutch at his shoulders. His name trembled silently on her lips.

"My sweet girl… I'm sorry…"

His voice was rough, desperate, but laced with such raw tenderness it made her chest ache. He peppered soft, fluttering kisses across her face—her forehead, each trembling brow, the burning apples of her cheeks—and finally pressed his mouth to her parted lips, soothing her with gentle, grounding affection.

In a single, deep thrust, he pushed into her fully, burying himself to the hilt.

A guttural, broken groan ripped from his chest, low and primal, vibrating through his entire body as his forehead fell to her shoulder. Her sharp, sobbing gasp melded with his moan, her thighs clamping around his waist as her back arched off the bed.

His breathing shook as he forced himself to lift his head, his nose brushing against hers as he whispered, his voice trembling:

"Ray…" His free hand clenched tightly into a fist against the mattress, his knuckles white as he struggled to maintain the last threads of his control. "You're too tight…"

His voice cracked, slipping into a low, desperate growl as his eyes fluttered shut, overwhelmed by the pulsing heat squeezing him so perfectly.

"You're driving me crazy…"

The words burned through her like molten honey, making her walls clench tighter around him in trembling pulses. A flushed, shy smile flickered across her lips even as her brows knitted together, her entire body trembling with overwhelmed pleasure.

Even now, she was still her. Still a cute, shy raccoon girl, blushing and trembling beneath him, her innocence clinging to her like the sweetest sin.

A rough, broken moan slipped from his chest as he captured her lips again, kissing her deeper, harder, needier. His tongue slid against hers, tasting her quiet, breathless whimpers as his hips rolled forward in a slow, torturous thrust.

He pulled back just enough to look down at her, his breathing ragged, his eyes dark and glazed with barely restrained desire.

His hips moved again, sliding out slightly before pushing back into her in a deeper thrust that drew a long, shuddering moan from her parted lips. The sound vibrated against his cheek where she clung to him, and it tore the last shreds of sanity from his chest.

He hissed through clenched teeth, his voice breaking as he growled out a quiet, desperate curse:

"Fuck…"

He couldn't control it anymore.

His hips moved on their own, thrusting into her again, and again, and again. No matter how deep he went, no matter how tightly she clenched around him, it was never enough.

He tried—oh, he tried so hard to be gentle with her. To go slow. To savor every trembling second.

But it was impossible.

Not when she looked like that beneath him. Not when her flushed, trembling face managed to remain so devastatingly innocent even as it twisted with lust. Not when her broken, breathless moans sometimes slipped out with his name tangled between them, even though she could barely form words.

Not when she tried so adorably to hide her cries behind her trembling fingers, as if her small hands could muffle such raw, unfiltered sounds.

Not when her breasts swayed with every sharp thrust, her pink, sensitive nipples peaking with each ripple of movement, practically begging for his attention.

He wanted to play with her more.

Wanted to see what other sweet, sinful sounds he could pull from her lips. What other reactions he could tease from her trembling body.

His eyes darkened, half-lidded with heavy desire, as his lips curled into a lazy smirk.

The gambler's hands tightened around her waist, gripping her firmly on either side. With each hard thrust forward, Ace pulled her down onto him at the same time, sinking himself deeper into the tight, pulsing heat.

Every time he filled her, she clenched around him so sweetly, her back arching as a high, broken cry tore from her lips.

And when he pulled out again, her hips instinctively lifted to chase after him, her small, breathless whimpers begging him silently not to leave her empty.

"Good girl…"

His voice was low and ragged, almost a growl, vibrating deep in his chest as his hips continued their relentless pace. Ace didn't give Stelle a chance to catch her breath, his thrusts quick and punishing, each one sending a ripple of ecstasy through her trembling body.

"You take me so well…"

He pushed into her harder, deeper, pulling her hips against his with force as his cock drove into her fully. She couldn't help but scream, her brows knitting together as tears spilled down her flushed cheeks, eyes almost rolling back from the overwhelming pleasure.

Stelle bent beneath him like a pliant, trembling cat, her body arching so beautifully it made his breath catch in his throat. She didn't even know how sexy she was—how perfectly she submitted to his touch.

He pulled out suddenly, the abrupt emptiness making her whine in confusion, her head turning to look up at him with wide, dazed eyes.

He couldn't help but chuckle darkly at the sight—how quickly her face shifted from blissful ecstasy to desperate worry.

Adorable.

But she didn't need to worry.

Because he wasn't done with her yet.

In a swift, practiced motion, he flipped her over onto her stomach, her soft cry muffled against the pillows as her chest pressed into the mattress. His hands slid under the girl’s hips, lifting them up effortlessly. The pillow beneath her lower back helped keep her raised, her breasts pressing into the sheets as her back curved into a perfect, sinful arch.

Her silver hair spilled down her back like liquid moonlight, cascading over the smooth, pale skin of her spine.

The blond's breath hitched as he took her in, his hands sliding up to grip her hips firmly, fingers digging into the soft flesh as he positioned himself behind her.

His grip tightened around her hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh as he thrust into her in a single, deep stroke.

A low moan tore from his chest, vibrating against her sweat-slicked skin as her tight, wet heat enveloped him again. It was maddening—the way she squeezed him so perfectly, clenching around every inch, dragging him deeper, and refusing to let go.

A groan slipped from her lips as her thighs fell open wider, her trembling hands flying forward to clutch at the pillow beneath her. Stelle's fingers twisted in the fabric, knuckles white as she buried her flushed face into it, desperate to muffle her cries.

His deep, relentless thrusts filled the room with wet, obscene sounds. Stelle was so wet, so impossibly wet, that each movement sent droplets of her slick arousal spilling down the insides of her thighs, pooling into a small puddle beneath them.

She bit down on the pillow, her muffled voice trembling with heated pleas:

"It's… too… too much…"

"So deep… it's so deep…"

Ace groaned roughly, biting down hard on his lower lip as his hips snapped forward again. His hand slid up her back to tangle in her silvery hair, gathering the damp strands at the base of her neck and pulling her up against him.

She squeaked in surprise, her flushed face lifting from the pillow as her back arched. Her breath hitched sharply when he thrust into her again, this time so deep he bottomed out inside her, the blunt head of his cock nudging against her cervix.

A long, shuddering whimper fell from her parted lips, eyes rolling back as her trembling thighs shook beneath his grip.

The blond man's strong arms wrapped around her from behind, pulling her back against his chest. Stelle's head fell limply onto his shoulder, chest heaving with each breath. His lips brushed against her ear as his thrusts became erratic, faster, deeper.

He turned her head toward him, capturing her trembling, swollen lips in a bruising, desperate kiss. Each thrust forced a small, broken cry from her mouth into his.

His hands slid up to cup her breasts, squeezing the soft flesh firmly as his thumbs brushed across her hardened, sensitive nipples.

Every sound Stelle made drove him deeper into madness.

Every shaky moan, every whimpering sob of pleasure, every desperate attempt to kiss him back while she fell apart in his arms—it was intoxicating.

His lips pressed against her ear, his voice trembling with low, ragged growls between harsh, panting breaths:

"My beautiful girl…"

"My little raccoon…"

He kissed along her neck, his tongue tasting the salt of her flushed skin before his teeth sank into the tender flesh at her shoulder. A sharp cry tore from her lips, her body jolting beneath him as his cock throbbed deep inside her.

Ace sucked at the girl's skin hard, leaving dark, possessive marks across her pale neck. His hips snapped forward again, harder, deeper, and a low, primal growl rumbled from his chest, vibrating against her back.

The sound sent electric pulses racing through her trembling body, her walls clenching around him desperately as her head fell back against his shoulder.

His growls grew louder, rougher, as he neared the edge, his hands gripping her hips so tightly his fingers would leave bruises. But he couldn't stop.

With a single firm motion, Ace pushed her upper body down until her flushed cheek pressed back into the pillow. One strong hand braced gently against the small of her back, keeping her in place, holding her down as his hips rolled forward again.

He sank into her deeply—deeper than before—feeling the tight, pulsing heat clench around his length as he throbbed harder, his cock swelling with the final wave of pleasure. The gambler's chest heaved with ragged breaths as he pulled out abruptly before he finished across her trembling back, a rough growl tearing from his throat.

He stayed there, bracing himself above her as his hips twitched with the aftershocks, entire body trembling. Sweat dripped from his temples, dampening the ends of his blond hair, the sticky strands clinging uncomfortably to his flushed skin.

The blond man's vision was hazy as he looked down at her, trying to steady his ragged breathing.

Stelle lay beneath him, completely spent.

Her head turned slightly on the pillow, just enough for him to see her face. Her lips were parted softly, her breathing shallow and uneven. Her eyes were dark, glazed, unfocused with lingering pleasure. Strands of her grey hair clung to her flushed cheeks.

She was beautiful.

Stunning in her disheveled, powerless state. This proud, clever, sharp-tongued girl, always so guarded and careful, now was limp beneath him, body shaking with exhaustion and overstimulation.

A quiet smirk tugged at his lips as he cleaned Stelle gently, quickly, before she could fully register it.

She didn't resist.

Couldn't.

The girl was too far gone, limbs weak and trembling as she lay boneless on the bed. Slowly, the gambler rolled her onto her back, watching her eyes flutter open slightly as her head lolled to the side.

The grey-haired girl stared up at him dazedly, eyes unfocused, lips trembling. She couldn't find her voice.

The man brushed his fingers across the girl’s pink cheek, watching her with quiet amusement.

"You did so well, Ray." His voice was low and soft, curling around her like dark silk. "Such a good girl for me… such a sweet, perfect girl."

For a moment, it looked like her mind was returning, blinking through the haze. Her brows twitched slightly, knitting together as a familiar flicker of embarrassed disbelief crossed her face. Her lips pressed together in that small, shy frown Ace'd come to recognize—one that said she didn't quite believe his praise. Couldn't accept it.

Even now.

Even after all this.

The girl turned her eyes away from him. Pushed herself up weakly, her trembling arms barely able to hold her weight. She reached out to gather her discarded clothes.

Ace's brows lifted slightly as an amused chuckle rumbled in his chest.

Stelle's legs buckled the moment she tried to stand, sending her stumbling back onto the bed with a frustrated whimper. But even so—she didn't stop. Gathered her clothes stubbornly, refusing to meet his gaze, refusing to reach out for him again, obviously shy.

Didn't even ask for a post-sex kiss.

Intriguing.

Ace watched her with narrowed eyes, a slight smirk curving his lips as he tilted his head slightly.

Just when he thought he had her figured out—when he was sure he knew every one of her reactions—Ray always managed to surprise him.

What a curious creature.

It was almost a shame that this was the end of their little story.

The blond almost felt bad—for playing with her feelings like this.

But still… it had been fun.

Perhaps he wouldn't forget her so easily.

 

Notes:

Now I can oficially declare the 1st arc has come to an end. Sunday coming (no way) finally in the next chapter (we got Sunday before gta VI)
Can't believe this prologue arc turned out so long...

Chapter 8: The Raccoon's Death

Summary:

The morning after tastes bitter. Stelle learns the price of fleeting warmth – and that even the sweetest words turn to ashes come daylight. But there is no time to mourn what never was. Today, she debuts before the world.

Stelle herself didn't know why she jolted like that, why embarrassment suddenly overwhelmed her. As soon as the haze lifted from her mind, she saw those eyes again – but now, in a situation where they had just… No, even acknowledging what had happened made Stelle want to sink through the earth and blush to the very tips of her ears. The heart was still pounding so hard, and a wave of shame washed over her… Shame for how she'd behaved. Shame that she'd revealed sides of herself she hadn't even known existed. The girl was also shy about her body... That was why she wanted to put her armor back on as quickly as possible, to stop feeling so exposed and vulnerable.

Her entire body was still trembling. Legs felt like jelly, barely moving, with a strange aftertaste inside – not pain, more like… something just unusual, something she'd never felt before. A lingering sense of fullness refused to leave… Her body felt overstimulated, unbearably so, her skin still flushed and damp with sweat, and generally, Stelle looked like someone had chewed her up.

Hands trembling, she gathered her clothes and pressed them against her bare chest. At first, she couldn't stand, her knees refusing to obey. But she tried again – and with great effort, she managed to rise, at least for a moment.

Because the instant she did, a strong hand closed tightly around her wrist.

The girl gasped softly, amber eyes darting toward the cause. Ace was sitting right beside her, his sculpted chest rising and falling steadily, as if nothing ever happened. Only his slightly disheveled blond hair fell forward, partially covering his darkened, half-lidded violet-aquamarine eyes that still bore a spark within.

His grip tightened around her wrist, and then, with a light tug, he pulled her toward him. The silver-haired girl let out a startled squeak, her clothes slipping from her grasp and falling to the floor again.

"Not so fast," he cooed.

Ace's voice was low, husky from exhaustion and something far darker – something that sent shivers skittering across the girl's skin. His lips curled into a confident, lazy smirk, but beneath it gleamed something sharp, untamed.

Stelle's breath caught in her throat. She shook her head weakly, trying to pull away, but the blond tugged her again until her face was pressed against his neck with a quiet whimper.

"A-Ace, I…" she stammered, voice shaky. "I… I need to…"

The gambler cut her off immediately.

His arms wrapped around the girl's waist, pulling her entirely onto his lap effortlessly. Her bare thighs straddled him, pressed flush against the hard, unyielding heat still throbbing beneath her.

A small, choked gasp slipped from her lips. Her entire body stiffened with embarrassment. But his grip didn't loosen. If anything, it tightened – possessive, unyielding.

"Going so soon?" the blond purred softly, his breath caressing Stelle's flushed cheek as he leaned in as close as possible. "How rude… after everything we've just shared. Heartless queen…"

His fingers traced down the length of her spine, weaving into her silver hair. He gave a gentle tug, forcing Stelle to look at him. Their eyes met – hers wide and flustered, his playful and hungry.

"Do you really think so little of me?" he asked, feigning an offended tone. "I was just getting started…"

Ace's voice dipped a few tones lower, sending a deep vibration through her entire body. Goosebumps erupted across her skin, and a thick, sweet heat spread through her trembling belly. Her breath caught, quick and uneven.

Embarrassed, Stelle tried to avert her gaze, but his grip in her hair tightened, keeping her eyes locked with his.

A quiet, broken whimper escaped her throat, and his smirk widened just a fraction. A deep, husky chuckle rumbled from his chest, resonating within the ember-eyed girl.

"Don't tell me you're done already, little raccoon…" he murmured, his tongue flicking out to taste the flushed skin just below her ear. His hot breath sent goosebumps racing across her chest. "You've still got enough strength left to try running away. That's… exciting."

The gambler's free hand slid down to cup her trembling thigh, fingers digging into the soft flesh possessively as he pressed her down harder against the hard, heavy length beneath her.

She gasped sharply, her nails scraping against his shoulders as her body shuddered with overstimulated sensitivity. Her mind spun in dizzy, chaotic spirals. Her heart pounded, restless and wild. Her lower body burned and ached with a needy pull. Feeling the hard, hot arousal pressed directly against her thighs stole what little air and reason she had left. And when he ground her hips down against him, his arousal rubbed right against her, dragging out a shivering, weak moan from her lips. Her chest heaved with frantic breaths, her hardened nipples brushing against his skin with each shaky inhale. She swallowed reflexively.

Just a few touches, a few words – and Stelle could no longer resist his pull.

"Stay," he whispered against her ear, his voice soft but carrying an unmistakable edge of command. "I'm not finished with you yet."

Whatever remained of her resistance flickered out like candle flames under rain. Her heart fluttered with the tenderness in the man's tone – tenderness that held absolute control. Guiding, dominating, but with such a sweet charm that you barely noticed you were stepping into his cage.

And… truthfully, Stelle didn't mind being under his power once more.

Or perhaps… not just once.

So when Ace began showering her cheeks with such tender, sweet kisses, trailing slowly down to her jawline and then to her neck, she trembled, letting out a quiet moan. She gave in – though truly, she had surrendered the moment she came here – pressing her entire body against him. Her hands rested on his shoulders, clutching them each time his heated lips met her skin. She squeezed her eyes shut, unable to withstand the overwhelming flood of sensations, biting down on her lower lip, though her breathy sighs escaped anyway.

The gambler's hand gently caressed her waist and back, sometimes trailing only his knuckles along her skin – sending a stampede of goosebumps rushing across Stelle's body. His other hand never left her thigh – stroking, gripping, possessive and warm. His skin radiated such comforting heat that all she wanted was to press closer, to melt into him and never let go. To hide away in his arms. Each touch brimmed with such tenderness that her heart began to believe in the sincerity of it all. How could anyone lie or pretend while showing so much love? You'd have to be utterly heartless…

And these thoughts became ever more insistent as his lips grazed the hollow between her neck and chin, her collarbone, the sensitive spot beneath her ear, his breath leaving hot trails across her skin. Each contact felt like an electric shock tearing through her body. Her vision blurred, her thoughts emptied. All she wanted to think about was him – his hands, his gaze, his strong embrace, his gentle kisses, and those rare, deep chuckles.

A sharp pang of disappointment struck her heart when the blond paused – slowly pulling away from her neck, the precious warmth of his lips leaving her as abruptly as it had come. Only then did she blink, trying to clear the haze from her eyes – but it was futile.

A faint smirk curved his lips when Ace caught the expression on Stelle's face. But he said nothing. Instead, his grip tightened around her waist as he leaned in and kissed her softly. Their lips met, and somehow, each kiss seemed to send an even stronger reaction through her body, when it should have been the opposite. Her stomach twisted into knots, butterflies flitting in a frenzied panic. A high-pitched moan slipped from her chest as her arms slid up to wrap gently around his neck.

His lips moved slowly, lazily, with no hint of haste, as if the entire world had shrunk down to a single sensation – her taste. He kissed her in a way no one had ever touched Stelle before – with aching tenderness, almost reverence, yet beneath that tenderness lay an unmistakable dominance.

The silver-haired girl squeezed her eyes shut tighter, burying her fingers into his soft hair, warmed by his skin, and leaned forward into him. Everything inside her burned, melted, tightened. She couldn't breathe – nor did she want to. Her lips answered his instinctively, without a single command from her mind, while her heart pounded so fiercely it felt as if it might burst from her chest just to merge with his.

Ace tilted his head slightly, deepening the kiss, parting her lips, and tracing his tongue along her lower lip as though tasting his favorite treat. A sweet moan slipped from her chest when his tongue brushed lightly, yet commandingly, against hers, teasing her and sending shivers of anticipation through her trembling body.

The blond didn't rush. Every movement was thick and languid, like warm honey spreading across sunlit skin. One hand wrapped firmly around Stelle's waist, pulling her into a solid embrace that made her heart want to explode. His other hand rose slowly to her face, thumb stroking her hot, flushed cheek with a tenderness that stole her breath.

The kiss grew deeper, hungrier, yet it never lost its softness. Ace kissed her as though he was learning her, exploring her, returning to her lips again and again as if he simply couldn't get enough. Each brush of his mouth sent waves of sweet weakness flooding through Stelle's body, while deep inside, everything tightened into a taut, aching knot of desire.

When he finally pulled back, yet still so close, his breath brushed against her lips. His half-lidded violet-aquamarine eyes gazed at her from so close that she felt herself getting lost in their depths.

"You're so sweet," he whispered hoarsely, his words barely brushing against her lower lip.

A slow smile spread across his mouth. Soft, almost warm.

"My sweet girl…" he added even more quietly, and the tip of his nose grazed gently along her cheek in a tender, affectionate gesture that made Stelle shiver and exhale softly.

Stelle's heart fluttered – melting, glowing with warmth at each word he gave her, at every display of his gentleness. Without thinking, she felt the corners of her lips lift slightly. And unlike Ace, the warmth and tenderness in her amber eyes were utterly genuine. The shy flush on her cheeks, the way her heart clenched – none of it was calculated. Her mind, her heart, her body allowed themselves to dive headfirst into Ace's sweet game and believe every moment of it.

He didn't pull away, didn't stop giving her his warmth for even a second. Slowly, he traced the tip of his nose along her cheek again, then let his lips brush lightly against the line of her neck, feeling her rapid pulse hammering beneath her hot skin.

His hand slid up her waist, following the curve of her body before settling firmly on her back, pressing her tighter against him. Stelle could feel how her soft chest was crushed against his. His other hand rose to cradle her chin, holding it softly yet firmly enough that she couldn't turn away. Then he lifted his head and gave her a short, almost chaste kiss – light as a butterfly's wing, yet it made Stelle's heart pound as if he had just stripped away all her armor.

When he pulled back, his eyes were half-lidded, and within their violet-aquamarine depths burned a flicker of desire.

"Forgive me, sunshine…" he whispered, his voice trembling with a quiet chuckle, "Play with me a little longer."

The silver-haired girl swallowed, everything inside her tightening and turning over at the tender endearment, at his languid voice, at that deep, searing gaze. Her heart and mind melted into a bubbling puddle. A trembling exhale slipped from her lips. Her hazy eyes couldn't look away from him – as if entranced.

Ace's hands wrapped around her thighs, his fingers slowly tracing along her sensitive skin. His face was so close, their noses brushed lightly, his breath scorching her lips. Yet he didn't rush to kiss her – he simply watched her intently, carefully, as if memorizing every line of her face, every flutter of her lashes.

"Look at me," he murmured softly, almost tenderly, but within that gentleness lay a shadow of command. His strong fingers pressed into the girl's waist, guiding her closer to him before lifting her carefully, just an inch.

The breath of the amber-eyed girl faltered, her eyes widening. She felt the touch of his heavy, rigid flesh against the sensitive, wet skin of her entrance – pressed right where she ached to take him in, burning with desperate anticipation. Her blush deepened until her ears turned crimson, and she clutched his shoulders, swallowing hard. One didn't need to be a genius to realize what Ace was doing. And that realization sent her head spinning.

Her thighs trembled with weakness and anticipation. And he… he loved seeing that slow dawning in her eyes, the way embarrassment bloomed across her flushed cheeks, how she tried – so hopelessly – to fight back her desire. He loved watching her hesitate, loved every ragged, trembling breath that tore from her lungs.

He didn't need to do anything or say a word; the look on her overwhelmed face, those lust-drenched eyes – it was clear how badly Stelle wanted this herself.

All it took was for him to tighten his grip around her thighs, and she gave in. Clinging to his shoulders, Stelle lowered herself onto him, and a high, fragile moan slipped from her chest. She was so warm, so wet, so unbelievably hot around him that Ace let out a shaky exhale, his chest trembling with a barely restrained growl.

Her thighs quivered, but Ace didn't let her take him all at once. His hands gripped her waist firmly, guiding her in a slow, languid rhythm up and down, forcing her to feel every movement, every inch of him. Stelle gasped for air, tears welling in her eyes from the overwhelming sensations – feeling him stretch her, fill her completely, claiming every part of her from within. But she didn't dare look away – he had ordered her to watch.

When she finally sank down fully onto him, a ragged, loud moan tore from her throat as his hard tip pressed so deep inside that it almost hurt – but in that moment, even pain felt unbearably sweet. She clenched tightly around him, and a low, husky groan rumbled from his chest, vibrating through her entire body.

"Good girl…" his voice rumbled low and deep, as if Ace himself was beginning to lose control.

One of his fingers slid up to gently brush a strand of silver hair away from her face, wanting to see those beautiful amber eyes more clearly. His gaze burned hot, searing, but within it flickered a tenderness that made Stelle's heart clench painfully.

He lifted her hips a little higher before lowering her back down again, this time faster. Her head fell back as a high, trembling cry tore from her throat.

"No, no – eyes on me," the blond demanded again, his hands gripping her waist even tighter. Her tear-filled eyes, blurred from the overwhelming sensations, met his own – clouded, hungry, blazing with a fire that could scorch everything in its path.

And in that moment, in that slow, unbearably sweet rhythm, nothing else existed for her. No fear, no pain, no thoughts. There was only his strength, his burning body beneath her, his gaze that made her heart pound so hard she thought it might stop right there, in his arms. And what a sweet ending that would be.

Ace's composure was slipping with each passing second. His movements and grip were growing rougher, less controlled. His hands held her hips firmly, guiding her, moving her, as he thrust up to meet her in a powerful rhythm. At some point, Stelle realized she barely needed to move on her own anymore – his strong hands carried her completely.

Loud, muffled moans spilled from her lips with every movement, her body arching up into his hands. From the depth of his thrusts and the relentless pace, Stelle's mind dissolved into a pulsing, blinding white void.

"A-Ace…!" Her voice broke into a sob, nails digging into the skin of his back so hard they left pale marks. "I… I can't…!"

It was too much. The blond man's thickness struck places Stelle hadn't even known existed. Everything felt strange, unbearably intense – she wanted to stop, yet at the same time needed it to continue just like this.

But he didn't stop. Of course, he didn't. Instead, his movements grew rougher, sharper, and the girl cried out when his hand came up to grip her chin, forcing her to look straight at him – into those clouded, burning eyes.

"You can," he whispered hoarsely, pulling her against him so tightly it almost hurt. His chest rose and fell in heavy, ragged breaths, muscles taut beneath his skin with every thrust. "You can do anything I tell you to… my sweet little Queen."

Stelle couldn't speak. Couldn't think. Her body went limp in his hands, as waves of pleasure crashed over her one after another, each movement knocking the air from her lungs. All she could hear was his ragged breathing, his husky voice, those deep, rough moans – and the words that would remain burned into her heart forever.

"Just look at yourself…" his voice trembled as he suddenly slowed down, though he didn't let her go. He continued guiding her onto him, deep, so deep that all she could do was sob helplessly. "I never would've thought that such an adorably innocent girl could show me a face like this."

His lips pressed against her tear-dampened cheek, leaving a warm kiss there.

"You have no idea…" he murmured, his forehead resting against her temple, his voice lower now, rougher, like a feral growl, "…how badly I want you."

Stelle let out a tiny squeak, her heart clenching so hard it almost hurt. She swallowed, pressing even closer to him, as if she wanted to merge with him completely. Instinctively, she tightened around him, drawing a deep, guttural moan from his chest.

Her entire being screamed: "Me too."

Every emotion was laid bare in her unfocused eyes. She was never good at hiding them, but in that moment, she wasn't hiding anything at all. That deep longing, mingled with adoration and raw desire. Ace let out a shaky breath, clicking his tongue softly.

"Fuck…"

With a single movement, he shoved her forward, and the girl fell onto her back on the bed with a surprised squeak. The sudden emptiness inside her sent a sharp pang of disappointment and an uncomfortable tingling through her body.

Ace's hands grabbed her legs roughly, pulling them together to the side and bending them at the knees. Then he gripped her soft thigh and slammed into her with one hard thrust, sending stars spinning across Stelle's vision. Her head fell back, her fingers clutching the sheets in a desperate grip as a high-pitched sob broke from her lips.

She had thought it was rough before, but she'd been wrong – now, it seemed like he couldn't hold back at all. His fingers dug into her skin, leaving marks as he pulled her against each fierce thrust of his hips. His thick, throbbing shaft pierced her mercilessly, striking that sweet spot deep inside over and over without pause. Her quiet sobs and pleas for him to slow down – because she couldn't take it, not like this – only spurred him on further. Stopping was the last thing on his mind.

Her feet arched in a sudden cramp, muscles trembling and twitching as if electric shocks were coursing through her over and over again. Tears slipped from the corners of her eyes – it was too much. Too good, too overwhelming – Stelle couldn't tell anymore. The only thing she knew was that if he didn't stop, she would lose her mind completely. She didn't know what to do with herself, only sobbing, unable to control her voice, her body, or her shattered thoughts. Like a ragdoll beneath him, unable to resist in any way.

Her body – so soft, so hot, unbelievably tight around him – trembled with each thrust. Ace could feel every muscle in her clenching and pulsing around him with every rough, deep stroke. In that moment, she was perfect. So defenseless. Completely his.

The blond watched her face. Watched how her eyes were squeezed shut, lashes trembling; how her parted lips spilled those high, pleading moans and incoherent words – it was all too sweet to stop. He saw how her muscles clenched harder and harder in helpless, erratic spasms, how her breath came in ragged, desperate gasps. Ace's own chest heaved with heavy breaths, strands of hair falling across his face, partially shielding his eyes – but he didn't bother to brush them away. Right now, he could see her clearly enough. All too clearly.

With a single motion, he spread her legs wide to either side of his hips. Pulling her thighs as close to him as possible without ever leaving her warmth, his hand pressed down against the lower part of her belly, applying just enough pressure for her to feel every inch of him – to lose her mind from the intensity of it. Beneath his palm, he could feel the bulge of himself inside her.

Stelle, eyes half-lidded and wet with tears of pleasure, cried out his name in a drawn-out, broken wail that barely resembled speech.

Biting down on his lower lip, a deep, husky growl rumbling from his chest, he shifted his hips, adjusting the angle – and with a few hard, deep thrusts, when he buried himself fully inside, feeling every tight, trembling wall around him, her body arched so sharply he nearly lost his hold on her. A loud, high, piercing moan tore from her lips as her insides clenched around him so tightly his vision went black for a moment.

But he didn't stop.

Every swift, powerful thrust was met with her ragged, desperate sobs. She didn't even try to speak anymore, didn't try to hold anything back. Her body trembled like it was feverish, and the blond could feel the waves of her orgasm crashing over her again and again, squeezing him with such sweet intensity that he could barely keep control of himself.

Ace let out a final, low, ragged moan as he thrust into her deeply one last time, pressing her down into the mattress with his entire body, as if he wanted to dissolve into her completely. His own release crashed over him in a hot, heavy wave, and he lost himself so completely that he barely managed to pull out at the very last moment.

He leaned over her, biting down on her shoulder as the final tremors of pleasure ripped through him, stifling his groan as her name fell from his lips in a broken whisper.

He stilled with his eyes half-closed, his breathing harsh and uneven, heart hammering against his ribs. His forehead rested against Stelle's neck, his ragged breaths fanning across her flushed, sensitive skin. His thoughts were molten, like wax beneath a candle's flame.

For a few long seconds, they stayed like that – their breaths, bodies, and hearts fused together – until he felt her warm, trembling body slowly begin to relax beneath him. She tilted her head toward him, her cheek pressing softly against the back of his head. Her hands slid up to his shoulders with a hesitant touch – so gentle, so innocent, it nearly broke him.

Managing to steady his breath, he slowly pushed himself up to look at her.

At her face, flushed and streaked with tears and sweat; at her half-lidded amber eyes, hazy with bliss. And in that moment… Ace felt a strange pang deep in his chest – something foreign and unwelcome.

Without thinking, he leaned down and pressed a short, warm kiss to her bitten lips before whispering,

"You did so well…"

And for that single moment, his voice held nothing but pure, tender affection.

Until the haze of lust and desire finally began to fade, and his reason returned from its holiday. Soon, he pulled away, leaving the warmth of Stelle's body, and in her own eyes – though still dazed and clouded – a flicker of awareness began to shine. The way Ace moved back snapped her awake. She blinked rapidly, lips pressing together. Propping herself up on her elbows, all she wanted in that moment was to hide again. She tried not to look at the blond – a sudden wave of shame washing over her. Shame at her own actions, at how easily she'd lost control the moment he whispered a single word.

But the gambler's face remained unreadable – his carelessly tousled hair still falling forward to partially shield his expression. Without a word, he began to dress first – unhurried, as though he was alone in the room. And that silence… it wasn't comforting. It pressed down on her like a weight, suffocating.

Stelle flinched. Unlike his lazy, measured movements, she was almost frantic in pulling her clothes back onto her uncomfortably sticky skin – she didn't care; she'd bathe once she was home.

His calm voice broke the heavy quiet:

"How do you plan on getting back?"

The not-so-subtle hint that it was time for her to leave cut deeper than she expected. Of course, Stelle knew it herself – early morning light was already creeping through the thin gap in the curtains. She knew she had to go back. But hearing it from him… it made her chest ache with a quiet sadness.

She lowered her head just as she finished pulling her sweater back on – it felt so uncomfortable against her skin, clinging unpleasantly, too warm and suffocating. But it was better than continuing to show her vulnerable body and feeling so exposed. Running her fingers through her tangled hair, she winced slightly each time they snagged on another knot.

"My horse is waiting for me at the stables," she replied softly, her voice calm despite the bitterness choking her from within.

Ace was already sitting there, dressed, fastening the last buttons of his now slightly rumpled shirt – and even those simple movements, the sight of his toned chest, made her breath catch. And the way he left the top button undone – even that was so effortlessly attractive it should have been illegal. Combined with his tousled hair, which still fell perfectly around his cold eyes, it was dizzying. She forced herself to turn away sharply and pulled up her hood. Only then did she feel steady enough to breathe, as if a heavy stone had rolled off her shoulders.

One of the blond's brows arched at her words.

"You should have mentioned that earlier," he sighed, as if yet another inconvenience had appeared. "It'll be uncomfortable for you to walk… let alone ride. You're exhausted."

He wasn't wrong – she could stand, yes, but her trembling knees and weakened muscles betrayed her. Still, she shook her head firmly.

"I'll manage. I was practically born in the saddle."

Ace hummed, clearly unconvinced. His hand slid across the bedside table, lifting his hat, and with that single motion, his armor slipped back into place, as if it had never left.

"Catch."

He hooked Stelle's tiara and, without waiting for a response, tossed it to her. Thankfully, she managed to catch it at the last second – his aim was perfect. It would have been such a shame to damage something that would remind her of her last night with her friends… even if now, those memories would carry an entirely different shade.

Clearing her throat softly, she slipped the tiara onto her head, carefully adjusting it so as not to disturb the ears.

How strange, though. Just minutes ago, they were exchanging kisses and heated words, and now they acted like strangers. What scared her even more was how natural it seemed for Ace to pretend nothing had happened. Then again… was he really pretending? Stelle knew the truth. For him, in reality, nothing had happened at all.

It was only her world that had been turned upside down.

Her heart creaked like rusty gates. It ached with a dull, gnawing pain, forcing her to bite down on her lip to keep her emotions in check. But she had to hold herself together. She knew exactly what she was getting into… She should be grateful for the feelings Ace had given her. For making her feel like a woman who was… wanted. Surely, many would give anything for what he'd done with her tonight… Wanting anything more from him – that would be the height of selfishness.

She understood that, but… why did it still hurt so much to look at him? Why did she want to run away? Why, in that moment, did even the thought of parting with March and Dan Heng vanish from her mind? It was all so stupid. So pointless.

I'm such an idiot…

She turned away, and in the doorway, she saw Smart Paws staring at her accusingly. If he could speak, he would surely call her a traitor – of course, she'd shamelessly dropped him again! For the second time.

Stelle rushed over and hugged him tightly to her chest. In her mind, she apologized over and over for not treasuring the only one who could still ease her loneliness. The only one she could silently share her sadness with, now that the quiet between her and Ace felt so suffocating. She longed to hear just one more teasing remark or playful joke from him, but he said nothing. He quietly put on his glasses, slipped into his tailcoat, and just as silently headed toward the door.

"Let's go," he said curtly, pushing the door open.

Like a gentleman, he held it for her, and she nodded meekly out of habit.

It really wasn't easy for Stelle to walk. The muscles along her inner thighs ached from strain, and the exhaustion from lack of sleep and overwhelming emotion did nothing to help. Still, it wasn't so bad – thankfully. The last thing she wanted right now was to appear even more pitiful.

He walked slightly ahead of her. Her steps were smaller, slower, but he didn't wait for her. Or maybe he did, just not enough. Or maybe he was just strolling lazily. Who knew. In any case, Stelle was grateful he wasn't running away from the scene of the crime like she was something infectious. But still, she pouted, glaring daggers into the back of his head with a look sharp enough to kill.

The fresh air helped clear her head, heavy and poisoned with lingering desire and hurt. She took a deep breath in and let it out slowly, relief washing gently over her scattered thoughts. It was already bright outside, the morning light striking her eyes and making her squint.

How strange. The world hadn't changed at all – the planet kept spinning, people continued walking to work, the fires in the market stalls were already lit. Birds chirped just the same, and the sun was rising just as it always did. Yet for Stelle, sex had always felt like something that would change a person – something that would transform everything around them beyond recognition. But in the end, she was still herself. She hadn't magically become some confident woman overnight. And the world remained just as it was.

All her life, innocence and intimacy had been given so much weight – treated as something sacred, irreversible. But in truth… the only thing now reminding her that any of it had happened at all, the only proof it hadn't just been a dream, were her aching muscles.

"I'll hire someone reliable to take you back and make sure your horse gets there safely, too."

Her heart clenched at the sound of his voice – he was trying to care. Did he feel guilty? Or just obligated? Of course – a rich man like him probably helped all his "lovers" get home, purely out of habit.

But no, she didn't need care that came with strings attached. Before the blond could say anything else – words that would hurt even more later – Stelle decided to beat him to it. Without thinking, she exhaled sharply and said,

"Thank you, but no," she said, keeping her voice steady and forcing it to sound cold. She even made herself look him directly in the eyes. "You don't need to take care of me. What happened between us – it meant nothing. So let's just pretend we never met."

She thought she saw a flicker of surprise cross his eyes – his brow lifted just slightly. But Stelle turned away before she could read it clearly, walking past him without another glance.

And as she left, she threw back one last word:

"Farewell."

She almost startled herself with how cold her voice sounded, though inside, her chest burned with bitter sadness. But sorrow quickly gave way to irritation.

For a moment, he watched her back, then gave a short reply:

"Goodbye… Ray."

Beyond the ice in his voice, there was something else – a flicker of curiosity, returning after vanishing when their little fairytale ended. But it didn't matter anymore. They were never meant to meet again. And no one – not a single living soul – could ever know what had happened between them today. That would be for the best.

She'd had enough of this experience.

Satisfied, Stelle? Is this what you wanted?

It seemed so. Then why did her chest feel so empty? And why… why did she still want to look back, just one last time?

***

Stelle didn't remember the road back. Everything felt like a haze. The familiar landscapes, the same horse beneath her, the same cool breeze – as if nothing unusual had happened at all. Just another morning, returning after a carefree night with friends. It didn't feel like a farewell. It didn't feel like this was the last time she would ever return like this, light-hearted and unburdened.

And it didn't feel like today she had made the greatest mistake of her entire life – a mistake she had walked into with her eyes wide open. The worst part was that, if she could turn back time… she would do it all over again. The worst part was how much she had enjoyed it. Far too much.

Her mind was empty. She just rode on, staring off into the horizon with a distant expression. There was no longer any need to hide. Now, Stelle could enter through the front gates without glancing around for guards. Some of them even greeted her and bowed as she passed. It was such a strange feeling.

She tied Apple down for the last time. And the mare, as if sensing it, pressed her head against Stelle, demanding affection. The girl gave a faint smile. She stroked her mane and neck gently, and the horse exhaled with contentment. She would miss these rides, feeling the wind rush past her. In a way, she had grown more attached to Apple than even her own personal horse. Strange, but true.

Perhaps it wasn't hygienic, but she kissed Apple on the nose one last time, gave her a final affectionate pat, and turned towards the entrance of the estate – not toward her usual crate to climb up to the balcony. How quickly everything had changed in just a single day.

Now, an entirely different life awaited her. Ray was gone. All the mistakes Ray had made would stay buried with her. It was bitter. It was painful. But it was the right thing to do. It was better for everyone this way.

Now there was only Stelle. And she would do everything in her power to repay her mother's kindness and never become a disappointment.

Inside the mansion, it was as quiet as always, her footsteps echoing down the corridor. Servants passed by – some stared at her in shock, as if seeing a ghost, while others looked unsurprised. Had word already spread about what was coming? Ah, does it even matter anymore?

Right now, all she wanted was to return to her room and shut the world out. No… first, she wanted to wash it all away – every trace of filth, moral and physical alike.

But on her way, an unexpected encounter awaited her. Her heart froze when she saw her mother, sitting calmly in an armchair by the window with a cup of coffee in hand. As always, she looked perfect – dark purple curls elegantly pinned up with jeweled ornaments into a high coiffure, her burgundy dress flowing over her shoulders like rich red wine.

Kafka looked up at her the moment she heard approaching footsteps. The amber-eyed girl tensed, her heart squeezing painfully. Fear prickled through her chest – she must look so disheveled right now, so improper for a lady.

What if her mother could tell everything with just one glance?

Would she be angry?

Even if she wasn't… it would be so unbearably shameful.

Stelle fidgeted under the duchess's piercing gaze, not knowing where to look. The silence was brief, but to her it felt like an eternity, as those sharp eyes swept over her from head to toe.

Yet when her mother finally broke the silence, her voice carried no irritation or anger:

"Welcome back, my little raccoon. I see you're getting used to your role as queen. You even have an heir now." Kafka referred to her crown and the raccoon in her hands.

The smile that touched the woman's lips let Stelle breathe out in relief. Her words weren't scolding – they were teasing. And with that, the heavy weight slid from her shoulders. Embarrassment blossomed across her cheeks. She smiled back shyly.

"I'm home…" the girl mumbled awkwardly. "Forgive me for taking so long."

Kafka shook her head.

"It is quite all right. I was about to send someone after you if you decided not to return, but you have exceeded my expectations. You came back on your own, and early enough at that. Well done, my little star."

Stelle couldn't wrap her mind around it. Her mother was seeing her in a completely spent state, returning after a night spent away from home, and instead of scolding her daughter… she was praising her? It was unbelievable. Just yesterday, the girl would have never believed it. How could the situation change that drastically in such a short time?

"I hope you enjoyed yourself and managed to do everything you wished." Kafka's dark violet eyes gleamed with a sly light, and her smile widened.

Stelle's cheeks flushed red as she shifted awkwardly in place. Then she nodded.

"Yes, Mother… Thank you for giving me this chance. I'm truly happy I got to say goodbye to my friends."

The gentle look in mother's eyes made her heart feel lighter. The pain wasn't choking her as harshly anymore.

"I am pleased to hear that," Kafka nodded, taking a graceful sip of her coffee. "In that case, rest today. I can see you are… weary."

Perhaps it was her imagination, but her mother's voice seemed to linger meaningfully on that last word. Did she…? No, surely she was imagining it. Kafka continued:

"I have canceled today's lessons. Go to your room. Maids will come by to prepare your bath. Take your time."

Stelle's amber eyes widened in surprise. Today was full of shocks. Her mother had always been strict about lessons, never tolerating tardiness – yet now, when Stelle felt she had committed something unforgivable, her mother was suddenly being so kind to her. Of course, Stelle felt overjoyed, but she couldn't understand this abrupt shift.

She nodded, albeit a little uncertainly. She was waiting for some catch. Some "but." And it came when her mother's tone regained its usual seriousness. With a quiet clink, Kafka set her cup down on the saucer, folding her hands together.

"However, starting tomorrow, your training will intensify. You know the reason. We must prepare properly for the upcoming event."

Of course. That was obvious, and Stelle nodded immediately. Now, she needed to devote herself to her studies, to leave all indecent thoughts behind. To forget everything connected to the night life she had clung to. She needed to get used to this.

Even as she tried to convince herself that this was how it should be, that it was right and good – the pain didn't leave her. And she hated herself for that.

***

It was only after returning to her room and catching sight of herself in the mirror that Stelle saw them. Hickeys and bite marks across her neck – dark red, vivid. Her eyes widened in shock, her face instantly flushing a deep crimson. She jumped back, yanking off her hood in a panic and tugging her sweater down to inspect her collarbones and shoulders – and it was no better there. Honestly, it was worse – she even had marks all around her chest! They contrasted so well with the paleness of Stelle's skin. It was so prominent and bright that anyone would notice it right away.

And... it meant mother saw them as well. And that, surely, was the reason behind those sly eyes and teasing tone!

Dear God, please, forgive me!

She was so mortified it felt like her cheeks could fry an egg. Her whole body trembled – this was unthinkable! How could he? He definitely noticed them, and he hadn't even said a word! Was this normal for him? And what was she supposed to do now? How was she going to explain this to the maids and her tutors? If these didn't fade within a week, would she have to show up in front of the royal family like this?

Absolute disaster.

She wanted to strangle Ace and bury him alive right then and there, fury bubbling up inside her like boiling water. Although somewhere deep in her chest, a tiny voice whispered with secret satisfaction at those marks he'd left. As if he had claimed her, and it was… humiliating, yet unbearably thrilling at the same time. But Stelle refused to let herself think about that.

And now Elia and Lizzy would be arriving any minute – they would definitely pry it out of her, buzzing in her ears until she confessed. Who was she kidding – everyone was probably already gossiping about it by now!

At least, that's what the silver-haired girl thought. However, the maids were quieter than ever this time – silent as shadows. They pretended not to see anything, offered none of their usual jokes, didn't tease her or waste any time. They moved efficiently, mechanically – all in complete silence.

How strange. Stelle had thought she knew them well enough to read their thoughts, but only now did she realize just how wrong she had been. Their expressions were somber from the moment they entered her room. And despite their polite smiles, it didn't take a psychologist to see how forced they were.

Still… the amber-eyed girl didn't pry. It felt fair: they didn't ask her any awkward questions, and she returned the courtesy by not intruding into their silence. They must have had their reasons for acting this way. Besides, truth be told, Stelle had no energy left for conversation, or even thought.

So, once she'd bathed, she crawled under her soft blanket with relief, drifting off into sleep so deep and sweet that it took her by surprise. Exhaustion won out, especially when combined with two days' lack of rest. Not even thoughts of this wild night could keep the girl awake.

***

The week that followed blurred into a single, unending routine. Like a never-ending dull dream.

Each morning began before dawn. The maids entered silently, as always, bringing her fresh water, towels, and the day's schedule printed neatly on cream cardstock. They managed to conceal most of the marks on her neck and chest using tinted powders and delicate lace collars—careful layering that left her skin feeling suffocated, but at least hid the shameful evidence of what had happened. It helped her breathe easier, if only slightly. The Duchess never commented, nor did any of the tutors—though Stelle caught the occasional fleeting glance from passing servants. She pretended not to notice.

Breakfast was taken alone, seated at the small table by her window, poring over etiquette manuals while nibbling at toast and honey. Then came posture training—walking with stacks of books balanced perfectly on her head, crossing the ballroom again and again under her instructor's hawk-eyed stare. If a book fell, she curtsied, retrieved it, and began again.

Next was diction. Reciting greetings, titles, official decrees—each syllable pronounced with flawless clarity. Then, poetry recitation and memory drills; history quizzes about every reigning monarch in Asdana's recorded timeline, their consorts, their scandals and triumphs alike. Her tutor's thin-lipped smile never once cracked. Mistakes were met with repetitions, again and again, until the words blurred into nonsense on her tongue.

After lunch, which she ate quickly and alone, came dance rehearsals in the grand hall. Twirls and waltzes, curtsies and respectful bows, led by the court's dance master—a man who smelled faintly of powder and old lavender. His grip was firm as he corrected her stances, pushing her shoulders back until they ached. He reminded her again and again to smile, even when it felt like her lips would crack from the strain.

In the evenings, she practiced conversation. A tutor would play the role of a noble stranger, and Stelle had to navigate every subtle nuance of status, implication, and wit. Flattery without insincerity. Charm without coquettishness. Intelligence without arrogance. Each slip was noted, dissected, corrected.

By the time darkness fell, her entire body throbbed with exhaustion. But there was no collapse into bed. She still had etiquette essays to copy out, pages of signature practice until her writing was as beautiful as it was unforgeable. Some nights she fell asleep at her desk, pen still in hand, ink staining her cheek where she'd leaned into her notes.

And through it all, her thoughts flickered back to that night. To him.

Sometimes, she caught herself brushing her fingertips along her neck, remembering the sensation of his lips. Other times, she recoiled from the memory, heart clenching with sharp, sour shame.

But always, without fail, the image returned. No matter how hard Stelle tried to drown it beneath court dances and royal decrees.

On the fifth day, during a moment's pause in her dance lesson, she glanced at her reflection in the mirrored wall. Her hair was pinned perfectly, her collarbone hidden beneath layers of lace, her posture impeccable. She looked every bit the future Duchess, every bit the daughter Kafka wanted her to be.

And yet… for a fleeting moment, she wondered if that girl in the glass was really her at all.

***

The November morning was just as cold and gloomy as every other that week. But in Stelle's room, there was nothing but heat: dozens of candles burned brightly, and maids bustled about, bringing in new dresses, jewelry, perfumes, and ribbons. The air was thick with the scent of cosmetics, powders, and delicate, sweet fragrances.

Stelle sat before the mirror, but barely looked at her reflection. Her amber eyes drifted somewhere far away, unfocused, like she was forcing herself simply to keep breathing. Her heart was racing, a heavy knot of anxiety twisted in her stomach, and her fingers clenched and unclenched in restless rhythm.

Today was the day.

Her eighteenth birthday. Her debut.

The day she would finally stop being just the unknown daughter of a duchess and become the rightful heir of House Solaris. And not just anywhere – but at the Royal Palace itself, before all the nobles, the King, the Queen, the Crown Prince, and the Second Prince as well.

A maid's gentle touch on her shoulder pulled her from her spiraling thoughts, signaling it was time to rise.

"Careful, my lady," murmured another as they helped slip off her nightgown.

Her body trembled with nervousness. She felt their eyes on her – kind, professional, but still strangers' eyes skimming over her back, taking in the faint marks… and the fading love bites. Thankfully, over the past week, most had nearly disappeared, leaving behind only pale shadows easily covered with foundation and color correctors by the experienced hands of her maids. They'd even complimented her, saying her skin healed surprisingly fast. Stelle didn't know whether to be grateful for that… or even more ashamed.

The dress felt heavier than she remembered during the fitting. Dark wine-red with black velvet panels, it hugged her figure, accentuating her waist and the gentle curve of her hips. The lace at her neck tickled her skin, and the corset cinched her ribs tightly. Her breaths turned shallow, her heart pounding even harder.

Once the dress was fastened, the maids immediately moved on to her hair – brushing, arranging, weaving in ribbons, pinning it with jeweled clips, sliding in tiny gemstones that made her silvery-gray strands shimmer with every slight movement of her head. Their fingers were quick and precise. All Stelle had to do was sit still, staring into the mirror at…

A stranger.

Is that really me? she wondered, gazing at the unfamiliar girl with perfectly styled curls, subtle makeup highlighting her warm amber eyes and full lips, and a dress that made her look like an actual princess.

But inside, everything tightened. Stelle wanted to scream, to run, to tear off that dress and hide under a blanket like she used to as a child when thunderstorms rolled in. But she couldn't. Today was her day. And she had to be strong.

One of the maids wiped the mirror with a soft cloth, smiling with quiet admiration.

"You look radiant, my lady. No one will be able to take their eyes off you."

Stelle nodded absently, not knowing what to say.

At that moment, another maid suddenly slapped her palm to her forehead as she carried in yet another box of jewelry.

"Oh! I completely forgot!" she exclaimed, setting the box down and rummaging through it before pulling out a small velvet pouch. "I found this while cleaning earlier this week – it was under the armchair. It must be yours… I'm so sorry for not giving it back sooner – silly me, it just slipped my mind!"

She poured the contents out onto the vanity table.

Stelle's heart stopped.

There, on the soft fabric, it lay.

The ring.

A delicate band of white gold, engraved with barely visible patterns, set with a small but gorgeous green gemstone that glimmered in the candlelight like a dewdrop at dawn. The very same ring Ace had given her that night, after her victory at the poker table. The same ring after which he had first… No. She wouldn't let her thoughts go there.

Her face flushed hot. Her fingers reached for it involuntarily before she snatched her hand back, clenching it into a tight fist. As if it had burned her.

Why… why did you leave this for me? So it could haunt me for the rest of my life?

Stelle had no answer.

The maid, completely clueless of the storm raging inside her, chirped brightly,

"Would you like to wear it today, my lady?"

The silver-haired girl bit down on her lip. Her eyes stung unpleasantly, and she blinked rapidly to drive away the prickling sensation. Slowly, almost without breathing, she picked up the ring, clutching it tightly in her hand as if trying to feel anything through the cold metal other than her own pain.

She looked at her reflection in the mirror. At the girl whose eyes brimmed with sorrow and confusion. At the girl who today was supposed to become a woman.

In the final moment, just before the maids helped her to her feet, she made her choice.

Pressing her lips together to stop their trembling, Stelle slowly slipped the ring onto her ring finger. It fit perfectly. Just as it had that night. As if it had been made for her, and that hurt all the more.

She took a deep breath, lifted her chin, and looked at her reflection again. Her heart still ached, yes. But now, at least for today, she was ready. Ready for pain, for triumph, for whatever might come.

Let it be what it will.

And this ring… this ring would be her reminder of humanity. That she was not just a doll or a puppet playing the role of heiress – but a girl. With her own feelings, her own mistakes, and her own pain.

When the maids finally finished, Stelle felt like a porcelain doll: beautiful, flawless… and fragile. Every movement felt heavy in the dress and corset, and her scalp ached under the weight of pins and ornaments woven into her hair.

"Are you ready, my lady?" Elia asked softly.

Stelle only nodded, not trusting her voice to stay steady. They led her out of the room, her steps echoing down the corridors of the manor. Servants parted to let her pass, bowing their heads deeply. Some watched with admiration, others with envy. But Stelle didn't feel any of their gazes. She kept her eyes fixed ahead, focusing solely on keeping her breathing calm and even.

At last, they stepped out into the courtyard.

Cold autumn air struck her flushed skin, burning it with its chill. A thin mist drifted low across the stone tiles. In the center stood the duchess's carriage – tall, dark, adorned with golden filigree and bearing the Solaris clan's spider crest upon its door.

Inside sat Kafka, framed by burgundy velvet cushions, dressed in a long purple gown trimmed with black fur. Her hair was arranged in an elaborate style that emphasized the graceful line of her neck, and her gaze was as sharp and penetrating as ever.

As Stelle climbed the small steps with the coachman's help and settled carefully into the seat opposite her, her mother remained silent for a moment, looking her over from head to toe. Under that scrutinizing gaze, Stelle felt her cheeks flush with heat.

At last, the corners of her mother's lips lifted slightly.

"You look wonderful." Her voice was gentle, though her gaze remained sharp. "A true princess. Don't forget that image."

Stelle lowered her eyes and replied softly,

"Thank you, Mother."

The carriage started to move, rolling smoothly over the stone-paved road. Outside the window, the Solaris estate drifted by – the gardens, the stables, the fields. Neatly planted trees swept past in careful rows. The cold, grayish tint of the sky weighed heavily on her chest. The weather really wasn't cheerful today. Inside the carriage, it was warm, but the chill still seeped up from below, curling around her calves.

For a while, they rode in silence, broken only by the rumble of wheels and the clop of horses' hooves. Then Kafka spoke, her eyes thoughtful as she watched the shifting scenery beyond the glass.

"Remember, Stelle. Today, you must be flawless. Every word, every gesture, every glance will be judged, each searching for something to criticize."

She paused. Her voice remained calm, but within that softness lay unbending steel.

"When you enter the hall, keep your back straight. Don't slouch like you did as a child. Chin raised, but not too high – you mustn't look arrogant. Your gaze firm, yet gentle. People need to sense your strength, but not be frightened by it."

Stelle nodded, trying to absorb it all at once. Her throat felt dry.

"Greet each person with dignity," her mother continued. "Even those unworthy of your bow. Look them in the eye, smile just enough to appear polite, but never approachable. Remember, none of them are your friends. They will seek out your weakness. Do not give it to them."

She turned her gaze directly to her daughter. Amber eyes met violet, and for a moment, Stelle's breath caught.

"But this," Kafka said softly, "you already know, my little star. Let me tell you something they never taught you in your lessons."

Stelle's heart tightened. She blinked in surprise and nodded obediently, curiosity flickering in her eyes.

"To see His Highness Sunday in person is a rare occasion," her mother continued. "He is an incredibly busy man. As you know, he is not just a prince – he is the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court, responsible for law and order throughout the entire kingdom. He also oversees the military, infrastructure, and education. And in his free time, he conducts the Royal Orchestra."

Another slight nod from the silver-haired girl. Indeed, His Highness held far more responsibilities than anyone would ever expect from a prince, let alone even some monarchs. Stelle couldn't help but marvel at how he managed to do everything at once. The thought that such a person would come to congratulate her personally on her birthday felt… unreal. Her palms were already sweating just imagining it. And not just him – the entire royal family attending? No matter how she tried, Stelle still couldn't fully believe it. It all felt like a dream.

Her mother continued,

"I don't want you to fear him, despite all this. Don't act overly polite or forced. On the contrary, try to build a rapport with him – carefully, step by step. Small gestures."

Amber eyes widened. Easier said than done. How was she supposed to act friendly, even slightly natural, around someone so powerful? It felt impossible.

"Oh… and of course, try not to stare at him too intensely. He is quite striking," Kafka added with a playful smile, and Stelle felt heat bloom across her cheeks before she could stop it. "He is extremely polite and, at first glance, a rather pleasant young man. But in truth, he is deeply guarded and cold. Almost nothing is known about him beyond public information. No friends, no attachments, no connections – not even political ones. Internal and foreign policy are generally managed by His Highness, the Second Prince, Aventurine, along with the financial and taxation systems."

Stelle hummed thoughtfully, her gaze drifting down to the ring on her finger. How curious… the stone in this ring had the same name. She wondered why the King had named his son after a gemstone. It sounded beautiful, yes, but also a little strange.

"But here is what I do know," Kafka continued. "His Highness Sunday changed completely, became distant from everyone, fifteen years ago when his beloved sister, Robin, died tragically of tuberculosis. She must have been such a radiant, cheerful child, living and breathing music until the very end. Once upon a time, His Highness was the same. It isn't spoken of openly, but ever since her death, he became the flawless heir everyone expects him to be – but I believe he is also a very lonely and unhappy man."

The silver-haired girl absorbed every word like a sponge, a pang of sorrow tightening her chest. She had never known about this tragedy. It made sense that they would keep such memories quiet, to avoid reminding people of grief… Still, in her mind, His Highness Sunday suddenly seemed far more human. So he, too, had his reasons for being the way he was. Stelle often complained about her own life, but how must it have been for him?

"That is why, my little star," Kafka said softly, smiling, "I want you to try and help him."

Stelle's lips parted slightly – she wanted to protest, to say it was beyond her. But her mother didn't give her the chance.

"You will succeed," she said firmly. "If not you, then no one in this entire kingdom will be able to. You are my bright little star. I know that your kind heart can melt even the coldest prince."

Stelle's cheeks flushed crimson, and she awkwardly averted her gaze.

"N-Not at all…" she mumbled.

"See?" Her mother's voice now sounded even more assured. "You've remained my wonderful daughter with a living, beating heart, despite your heritage. Treat him as you would a potential friend – he needs that. Of course, within reason. Don't go throwing yourself at his neck the moment you see him."

Stelle giggled softly – she would never do something like that! That would be the height of disrespect, wouldn't it? She had no idea where her mother found such confidence that she could "befriend" the Crown Prince himself. The very idea seemed impossible. His image felt so distant, so untouchable, like something she could never hope to reach.

Soon, the carriage rolled smoothly through the grand palace gates, adorned with golden filigree, entering another world – a world where even the air felt cleaner and sweeter, and each cobblestone was worth more than an entire servant family's monthly pay.

Stelle leaned closer to the cool glass window, barely breathing as awe filled her chest. The road was paved with pale gray marble laced with quartz, glimmering under the morning light like stardust. On either side stretched towering hedges, trimmed to perfection, each rising three times the height of a person. Their shapes curved elegantly into arches, spires, decorative columns, and endless curling designs – a verdant palace standing in the shadow of the real one.

Between the hedges bloomed flowerbeds in every jewel tone imaginable: sapphire bellflowers, ruby poppies, emerald hyacinths. Amid the bright splashes of scarlet and violet flowers stood delicate marble statues – graceful nymphs with lutes, young warriors with spears, and slender birds with outstretched wings. Water flowed from a fountain sculpted into a flock of swans, their arched necks intertwining into an intricate lacework that shimmered with a million cascading droplets, refracting the morning light into all the colors of the rainbow.

The carriage rolled slowly past a magnificent greenhouse – a grand structure of white stone and glass, wrapped in ivy and blooming white roses. Through its transparent walls, Stelle glimpsed an entire forest of exotic trees, their massive, vividly colored flowers resembling clusters of butterflies. Somewhere deeper inside, the surface of an artificial pond shimmered, tiny birds fluttering above it, their enchanting songs reaching her even here.

Further on, an entire garden of moonflowers came into view – so many, so bright, it stole her breath away. Then passed the tops of cypress-lined avenues, leading toward pavilions for meditation and tea ceremonies. Their roofs were tiled in dark gold, and their eaves adorned with intricate carvings of mythical creatures. Stelle's gaze lingered on one pavilion where the columns had been sculpted into slender women with their arms raised high, as if holding up the sky itself. Even from here, their cold beauty and unmoving grandeur radiated power.

The carriage continued past artificial streams crossed by carved stone bridges with lanterns made of clear quartz. The water was so pure it mirrored the sky above.

And finally, after rounding a bend, the palace itself came into view.

Stelle's breath caught in her throat.

It towered before them, like something born from legend – pure white, as if carved from moonlight, with dozens of spires, colonnades, arcades, and terraces, each adorned with delicate carvings and twisted towers capped with golden domes. The main façade gleamed in the sunlight, its marble walls and inlays of semi-precious stones reflecting the light so brightly it was almost blinding. At the entrance stood massive doors of dark wood, plated with gold and engraved with the dynasty's history – a whole poem captured in metal.

In front of the palace stretched a vast circular courtyard, paved in black and white marble arranged in a complex, mandala-like pattern. At its center rose a grand fountain depicting the Creation of the World: the figure of a woman with flowing hair, from which cascades of water fell, forming rivers around which small bronze figurines of people, animals, and trees entwined.

To the right, spread a massive eastern-style garden, with ponds of mirror-like water and stone lanterns carved in the shapes of dragons. To the left lay a terraced rose garden, rising toward the rear palace pavilions. Its paths were laid with crimson bricks to contrast the white and blood-red roses planted in perfectly geometric patterns.

And directly in front of the entrance, lining the wide steps, stood guards clad in silver armor with purple capes. They held tall firearms in their hands. Their armor gleamed so brightly under the morning sun that Stelle had to look away.

Her heart pounded so hard she feared her mother might hear it. Never before had Stelle seen anything like this. Even the grandeur of the Solaris family estate would pale before this kingdom of light, gold, and marble.

And in that moment, a tremor ran through her body.

Here, in this place, she would enter a new world – a world where every glance, every word, every gesture would carry more weight than her entire life up until now.

The carriage rolled to a smooth stop, and her heart clenched so tightly she almost stopped breathing. The coachman hopped down deftly and opened the door, unfolding the carved steps. Cold air rushed inside, filled with the scents of marble, fresh flowers, and something sweet and smoky – like distant incense.

Kafka was the first to step down – graceful and silent, as if her feet never touched the polished stone beneath her. Behind her, trembling with fear and awe, Stelle carefully descended, holding up her skirts so she wouldn't trip on the hem and disgrace herself before the entire kingdom in her very first moment.

The sensation beneath her shoes was unusual – cool marble, polished to a mirror's sheen, like stepping barefoot onto smooth ice.

Instinctively, she lifted her gaze – and her breath caught once more. Before the palace stretched an entire row of carriages lined up along the inner road. They were of every kind imaginable – massive, heavy black carriages adorned with golden crests; silver ones inlaid with mirrored panels; deep sapphire carriages with gemstones embedded in the door arches; and even one entirely lacquered in white, decorated only with a single silver branch etched onto its door.

At each carriage stood coachmen in ceremonial uniforms and guards dressed in their clan's colors. Their liveries shimmered like a parade of peacocks – purples, emeralds, sapphires, black with gold, cream with scarlet ribbons… It was a display of the kingdom's greatest powers. Every carriage belonged to an influential house. Each one was a symbol of history, authority, and wealth.

And their carriage had arrived last.

At that moment, Stelle realized that everyone was already there. All these people… were waiting for her.

Dizziness swept over her from the rush of nerves, and she instinctively stepped closer to her mother, as if hoping to hide behind the folds of Kafka's purple fur-lined cloak. Her mother felt the movement but said nothing – only brushed her daughter's wrist lightly through her glove, a silent reminder to stand tall.

At the base of the wide marble steps, two figures awaited them. The first was a tall man in a silvery-white doublet embroidered with the royal dynasty's symbols across his chest. An ornate medal gleamed proudly at his breast, and though his hair was streaked with grey, it was meticulously slicked back. He bowed deeply.

"Welcome, esteemed Duchess Solaris and Lady Stelle. His Majesty and Their Highnesses are already awaiting you in the Marble Hall. Allow me to escort you."

The second was a young man in royal livery, holding a long staff topped with a golden sun emblem. He bowed his head without lifting his gaze, stepping forward to lead the procession.

Stelle gave a faint nod, her eyes dropping to the floor as she tried to focus on her breathing and not faint from the sheer weight of nerves and her corset.

They began their ascent up the broad staircase leading to the palace. The steps were so perfectly polished that the folds of her dress reflected upon them like ripples on water. On either side, the stairs were bordered by massive wrought-iron railings inlaid with moonstone and lapis lazuli, and lining them were tall lanterns shaped like lily buds of milky glass, casting a gentle, even glow.

The grand entrance doors stood open. Beyond them stretched an immense foyer that made Stelle almost gasp out loud.

Inside, the air smelled of incense, flowers, and something subtly sweet – perhaps aromatic candles burning somewhere unseen. The floor was laid with the thinnest slabs of pure white marble, veined with gold to create an intricate geometric pattern resembling a sun disk.

Above them loomed a colossal ceiling supported by black marble columns. Each was wrapped in carvings of winding branches, blossoms, and dragons, as if real vines and scaled bodies had been frozen in stone. Light streamed through towering stained-glass windows, casting the space in hundreds of shifting shades – ruby, sapphire, amethyst, emerald, and amber.

On the walls hung tapestries the size of entire rooms, depicting the kingdom's history: the creation of the world by the gods, the first coronation, great battles, treaties signed with neighboring nations. They had been woven over generations. The gold and silk threads shone so brilliantly it seemed the fabric was woven not from thread, but from pure light.

Along both sides of the hall stood towering candelabras adorned with crystal pendants. Each slight sway from the faintest breeze sent hundreds of reflections dancing across the walls and columns, creating the illusion that the palace was filled with stars.

Servants dressed in silver and white liveries stood along the walls, heads bowed slightly. No music played yet, but that only made the silence feel even more majestic. Only the echo of footsteps on marble filled the vastness, ringing out endlessly.

Stelle walked a step behind her mother, and with each step, her knees grew weaker, her heart heavier. This space was too vast, too bright, too… perfect. She felt as if it could not contain someone like her – small, trembling, unworthy.

The procession slowly approached the enormous double doors at the end of the hall. The doors were adorned with golden inlay and dark blue sapphires, depicting a night sky filled with dancing constellations. Each wing rose higher than three men standing atop one another, so heavy that it took four designated servants to open them.

Before the doors stood two more attendants holding long silver trumpets. They bowed their heads, waiting for the signal to announce the arrival of the newest guest – the reason for today's celebration.

Stelle stopped a few steps away from the doors, barely resisting the urge to grab onto the edge of her mother's cloak. Instead, she clenched her fingers into tight fists, feeling her elbows and shoulders tremble. Her gaze lifted to the golden patterns on the towering doors. The air felt thicker now. The sweet scent of lotus and incense wrapped around her head, and her heart began to pound faster, louder.

She couldn't believe the moment had come.

Just a few more seconds – and those magnificent doors would open. Like a portal to another life. The silver-haired girl could barely hold herself upright, terrified she might faint right there, or worse – run away and hide forever, out of sight. She had to keep it together.

Her heart pounded so hard it hurt. Her whole body trembled. What if she couldn't even walk out properly? What if she slipped? What if her appearance wasn't good enough?

And the Royal Family?! They were all there! They would see her! With their own eyes! How was she supposed to process that without spiraling into panic?

Her thoughts refused to settle, churning and swarming like a plague of locusts in summer. A lump rose in her throat, refusing to go away. She could barely breathe; the whole world seemed to spin. The walls and ceilings – so tall, so vast – felt like they were closing in on her, squeezing her like a suffocating cell.

If it hadn't been for her mother's hand, resting gently on her back and guiding her forward, Stelle was certain she would have collapsed right there, or buried her face in the shiny floor to escape it all. Only Kafka's steady, encouraging gaze pulled her back to reality. The duchess nodded calmly.

"Everything will be alright, my little star," she whispered.

Stelle's heart skipped a beat, and a shaky breath escaped her lips. And with that breath, it felt like a lion's share of her tension left with it. The fear and anxiety were still there, but it felt… a little lighter. Because she wasn't alone here. And maybe, just maybe, that meant it wouldn't be so bad.

The silence before the doors felt like a taut string pulled to its absolute limit. Stelle could hear only her own breathing – shallow and ragged, like a trapped creature's. Her heart pounded high in her throat, ready to burst free at any second.

And then… the sound.

One of the attendants raised his silver trumpet to his lips, took a deep breath – and the air shattered with a triumphant, pure note. The second trumpet joined in, their duet echoing through the vestibule, piercing the vast space, resonating under the domed ceiling, and far beyond the great doors. Stelle felt the sound in every fibre of her being. She knew she would never forget how it vibrated through her entire body, sending her nerves into near collapse.

Time froze.

"Her Grace Duchess Kafka, and her daughter, Lady Stelle of House Solaris!" the herald proclaimed in a loud yet melodious voice, each word vibrating deep within her bones.

The world fell silent. All Stelle heard was her own name, repeating over and over in her mind.

And then the massive doors began to open.

Slowly, majestically, heavily. Two rows of specially appointed attendants, dressed in dark liveries embroidered with silver, pushed the towering panels aside. The golden inlays caught the light of countless crystal chandeliers, and before Stelle, the hall revealed itself.

The Marble Hall.

It was so vast that at first, she couldn't even see the ceiling. The space soared upwards for dozens of meters, supported by columns of white marble entwined with golden grapevines. Between the columns, hundreds of candles burned in hanging candelabras, casting a soft, scattered glow like starlight on a summer night.

Beneath her feet stretched a floor laid with alternating patterns of black and white marble, forming intricate spirals, symbols of the sun, the moon, and the spider. The designs seemed almost alive – as if the waves of time and power converged within their intertwining lines.

The hall was full of people.

Women in lavish gowns, like blooming flowers: rubies, emeralds, sapphires, pearls – each dress worth more than an entire estate. Men in doublets embroidered with gold and silver threads, high collars, sweeping cloaks, medals glittering on their chests. Their gazes turned to her all at once, like hundreds of sharp arrows. Some were cold and assessing. Others – restrained yet admiring. A few held envy, others curiosity. But not a single one was indifferent.

And all those eyes were fixed solely on her. On poor, trembling Stelle, who didn't know where to put herself, where to hide. How to breathe. It felt as if each gaze was another hand tightening around her throat. Each look raised the temperature and tension in the room by another degree.

Stelle took a step forward. The marble floor was so polished, it felt like walking on water.

But it wasn't the nobles' stares that frightened her most. It was what lay ahead.

For at the far end of the hall, upon a raised dais, stood the thrones – grand, intricately carved, gleaming with gold and sapphires. In the central throne sat His Majesty, King Gopher Wood. He was a man of age, with long, slightly wavy jet-black hair that showed no hint of grey. A heavy mantle of azure velvet trimmed with pure white fur draped over his shoulders. His crown – massive, gold, adorned with black opal and sapphires – glittered, reflecting the light of chandeliers and candelabras. His eyes, bright and piercing blue, gazed down at her silently, as if weighing her on invisible scales. His face was cold, stern, with high cheekbones and a straight, imposing nose.

Beside him, on a slightly smaller throne, sat Queen Jade. Blindingly beautiful – her porcelain skin seemed to glow. Long lavender hair was styled high, adorned with jade hairpins and cascading gold chains. Her dress shimmered in shades of green and black, like polished jade stone, and her eyes, bluer than any sky, regarded Stelle with intrigue. However, her gaze remained as sharp as a blade wrapped in silk.

To the King's left, standing just slightly behind him, was… him. His very presence felt like heavy silver pressing down upon her chest with its sheer weight. Silvery-gray hair fell over his shoulders in soft waves, accentuating the pale aristocratic precision of his features. Golden-amber eyes, the same as hers but deeper and colder, looked straight into her soul. There was no malice in those eyes, no mockery – only a bottomless, all-consuming silence that made her want to either flee or fall to her knees and beg forgiveness for every sin she had ever committed… and even those she had yet to commit. Tall, imposing, he wore a long white mantle embroidered with golden spirals and the royal crest.

Stelle didn't need to ask to know – this could be no one else but Crown Prince Sunday. One glance was enough.

He was gorgeous. So enchanting it felt unreal, like he wasn't human at all, but the projected vision of a Greek philosopher imagining the ideal form of male beauty. Utterly unattainable, like an angel descended from the heavens – he could look at you. Still, you could never look back at him. His mere presence made her heart quiver with equal parts fear and awe.

Yet despite that, it wasn't him who captured all of Stelle's attention.

No.

Her gaze was drawn to the last member of the Royal Family, standing to the right of Queen Jade.

And in that instant, her heart stopped. It plunged straight to her feet and promised never to return. The world froze around her, the planet itself seemed to slip from its orbit and plummet into darkness.

It must be a dream, or a hallucination. A projection conjured by Stelle's feverish, broken mind that desperately needed a good slap to wake it up. At first, she told herself it was just a coincidence, just an uncanny resemblance, but the moment she looked closer – every last hope shattered like a chandelier crashing onto marble.

His clothes radiated wealth and refined taste – an opulent doublet of deep green with golden accents, tailored perfectly to his elegant frame. Wheat-blond hair, styled back slightly on one side, revealing sharp features impossible to look away from. A lazy, confident smile curled his lips. And… his eyes. Violet irises around the edge, with aquamarine centers. Half-lidded, narrowed in amused indifference. But then, as his gaze settled on the arriving guest, he froze. That relaxed look vanished, replaced by stunned surprise – his brows lifted ever so slightly, and his lips parted just a fraction.

There was no mistaking it.

The Second Prince, Aventurine.

Or is it… Ace?

Notes:

NO WAY!! it happened omgomgomg

Chapter 9: Stelle's Debut

Summary:

Silks, crowns, and venom behind every smile.
Welcome to society, Lady Stelle.

Step. Another. And a third.

The click of her heels echoed loudly, ricocheting off the high walls. Stelle walked forward with calm, steady steps, looking straight ahead – her face betraying nothing of the chaos raging inside. Shock, confusion, and anxiety churned together like poison, and her chest hummed with tension, making it hard to breathe.

Fate was truly mocking her. As if things hadn't been hard enough already, now it had to…

No. This couldn't be real. Stelle couldn't even form these words into a proper sentence in her mind. Doubts plagued her until the very end – she kept trying to convince herself she was just imagining things, that the Second Prince Aventurine couldn't possibly be the same man who had taken her innocence a week ago. No, no. That was ridiculous. It had to be a coincidence. Just someone who looked remarkably similar? In theory… that was possible, right?

Why would a prince spend his nights in the city?

Oh, wait… what had she been doing there, too?

But besides that, wasn't the prince supposed to be a serious man? He didn't seem like the type to frequent bars and casinos. Right?

Exactly. It was too early to conclude that he really was Ace. Maybe he just happened to look very, very much like him. Maybe Ace was simply so absurdly lucky that he was born looking like the prince himself. How hilarious.

And again – even if it was true, so what? Stelle herself had told him that they should act like strangers, and she wasn't about to go back on her word now.

Forget it.

Forget him.

Whatever happened that night needed to stay there.

She had to act accordingly.

Of course, saying it was easy. But the girl's gaze still slipped towards Aventurine, just for a moment. He was looking at her. Just like everyone else in the hall. And in his eyes… there was nothing. That cold, blank look cut deeper than any blade, but… perhaps it was for the best.

Stelle drew in a deep breath, then exhaled slowly.

Enough.

Then Stelle's lips curved into a smile. Polite, yet not forced - just as she'd been taught. She was now close enough to the dais; bowing her head in humility, she slowly sank into a deep curtsey.

"Stelle Solaris greets Your Most Honored Majesties and Your Highnesses," she began softly, her voice gentle as she kept her gaze lowered. She couldn't look up until permitted. "I thank you from the bottom of my heart for your warm welcome – your grace shall remain in my memory forever."

The King inclined his head slightly in approving acknowledgment. The Queen's lips curved into an enigmatic smile, and her eyes narrowed ever so slightly at Stelle's words as if scanning her. The older man raised his hand, and the murmurs rippling through the hall fell silent at once.

"You may lift your head."

She obeyed, straightening slowly and gazing at the King and Queen. She didn't glance at the princes – especially not the one standing to the right.

"Today," the King began, his deep, commanding voice echoing off the marble and gold, "we welcome into our noble society Lady Stelle Solaris, daughter of our loyal Duchess Kafka Solaris. The House of Solaris has stood as a shield protecting our kingdom for generations. Their loyalty, efficiency, and wisdom have never faltered."

He nodded approvingly to Kafka, and her mother dipped her head in regal acknowledgment, a faint smile gracing her lips.

"That is why," he continued, "Her Majesty the Queen and I have decided to bestow a special gift upon you, as a token of our gratitude and to ensure the continued prosperity of these lands."

He gestured to a servant, who stepped forward carrying a long velvet casket. When it was opened, the hall's chandeliers caught on what lay within: a ceremonial charter granting land ownership, sealed with emerald wax and adorned with gold embroidery.

Stelle's heart clenched. It already felt as if this entire grand reception held in the palace itself was gift enough beyond imagining.

"To the House of Solaris, we entrust full governance over the southern trading port – along with its lands, levies, and revenues – under the protection and supervision of the Crown. Let this stand as testament to our gratitude, and as the seal of an unbreakable alliance between the House of Solaris and the Crown."

Ripples of astonished whispers spread through the hall. The southern port was one of the wealthiest trade hubs in the entire kingdom – a place where goods from all seas converged: spices, silks, metals. Gaining it as a hereditary holding was an unprecedented boon, ensuring the House's wealth and influence for generations to come.

Stelle's eyes widened, her lips parting in shock. Meanwhile, Kafka's flawless face only softened before she sank into a deep curtsey. The silver-haired girl hurried to follow her example.

"Your Majesties bestow upon us an honor beyond all measure," her mother's voice rang out calm and commanding.

"Their Majesties' grace knows no bounds!" Stelle added, this time with a hint of emotion slipping through her composure. She tried to sound as calm as possible, but a trace of delight still colored her tone.

The King's gaze shifted back to the girl. The corners of his lips lifted ever so slightly.

"Lady Stelle," he said, "step forward."

Her heart plummeted to her feet. Her knees trembled traitorously, but she forced herself to take step after step until she stood directly before the dais. The man's eyes travelled across her face.

"You are your mother's pride, and the kingdom's hope," he said quietly, his words reaching only those closest. Then, louder, he proclaimed:

"Welcome to court, Lady Stelle Solaris."

The hall erupted in polite applause. She sank into a flawless, low curtsey, head bowed. The ornaments woven into her hair glittered under the chandeliers and candelabras.

When she straightened, her gaze lifted involuntarily. She hadn't planned to – truly – but before she could stop herself, her eyes flicked towards the Second Prince.

Aventurine was still watching her, his face as indifferent as ever. But beneath that icy mask, if one looked closely, there was a shadow of something darker. The tension in his jaw. The flicker in his gaze.

He recognized her.

She wondered – what was going through his mind right now?

Surprise? Anger? Pity?

Stelle clearly wasn't meant to know. But one thing she knew for certain: suddenly, the hall felt far too small. Her breath caught in her throat. Even the applause around her sounded no louder than a mosquito's whine under the weight of his gaze.

Her own eyes didn't linger on him – they merely brushed past in a fleeting glance. She couldn't allow him to see that it mattered to her. She also needed to drill it into herself: it shouldn't matter.

Crown Prince Sunday stepped forward as the applause and murmurs of amazement began to quiet down. Silence fell across the hall once more. He stood there – so ethereal and majestic, even while doing absolutely nothing. His platinum hair reflected the light softly, making him look almost like an angel. Just looking at him left Stelle feeling spellbound.

"Your Majesty," he addressed the King softly, then turned his gaze to Kafka, and finally to Stelle. The girl's heart clenched at once, and a faint blush touched her cheeks. His voice – deep, yet melodic and clear – carried through the hall like a perfectly tuned violin.

"Lady Stelle Solaris," he began, his expression composed, a gentle, polite smile touching his lips. "As a token of my personal gratitude towards your House, and in honor of your debut, I would like to extend you an invitation. It would be my honor if you would grace me with your presence at a special performance."

Involuntarily, Stelle drew in a breath, her lashes fluttering. She could hardly believe this was real! She had always dreamed of attending his performance, and now she was being invited directly? A tremor of excitement ran through her entire body.

"I dedicate next week's orchestra concert to you. It will be inspired by you and the history of your House."

A chorus of astonished gasps rippled through the nobles. Attending one of Prince Sunday's concerts was a privilege reserved only for the wealthiest patrons and members of the royal family – entire fortunes were spent just for a seat. And here he was, inviting a debutante to a special concert dedicated to her. It was unheard of.

Stelle froze, her eyebrows arching upwards. Her eyes sparkled with joy and shock, and a bright smile spread across her face before she could stop it. Barely able to contain her emotions, she dipped into a deep curtsey and exclaimed:

"It is the greatest honor, Your Highness! My gratitude knows no bounds. Thank you for such a wonderful gift, one I never even dared to dream of."

The prince inclined his head slightly with impeccable grace, concluding softly,

"It will be my honor to see you there."

Then he stepped back to his place, one hand folding behind his back.

Stelle's thoughts swirled in chaotic circles – like vultures circling a corpse. A whole concert in her honor? This had to be a dream. Why was there so much attention on her alone? And, more curiously, why did her mother not look surprised in the slightest? Kafka only wore a meaningful smile, as if this was exactly what she had expected.

Before the girl could gather her thoughts or calm her racing heart… the final prince stepped forward. As if to finish off what little composure Stelle still had left.

The golden-haired man moved with sharp, precise grace, the emerald accents of his ceremonial uniform accentuating his tall, commanding silhouette. His violet-aquamarine eyes were half-lidded, his expression cold and calm. Prince Aventurine… Though his movements were slightly more controlled and restrained, Stelle had no trouble recognizing it.

Foolish as it was, a quiet hope still flickered in her chest – that Ace and the Prince were different people. But that hope shattered completely the moment he spoke. The voice that not long ago had showered her with sweet endearments and deep, ragged breaths...

With flawless courtesy, his deep voice echoed powerfully through the hushed hall:

"As for my gift… The House of Solaris has long been our kingdom's pillar of strength and grace. It is only fitting that the future matriarch of such a House be adorned appropriately."

At his slight gesture, attendants stepped forward, each carrying exquisite carved chests made of pale sandalwood, adorned with golden filigree. Each chest was of considerable size, and the procession of servants seemed endless. When a full dozen had gathered, Aventurine gave a slight nod – and the lids were lifted all at once.

Gasps and cries of astonishment swept through the hall, and Stelle's eyes flew wide in shock once again.

Before them lay dazzling splendor – many of the chests were filled with stacks of gold coins and bars. Others overflowed with golden jewelry, from earrings, hairpins, and brooches to rings, pendants, and tiaras – everything one could ever desire. All encrusted with precious gems: sapphires, rubies, emeralds. A few of the larger chests contained neatly folded embroidered silks and gowns, arranged with perfect precision.

"These modest gifts," Aventurine continued, "are but a small fraction of what your House has earned through its service. May they ease your entry into society… and highlight your natural beauty."

His final words were spoken with detached politeness, but his eyes burned with an inscrutable gaze. Like the blade of a sword, half drawn from its sheath.

Stelle lowered her head, unable to find any words. Her heart thudded dully against her ribcage. All these gifts… for some reason, they felt more suffocating and wounding than they did joyous. Her voice trembled when it finally broke free:

"I am infinitely grateful for your excessive generosity… Your Highness."

The last words slipped out a tone quieter, hushed, as she lifted her gaze to meet his eyes deeply. Time seemed to freeze momentarily, and her breath caught in her throat.

There could be no more doubts. Stelle had known it from the moment she walked in here, but now there was no room left for denial. Bitterness rose in her chest, and Stelle barely restrained herself from grimacing.

Gods.

She had hoped so desperately never to see him again. Nothing could be worse than this. Of all people, she just had to get tangled up with him. Tangled up way too intensely. To sleep with someone for the first time, just to let herself go crazy for a single night and forget it all like a bad dream – only for that man to turn out to be a prince, and now she had to bow before him and address him like he was some god?! No one in hell would ever believe her when she jumped out the window from sheer despair.

What if he told everyone? Why wouldn't he? After all, who cared whom men slept with – society certainly didn't clutch at their virginity like a miser clutching gold, the way it did with women! For him, it would just be another notch on his belt, but for her… it would be the end of her entire reputation. Sex not just before marriage, but before coming of age – and drunk, at that. Brilliant. She hadn't even set foot properly into society yet, and they'd already throw her out!

Catastrophe. Utter disaster.

She had to do everything possible to ensure no one even suspected they knew each other…

It was best to stay as far away from him as possible.

***

After the official announcements, gifts, and bows, the hall came alive with its own rhythm: a gentle hum of conversation, the tinkling laughter of ladies, subdued discussions among men about finance and politics, and the occasional ripple of gossip weaving through the air. Musicians played a soft background melody, filled with a harp's silver cascades and strings' muted strumming.

Stelle was trying her very best.

The muscles in her face were already starting to ache from holding her smile – she hadn't been given a single moment's rest. As soon as one group finished conversing with her, another would appear instantly. And to each of them, she had to smile and give her attention as if they were the only people in the room. Her mother wasn't accompanying her – she had her own conversations. Besides, no one would take Stelle seriously if she clung to her mother's skirts. That only made her more anxious – no one was here to correct her instantly if she made a mistake.

Still, all her training wasn't for nothing. Her smiles were modest, but not timid; warm enough to show her friendliness. She could sense when to laugh along with the others, nod thoughtfully, and feign mild surprise.

She knew how to listen.

And she knew–or at least tried very hard–to speak when it was expected.

"…Yes, I heard as well that the harvest in the Eastern lands nearly doubled expectations this year," the silver-haired girl said, responding to the marquis's question. "Perhaps it will allow grain prices in the capital to drop before winter."

"Quite perceptive for your age, Lady Stelle," remarked an older woman with a high collar, raising her brow slightly. Though her expression remained skeptical, her tone carried a hint of approval.

Stelle lowered her gaze modestly.

She knew what she was doing. All week long, that was all anyone reminded her of – how to behave in society – to the point that if someone woke her in the middle of the night, she would start listing every possible topic for polite conversation, from weather to politics.

Every movement, tilt of her head, and breath had been honed through years of training and punishments for even the slightest misstep.

But even through the murmur of voices and music, through the smiles of nobles discussing the latest political intrigues, one thought lingered stubbornly in Stelle's mind – Prince Aventurine was here.

He stood at quite a distance from her, surrounded by several courtiers, men and women alike, who laughed at his remarks, bowing their heads and fluttering their fans. His posture was relaxed, his movements slow and unhurried. He seemed entirely unbothered and uninterested in everything around him.

He hadn't approached her even once or spared her a glance. Not that Stelle was watching him for it, but… she felt she would have noticed if his eyes were on her. And yet, seeing him here now, in his true form, surrounded by nobles and adorned in jewels, she truly realized who he was – and just how immeasurably far from her reach he stood.

No. I have to stop thinking about it.

It's over.

The silver-haired girl straightened her back and returned to her conversation with the count and countess of one of the kingdom's more prominent houses. Their son, the heir, stood beside them. As soon as Stelle's gaze returned to her companions, she met his eyes directly.

Had he really been staring at me this whole time?

He hadn't looked away once. It was unsettling, but the grey-haired girl couldn't let her true feelings show – instead, she offered a gentle smile and tilted her head slightly.

"Lady Stelle, may I ask," the countess began, her smile sickeningly sweet, almost nauseatingly so in its obvious falseness, "why nothing was known about you until today? Such a beautiful young lady – was Her Grace Kafka… ashamed of you?"

Though her voice remained friendly, poison seeped through every word. A provocation.

Stelle shook her head, answering calmly,

"I believe my mother had her reasons. I fear it is not my place to speak for her on this matter. Please forgive me."

The count nodded politely.

"Indeed. In that case, let us leave that question aside. Tell me, how would you feel about visiting our estate sometime soon? We are quite intrigued to become better acquainted with the newest member of our society. Especially now that you are the holder of the Southern Port."

Before Stelle could respond, their son spoke up,

"I only debuted a month ago myself, so we're in the same boat. I think we should stick together – it'll make things easier for both of us."

Well, this was already the third time she'd been invited for a personal visit to a family estate. And each of those families just so happened to have a son, so the implication was obvious. Of course, it wasn't really about Stelle herself or her personal qualities – it was about forging ties between Houses. Especially now, after such recognition from the Crown. And Stelle was an only daughter.

She had been warned this would happen, so it wasn't a shock.

And she already had her prepared response.

"Thank you for the invitation. I will certainly consider it and notify you in advance of my visit."

Then – a polite bow and a swift retreat to another group before more questions could arise. Quick and painless.

"Lady Stelle, an honor to meet you in person," came a husky male voice. Awaiting her stood an elderly marquis with silver hair pulled back into a short tail. His attire was simple by the event's standards – a dark green doublet without unnecessary embellishment, only a heavy signet ring bearing his family crest on his index finger.

Stelle greeted him with a bow, lowering her eyes.

"I have been friends with your mother for a long time," the man said, studying her intently. "I am curious about your opinion, given that your influence has been elevated so high from the very start. Tell me, do you believe the new trade agreements with the Eastern Alliance will increase our silk profits by enough of a margin to cover the expenses of reconstructing the northern bridge?"

The question caught her off guard, but only for a moment. It was so sudden – clearly a test. He already had an answer in mind, and any deviation would likely displease him. Her eyes narrowed ever so slightly as she thought, but she couldn't take too long.

"If the currency remains stable, it is possible, my lord," she answered confidently. "However, in my opinion, a far more reliable funding source would be to redistribute tax exemptions for major landowners, as their income has increased by nearly a third over the past year."

The marquis's thin brows drew together at the bridge of his nose, a deep wrinkle forming instantly. He scrutinized her intently, but Stelle's expression didn't waver – she remained calm and composed.

Finally, he spoke slowly, meaningfully,

"…Is that so."

He said nothing more, only gave a curt nod before walking away, yet she could still feel the weight of his gaze lingering on her back for some time. She wondered if he liked her answer in the end. Strange old man.

Between conversations, Stelle noticed the silent gliding of servants through the hall, carrying trays of wine and champagne, whisking away empty glasses. The candelabras flickered with warm light, and the mass of adorned guests moved across the marble floor like dancers in a slow, languid waltz. Here, time flowed differently – thick and heavy, saturated with the scent of perfume, powder, and candle wax.

Amidst the tedious exchanges of pleasantries, there were… rather unusual encounters as well.

"Lady Stelle!" A boy of about nineteen beamed at her, his honey-colored fringe tousled, eyes shining with genuine delight as he bowed low. "Forgive me, but… I have a silly question."

She offered him a polite smile.

"I'm listening."

"I'm sorry, but… how do you smell so… so… like a forest after rain?" His cheeks blazed crimson, clearly mortified by his own daring. However, he still managed to breathe out, "It's the best fragrance I've ever encountered."

Stelle blushed, barely restraining herself from frowning or tapping her temple in disbelief.

"Thank you, my lord. It is lavender and aquilegia…"

"… That's my new favorite scent," he murmured under his breath like a sleepwalker, before his mother grabbed him firmly by the elbow and led him away, muttering apologies as they retreated.

But that was only the beginning.

The woman in black lace stared at her for a long moment. Blankly, intently, with wide, unblinking eyes. Her gaze, deep as midnight, studied every feature, every movement.

"You look like your great-grandmother," she finally said, her voice deep and hollow, like a tolling bell. "The exact same neck – perfect for the guillotine."

Stelle flinched, her lips parting slightly in shock. But the countess had already turned away, beckoning a servant with wine.

Later, a young noble approached her, his dark wavy hair styled with ostentatious carelessness. His blue eyes were narrowed just a touch, and his smile was lazy and saccharine.

"Lady Stelle, at last I've managed to see you," he drawled, his voice soft and languid. "A little bird told me you're fond of music. Would you care to visit our villa one evening? I could play you Schumann's Sonata by candlelight. They say it's lovely at midnight."

Her heart flooded with a mix of disgust and contempt. She knew perfectly well what lay behind such invitations, and what they truly cost. How unfortunate that even now, she had to smile instead of spitting in his face.

"Thank you for such a kind invitation, my lord," she replied, lowering her gaze. "But I fear the coming weeks will be quite busy with preparations to manage the port. However, I would always be delighted to enjoy your performance at official gatherings."

He chuckled, though the shadow of mockery lingered beneath it.

"How diplomatic…" His eyes roved across her face, lingering on her lips before he leaned closer and murmured, barely audible, his words brushing her like a chill breeze, "…And so very dull."

His words left a prickling sensation on her skin, like a sharp claw dragged across her cheek. But Stelle kept her expression perfectly composed, even as a tremor flickered in her chest.

She knew it wouldn't be easy, but she hadn't imagined the whole extent. Was this truly the everyday life of nobles at every gathering? Enduring every vile remark and cutting jab thrown their way, pretending it didn't matter, and replying when necessary? All she wanted was a moment to herself, to breathe in peace. Or at least to reach the refreshments table – those cakes and pastries in every possible shape and variety, from éclairs and layered tortes to figurines crafted from different types of chocolate – true works of art, sculpted by a master's hand. Even just a drink would do; her throat felt so painfully dry.

And now, while no one had approached her, she decided to slip away to the tables. Each step sent a tingling through her stomach, and she swallowed hard – oh, how tempting those fruit-shaped pastries looked, glazed in shimmering sugar, or that strawberry shortcake over there! If she could pair it with some green tea, it would at least become one pleasant memory from this ball.

To her own surprise, Stelle made it there without incident. Her face stretched into a blissful smile of anticipation as she reached out for a plate with a slice of cake – when suddenly, a shrill voice rang out beside her:

"Ah, if it isn't our little new star! Has Lady Solaris finally crawled out of her little web to show herself to the world?"

Stelle wanted to groan aloud and scream, "Not now." Instead, she barely restrained a sigh, drew her hand back, and forced a mechanical smile as she turned towards the source of the voice.

Standing before her were four girls. Two at the front looked almost identical: dark blonde hair styled in matching elaborate updos, emerald gowns hugging their sculpted figures. Their green eyes watched Stelle with predatory interest, like cats eyeing a cornered mouse, and their sly smiles promised nothing good.

Slightly behind them stood two more girls – daughters of allied houses, dressed more modestly, but their gazes were just as sharp.

Stelle tensed instantly, holding her breath. She dipped into a slight curtsey before them.

"It is a pleasure to meet you, my ladies."

"Pleasure to meet you," one of the twins mimicked, tilting her head slightly as she glanced down at the wine in her glass. "Such charming modesty. Tell us, Lady Stelle," she took a step closer, "what does it feel like to receive such generous gifts on your debut? Isn't it a bit too heavy to carry, being just… the daughter of Solaris?"

Her sister let out a soft chuckle, her gaze lazily sweeping across Stelle's face.

"Especially," she continued seamlessly, "don't go getting a big head over His Highness Sunday's gift. Don't think you're special – it's all thanks to your dear mommy. I hope you haven't deluded yourself into thinking anyone in the Royal Family actually cares about you."

The two girls behind them giggled, covering their mouths with gloved fingers in feigned delicacy.

Stelle pressed her lips together instinctively, a sharp ache clawing at her chest. Of course, she knew she would face such attitudes sooner or later, but… knowing didn't make it any less painful.

"Clara, don't be so cruel!" sang the other twin with exaggerated sympathy, putting on a dramatically sad expression. "You'll shatter the poor newcomer's little fairytale!"

"You're right, Mia!" Clara replied, letting out a theatrical sob. "Forgive me, how heartless of me to strike a nerve. Everyone already knows no prince would ever glance twice at Lady Stelle if she weren't Her Grace Kafka's daughter."

The girls giggled slyly, as if their jabs were the wittiest jokes in the world.

Stelle's heart pounded fast in her chest. She felt the cold prickling of fear spreading slowly down her spine. But despite the trembling inside, she lowered her head once more, maintaining her gentle smile.

"Thank you for your remarks. I will keep them in mind."

"Oh, of course, you will," Clara hissed, stepping even closer until Stelle could smell her heavy perfume, thick with spicy notes. "Because if you ever forget that you're a thousand miles beneath the princes, we'll be sure to remind you."

She pulled back just as abruptly as she had approached, giving Stelle a once-over from head to toe. This time, the girl on the left decided to speak, her wide smile gleaming. Her high, melodic voice rang sharply in Stelle's ears:

"Such a cute dress. Though, of course, it would be even lovelier if it were tailored in the capital's latest fashion rather than…" She paused, narrowing her eyes, "…that provincial cut. But it suits you more this way."

They were looking for any weakness to strike. It seemed they wouldn't stop until they got a reaction, but Stelle had no intention of giving them one.

"I could recommend a place for you as well. I'm sure that style would suit you just as nicely."

The girl's broad smile faltered, her nose wrinkling slightly in distaste.

"Now, girls, let's not keep Lady Stelle from enjoying the buffet," Mia drawled, winking at the silver-haired girl, sending an involuntary shiver down Stelle's spine.

Yes, please, just leave already.

Clara nodded eagerly.

"Oh, you're right…" she hummed thoughtfully, before breaking into a wide, fox-like grin, her gaze sweeping disdainfully over Stelle's figure. "Although, here's my friendly advice – perhaps you should hold off on the sweets, Lady Stelle. Wouldn't want you to outgrow that cute little provincial dress of yours."

This time, the girl with amber eyes couldn't quite keep her composure – her brows twitched, and her lips pressed into a thin line. But the girls didn't wait for a reply; they were already turning away, pretending to leave.

And just as Stelle allowed herself to relax, thinking the danger had finally passed, she suddenly felt a sharp shove from behind. Someone walked past her, ramming their shoulder into her back. Taken completely by surprise, the silver-haired girl couldn't react in time – she stumbled forward, losing her balance, and barely managed to catch herself at the last moment as she collided with someone.

A sharp, piercing shriek rang out instantly:

"Mia!" Clara recoiled, staring down at her dress where a deep red stain spread like blood.

"What have you done?!" Mia cried out, her eyes wide with horror and fury as she glared at Stelle.

The third girl pressed her hand dramatically to her lips, feigning shock.

"Oh, Lady Stelle, how could you…"

Stelle's heart thundered violently, and her breath caught painfully in her throat. Sweat broke out across her skin as the world seemed to contract around her, her mind spinning dizzily. It suddenly felt unbearably hot, every gaze in the hall burning into her like a boot pressed to her neck. Her cheeks flushed crimson with shame.

"I-I'm so sorry! It was an accident, I didn't mean to…" Her voice rose involuntarily, trembling all over.

A sickening lump lodged in her throat, chills racing down her body, when she noticed her mother's gaze on her. Anyone else might have missed the slight shift in Kafka's expression. Still, even from afar, Stelle saw the furrowed brows, the dilated pupils, the tense grip around her glass.

And then the ground fell out from beneath her completely.

Whispers rippled through the hall like waves across water. Her knees shook, threatening to give way. It was all she could do not to collapse – or run screaming from the hall altogether.

"An accident?!" Mia shouted, gesturing to the stain on her expensive gown. "Do you have any idea what your little 'accident' just cost?!"

The fourth girl in their group let out a dramatic wail:

"L-Lady Stelle, forgive us for saying we wanted dresses as beautiful as yours! We didn't mean to steal your attention! Please, don't pour anything on us, too! We promise we won't do it again!"

Stelle's eyes flew wide open – that wasn't true at all! But there was no point trying to convince anyone now – all the disapproving gazes and whispers were directed solely at her.

"I'll forgive the damage," Mia said coldly, "if you apologize properly. For example… on your knees?"

The other girls nodded in perfect unison, as if on cue. Nobles exchanged glances, eager for the unfolding spectacle.

Stelle clenched her hands into tight fists, unable to move. She had been warned so many times about situations like this. They told her the most important thing was to remain calm, keep a clear head, stand her ground. But all of it flew out of her mind the moment she faced real humiliation.

What am I supposed to do?

Her mother's stern gaze was the final blow. Stelle had ruined everything on the most important day of her life. All her mother's efforts – down the drain.

Biting down on her lower lip, she lowered her head. If bowing to this humiliation would end the conflict, then so be it. Who would believe her now if she tried to deny it? That would only make her look even more pathetic. And then… things could get even worse.

Although… how could they possibly get worse than this?

She began to bow lower, her eyes hidden beneath her fringe. She struggled to hold back tears, parted her lips to apologize – but before her voice could emerge, another rang out across the hall. Deep, commanding, serious.

"Stand up. Do not dare bow before them."

Stelle froze instantly, her eyes wide with shock. All around them, people turned towards the source of the voice.

Approaching the girls with calm, measured steps was none other than Prince Sunday himself. If his face had been relaxed and neutral before, now it was anything but – his expression was grave, features no longer holding even a hint of friendliness. His brows were drawn together as the gaze burned with a cold, biting intensity. Yet, that icy stare was not directed at Stelle.

He came to stand beside the silver-haired girl and placed his hand lightly between her shoulder blades – a gentle touch, barely there, just a gesture of support. The prince's eyes locked onto one of the girls – the blonde who had spoken the least.

"It was you who pushed Lady Stelle. Luckily, I happened to witness the entire scene and saw exactly what happened."

Gasps of surprise rippled through the hall. Stelle flinched, staring at the prince in utter astonishment, as if she were seeing an alien being. A wave of warmth and relief washed over her heart, and the invisible hands choking her throat finally loosened, allowing her to breathe again. She trembled, this time with sheer relief, barely managing to remain standing. His touch radiated a comforting heat, grounding her back in reality.

For a moment, she forgot everything else and simply gazed at her savior – something that certainly did not align with proper decorum.

The group of girls exchanged confused, panicked glances. The culprit jolted forward, exclaiming:

"Y-Your Highness, you must be mistaken! I didn't—"

"Silence." His voice cut through hers, louder and sharper this time, and the chill in his tone made Stelle shiver involuntarily – how thankful she was that his anger wasn't directed at her. "This is a disgrace for each and every one of you. You sought to humiliate a debutante and a close ally of the Crown. And now you even dare to lie to my face?"

Stelle couldn't suppress a flicker of inner satisfaction as she saw their frightened, pale faces. The blonde looked as if she might faint at any moment. Part of Stelle wanted to smirk, but she held it back.

Sunday was merciless. His voice remained firm as he continued:

"Therefore, by the authority granted to me as a judge, I hereby order that you apologize to Lady Stelle immediately and leave this hall at once. Furthermore, your Houses shall be barred from attending future court events until this sanction is lifted."

For a moment, the hall froze.

All eyes – dozens, hundreds – were fixed below, on the four girls and Stelle, who stood tensely, her fingers unconsciously clutching at the hem of her dress. Her heart fluttered wildly – from anxiety, adrenaline, and sheer relief. It felt as though someone had poured warm syrup over her soul. Perhaps it wasn't noble to feel such vindictive satisfaction, but they deserved it. Justice wasn't dead after all, it seemed.

Prince Sunday had truly lived up to his title as High Judge. And it felt like there could be no safer place than under his protection. Things couldn't have ended better for her.

A heavy, searing silence settled over the room, clinging to her skin like molten metal.

Then whispers rippled like a wave – from one end of the hall to the other. A man in the far corner folded his hands behind his back and shook his head, muttering,

"Idiots. Complete idiots."

One of the women dabbed delicately at the corners of her eyes with a lace handkerchief, feigning pity. However, her gaze glittered with triumph at witnessing another's humiliation. An older countess in purple narrowed her eyes and let out a quiet hum.

"Well, there go any hopes for decent marriages."

The blonde who had shoved Stelle had turned as pale as marble. Her lips trembled, her arms hung limply at her sides. She seemed to try to speak, but her tongue felt frozen. Clara and Mia exchanged a quick glance – and in it was pure terror. The kind that looked ready to knock them unconscious right there, beneath the glittering chandeliers and mirrored walls.

"Well?" The prince's voice was calm and cold, carrying an undertone of unyielding command – he would not change his mind. "How much longer must I wait?"

The blonde was the first to step forward, unsteady on her feet. She swallowed hard, her breathing ragged. Scarlet patches of shame burned on her cheeks, and her eyes glistened with tears. Trembling like a leaf, she sank to her knees before Stelle.

"Forgive me… Lady Stelle…" her voice broke into a sob. "I… I didn't mean to… or rather, I did, but… I'm sorry… please forgive me…"

The others followed in turn. One after another, with quiet sobs and their gazes fixed to the floor, they knelt in bows before Stelle, trembling as they muttered their apologies. Their voices were thick with panic and humiliation – and rightfully so.

The murmuring around them swelled, growing thick and heavy like honey – except instead of sweetness, it carried the bitter scent of death for these four girls. Someone opened his mouth to protest, but his wife quickly placed a warning hand on his arm, shaking her head meaningfully. He bit back his words instantly, bowing his head in guilty silence. Of course – this was the Crown Prince himself.

Stelle looked down at the pitiful scene before her, and only then could she finally breathe and straighten her posture. Inside, she was still shaking from fear and relief all at once. She hadn't wanted their humiliation. And yet… some dark part of her soul felt a grim satisfaction.

Still, soon her heart began to ache – these girls would suffer enough as it was. They had simply been foolish, behaving like children, and were now paying a price far harsher than anyone could have expected. That was punishment enough.

The silver-haired girl offered a gentle smile.

"It's alright. I forgive you."

And she truly meant it. In truth, Stelle thought such a severe punishment was far too harsh for a childish mistake like this.

But her kindness did nothing to soften their expressions – their eyes remained full of resentment and fear. Wonderful – her first day, and she had already made enemies.

They'll surely seek revenge someday…

The prince had been watching in silence. It seemed he had been waiting for Stelle to end their torment herself before he gave a small flick of his hand to the nearby guards. They stepped forward immediately, bowing low.

"Take them away."

They didn't need to be told twice. With firm steps, the guards moved to stand behind the girls. Two of them went quietly, without resistance, but the twins screamed out:

"Don't you dare touch me with your filthy hands!"

The guards were forced to push the defiant sisters forward. Just before leaving, Clara shot a glare at Stelle, and the hatred burning in her eyes sent a cold shiver racing down Stelle's spine.

Silence fell over the hall when the doors closed behind them, as if everyone was too afraid to breathe. Only the silver harp continued its quiet playing somewhere in the distance. But the moment Sunday turned towards Stelle, the murmured conversations slowly resumed, as though nothing had happened – except now there was fresh gossip to feast upon. And all the curious, whispering eyes continued to pierce into her from every direction.

The prince's face returned to calm, soft, almost neutral, but his eyes no longer held that icy sharpness. He inclined his head slightly, stepping a little closer, and spoke in a quiet voice meant only for her:

"I apologize, Lady Stelle, that something like this occurred on such an important day for you."

Her heart fluttered. Her breath caught, and a tight lump formed in her throat.

His Highness… is apologizing? To me?

She blinked rapidly, staring up at him in stunned disbelief, into those bottomless amber eyes. He was the last person who should apologize – no one else had so much as lifted a finger to save her from complete ruin.

Truthfully, in that moment, the silver-haired girl had hoped it would be the other prince who noticed what had happened. Maybe he wouldn't defend her outright, but at least… he might offer some help, some support. Her gaze slid across the hall, searching for him, and finally found him – standing not so far away.

There he was, with his relaxed half-smile, casual posture, a half-empty glass of wine dangling loosely from his fingers. He was surrounded by three young ladies, and the eyes… his eyes still held that same playful glint, that sly spark.

Not long ago, those same eyes had been looking at me like that.

And in that critical moment, he didn't spare her a glance. He knew she was Ray, but he hadn't tried to speak with her or even meet her eyes. It didn't seem like he was thinking of her at all. Instead, he seemed deeply engaged in the conversation with the other girls. Unbidden, the grey-haired girl remembered that cold, detached gaze he'd given her as soon as their trance-like night ended. And today, from the very beginning, there had been nothing but ice in those eyes.

However, now… that charismatic smile had returned to his face. Just not for her.

It's no surprise. Nor is it a shock. This turn of events was natural to come.

And besides, Stelle, you were the one who ended it, who burned those bridges – so stop wallowing and acting like some tragic victim now!

She kept repeating that to herself, drilling it into her mind. But… it still hurt. Deeply. Like a hot iron pressed against the raw flesh of her heart. Enough to bring tears to the corners of her eyes, to make her breath catch painfully in her throat, to tighten her stomach into knots and set her lips trembling.

Yet… even then, for some reason, some foolish part of her still hoped that any moment now – he would look over, see how much she was hurting – and his mask would fall away. He would care. He would rush to her side.

But no – of course not.

Her thoughts lasted only a few seconds, but felt like an eternity. Only the Crown Prince's calm baritone brought Stelle back to reality.

"If anyone else dares to treat you in such a manner, inform me immediately. And if those girls attempt revenge – all the more so. I will take measures far stricter than today's."

The prince leaned forward just a bit, their eyes met halfway, Stelle's breath caught in her throat. Her lips pressed together, eyes widened in surprise, and a bloom crept across her cheeks. The girl's heart skipped a beat.

His Highness Sunday… so close…

Close enough that she could see the fine striations in his irises, and catch that subtle, refined scent – far lighter than, for example, Ace's… no… His Highness Aventurine's.

"Do you understand me?"

Stelle blinked a few times, lips parting slightly. She nodded slowly with a soft exhale.

"Yes… Your Highness."

The prince held her gaze – studying her, long enough for her blush to deepen further, her heart fluttering in her chest.

"You're not very good at hiding your emotions. Your eyes are full of tears."

She almost flinched. Her eyes flew wide open, brows knitted together, and she instinctively raised her hand to them – as if it was possible to feel the tears that way.

"I apologize, I'm simply… a little shaken. But it's alright," the grey-haired girl said with an awkward smile, her gaze dropping in embarrassment. That he noticed such a small detail… it was almost… touching. "Thank you very much. I don't know what I would have done without you, Your Highness."

The corners of the prince's lips twitched into the faintest of smiles. He nodded.

"It's nothing. My authority would mean little if I ignored situations like these."

Stelle giggled softly, tilting her head to the side.

"I don't think everyone who holds power uses it for good," she said gently, placing a hand over her chest. "One can have authority and choose to act only when it serves their own benefit. But you didn't. You acted because you're kind and noble. So, no—I won't take back my words of gratitude."

The prince's brows rose slightly in surprise. He paused for a moment, as if pondering her words.

"I suppose I can't argue with reasoning like that," he said with the faintest smile, folding one hand behind his back. "In that case, I'm glad I could help."

The girl nodded—it felt so refreshing to speak with someone intelligent. She still couldn't quite make sense of what her mother had said back in the carriage, when she spoke of how cold the prince was. He seemed like a perfectly pleasant person to her—stern when needed, yes, but certainly not cold. His eyes were calm, unreadable, perhaps, but they held no chill when turned on her—only a quiet neutrality. And he wasn't nearly as closed off or intimidating as she'd feared…

So strange. When she'd first entered the hall, the mere thought of speaking with Sunday had made her light-headed. And now—now, it was surprisingly… peaceful. Maybe it was because he had come to her aid so spectacularly. Who could say? But the truth was, she wasn't afraid anymore.

If anything, she was far more nervous when speaking to lower nobles than she was now.

It had to be because the prince was part of that rare one percent of truly decent people in the room. With him, she felt safe. His presence radiated a steady warmth that settled deep in her chest—yes, that was it. He felt like a future ruler in the truest sense of the word. A man worthy of being followed.

The young man tilted his head slightly.

"You look tired," he said calmly. "This day must have turned out to be far more exhausting than you expected."

Stelle let out a soft laugh – not bitter, just tinged with a bit of self-mockery.

"You're right. But even so, I truly enjoy being here. I'm incredibly grateful for such a wonderful welcome – for the chance to debut at the palace at all," she said, lowering her gaze. "But… I've never had to speak with so many people before. Especially when every gesture, every word, every breath is watched by hundreds of eyes, just waiting to pounce on the smallest mistake."

The last words came out as little more than a whisper. Not a complaint, not a plea – more like… a confession. Honest, like something said in a moment of prayer. Stelle hadn't expected to be so candid, especially with the Crown Prince himself, but it was too late to take the words back now.

The prince was silent for a moment – she could feel his gaze on her. Strangely, it didn't weigh her down or make it harder to breathe, the way it should have.

"You're doing admirably," the heir finally said, with not a hint of flattery in his voice. "But I understand. The air here truly is far too heavy. And every eye is turned to you alone."

He glanced at the other guests, his gaze narrowing just a little.

"I would know."

That simple understanding made Stelle exhale in relief. At last – someone who understood what she was going through in this chaos. She nodded, allowing herself to drop the mask just a little, to let her true feelings show.

Sunday seemed to be deep in thought, his gaze drifting between the crowd and Stelle.

"As a way of apologizing for the earlier incident…" — he turned to her fully now, offering a gentle smile — "…allow me to offer you a short tour of the palace. Just the nearby quarters, nothing too far. It shouldn't take more than twenty minutes — just enough time to clear your mind. And with me as your escort, no one will dare question your absence."

Stelle froze.

Well, that was unexpected.

Her heart thudded heavily against her ribcage — nearly slammed right through it.

A walk. With Prince Sunday. Alone — well, nearly alone — aside from the inevitable guards, attendants, and protocol… but still! The idea felt both wild and faintly dangerous, but at the same time — so welcome. How desperately she longed to escape the suffocating atmosphere of this ballroom, if only for a moment. To finally breathe fresh air. To shrug off the crushing weight of all those eyes and expectations.

And yet, it also felt… wrong, somehow. Not improper, just — uncomfortable. As if she'd be dragging the prince out of his comfort zone, making him fuss over her simply because he had too kind a heart.

"I…" She gave a sheepish smile. "I can hardly believe Your Highness would truly offer me something like that. Are you certain it wouldn't be too much — stealing so much of your time?"

The prince let out a quiet breath, as if he'd expected just such a reply.

"If I made the offer, then I've already weighed the pros and cons. Don't trouble yourself about it. I take full responsibility for this decision."

Her heart tightened. Such a confident reply — leaving no room for doubt or protest. Such simple words, yet they brought a surprising calm to her. Blinking in quiet astonishment, Stelle exhaled and replied:

"In that case… if it's not a burden, I'd be delighted."

His Highness gave a short nod — crisp, regal — and stepped back half a pace.

"Then please, follow me, Lady Stelle."

He turned to the nearest guard and murmured a few words. The man immediately moved toward the closest exit without a single question. Everything about the gesture was seamless — done with the ease of someone who had grown up surrounded by power, commanding the world around him without raising his voice or eyebrows.

When Sunday extended his hand — not as a prince, but as a gentleman offering a stroll — Stelle flushed, lips pressing into a shy line as she froze. It was just etiquette, just decorum. A simple act of gallantry, entirely appropriate. And yet… the thought of walking arm-in-arm with Prince Sunday made something flutter inside her chest.

Still, she found her resolve and gently took his arm at the elbow. And as she did, something inside her softened. His warmth was… reassuring. It gave her confidence, in a quiet, grounding way. After all, she was escorted by the Crown Prince himself — no one would dare challenge her with him at her side.

And so, as they crossed the ballroom toward the exit, through the flood of stares that followed their every step, it was the first time that Stelle didn't feel like prey beneath the weight of watching eyes.

From the far end of the hall, Kafka watched it all unfold. She held her glass with long, elegant fingers. Her eyes sparkled with something unreadable — but those who truly knew her might have noticed the tiniest twitch at the corner of her lips.

Satisfaction.

Like a chessmaster watching her opponent step, willingly, into the snare of inevitable defeat.

She took a light sip, narrowed her eyes just slightly, and lowered her gaze back to her wine.

And Stelle — so focused on not tripping or somehow causing His Highness even the slightest discomfort — never noticed the one gaze she had once so desperately longed to meet.

At the far end of the hall, beneath the golden glow of the chandeliers, leaning casually against a marble column, stood Prince Aventurine. He was surrounded by a new circle of aristocrats. An older viscount was explaining something with an overly self-important look, and the ladies nearby pretended to listen, fluttering their fans with mechanical grace.

The blond prince's face was as serene as ever — a touch amused, relaxed. But his eyes told a different story.

Those eyes, with their central heterochromia, never left her.

They followed every step she took.

The way she lifted the hem of her gown ever so slightly.

The way her fingers tightened just a little around Sunday's arm.

And the way she smiled — content, at ease.

Those eyes stayed fixed on her silhouette until the grand doors closed behind her and the prince.

His face still wore that faint half-smile.

But the way he set his glass down — sharp and dry, with a hollow snap — said enough.

***

The moment she stepped beyond the threshold of the grand hall — it was as if someone had suddenly untied a ribbon knotted tight across her chest.

Stelle exhaled — truly exhaled — for the first time that day.

She hadn't even realized how tightly she'd been wound, how every word, every gesture had been steeped in tension, like invisible hands had been clutched around her throat all evening.

And now — silence.

Not complete, no. Behind them, through the doors, the faint clinking of crystal, the distant murmur of chamber music, and the muffled chatter of guests still drifted through. But they were distant now, blissfully dulled. Here, in the long marble corridor, there was finally peace.

The velvet runner beneath her heels, the soft golden glow from the crystal sconces, the sheen of polished stone — everything around them spoke of luxury, but not the ostentatious kind. It was balanced, regal.

"It's quieter here," the prince remarked, his voice softer now — as if, with no courtiers watching, he could let a little more of himself show.

Stelle nodded.

"Much quieter…" she breathed. "It feels like I finally have room in my lungs."

He smiled faintly.

"I'm glad I read your mood correctly. After all, this day is about you — I wanted you to feel like a guest of honor, not a circus lion."

She let out a quiet giggle — surprised at herself, almost. It was the first time she'd smiled like this all night. Truly smiled.

"Oh, Your Highness, you can't imagine how much I needed this. One more minute and I might've curled up in a corner and cried."

The young man shook his head gently in response, but the small smile tugging at his lips made it clear — he understood. With a graceful gesture, he motioned for her to follow him off the main path and into a gallery, tucked slightly to the side.

It was a vast room, lined with stately columns and tall, arched windows. The space held an air of quiet majesty — each painting, varying in size and era, was arranged by century and framed in intricate gold. A delicate trace of incense lingered in the air. The soft lighting from the candelabras created a hushed, almost intimate ambiance. Every step echoed through the towering walls.

Some of the portraits were over six hundred years old — from the very founding of the Kingdom of Asdana.

"Welcome to the Gallery of Royal Legacy," Sunday said quietly. "Here are kept the portraits of those who left a significant mark on the kingdom's history — from rulers and scholars, to artists, diplomats, and generals."

They strolled, Stelle letting her gaze drift across the canvases. At the same time, Sunday matched her pace, his voice low and warm as he recounted each story — not with dry formality, but with surprising life. He knew the history behind every face. There was reverence in his tone, but never stiffness. Occasionally, he added a wry remark or playful aside, as though sharing old family secrets rather than royal chronicles.

It didn't feel like a lesson.

It felt like discovering a living memory, and she couldn't help but lean in closer to every word.

"That's Camilla Wood," Sunday said, his voice softening with reverence. "Our first queen. It's thanks to her that we gained independence from the Catican Empire. She used her charm to deceive the emperor—who, let's just say, grew a little too fond of her."

Stelle let out an admiring hum, stepping closer to study the painting. The woman was truly stunning: pale skin, hair so fair it was nearly white — like a celestial being. And yet, in those blue eyes burned a steady fire of resolve. She looked delicate, yes — but it was on her slender shoulders that an entire nation once rested.

"She's incredible," Stelle murmured. "I can't imagine how hard she must have fought to achieve all that."

Sunday simply nodded, wordless, and led her on.

The gallery stretched on — portrait after portrait — and it was clear they could've stayed there until nightfall if they were to cover them all. But the prince didn't rush. Their pace remained steady and deliberate, giving Stelle time to take in each figure while he offered stories only for the most curious and notable.

"And here," he continued, "is Grand Duchess Celeste. She disguised herself as a man to lead troops into battle. That was her favorite horse, Victor. Legend has it, she named him after the love interest in her favorite romance novel." He gestured toward the portrait — a young woman in gleaming armor, cropped blond hair, sword in hand, looking forward with a playful, knowing smirk.

Stelle's brows rose high, and she let out a surprised breath.

"Oh, then I must find that novel. Maybe I'll name my own horse Victor, too."

From his direction came what sounded like a faint, airy chuckle.

They drifted onward, as if gliding through time itself. In this calm, in the presence of memory rather than judgment, the past did not threaten — it offered sanctuary.

Stelle felt the trembling inside her slowly quiet. Even her posture eased — her back no longer rigid like a drawn blade. She simply walked. She listened. She looked. She breathed.

But Sunday fell silent when they reached the very end of the gallery — to the final painting, perhaps the brightest of them all.

Before them stood her.

A woman with straight, long platinum hair cascading down her back. Her face was young, almost girlish—no older than twenty. And yet, it bore a strange, indescribable gravity. As if she knew far too much for someone her age. Amber eyes looked out from the canvas—surprisingly warm, viscous like honey, but there was something familiar in them.

It was clear from the painting that the woman's stomach was slightly rounded—she was pregnant. But the dress fell from her shoulders so gracefully, it emphasized not just her maternity, but her pride.

There could be no doubt.

And the plaque beneath the portrait confirmed it.

Gabrielle Wood.

Mother of Sunday and Robin. The very woman after whom the Grand Theatre was named—where she once performed as an opera singer before catching the eye of the King.

And the same woman who passed away without ever seeing her children.

Stelle immediately tensed, instinctively tightening her grip on the man's elbow. She glanced at his calm profile uncertainly—trying not to let any sympathy show on her face. He likely didn't want pity.

The platinum-haired prince only gave the portrait a fleeting glance. His expression didn't change—just as composed as ever—and he offered no comment. Instead, he turned and continued walking, as if that portrait had never existed.

"Your Highness, that—"

As if he knew exactly what she was about to bring up, he cut her off mid-sentence:

"Come, Lady Stelle. There's something else I'd like to show you before we return."

His voice was firmer than before—louder, leaving no room for discussion or mention of the portrait.

Stelle didn't dare ask anything further. No surprise he didn't want to talk about personal matters. It would've been wrong to even try.

In the silence — this time tinged with a hint of awkwardness — they approached a pair of arched double doors. Made of dark wood, the glass insets shimmered with stained-glass patterns that let through the cool blue of afternoon light.

The prince stopped and placed his hand on the cold bronze handle.

"This," he said, breaking the quiet, "is where I come when I need to… breathe again. I thought it might be something you'd appreciate."

He turned to her then, and his soft gaze suddenly felt far deeper — how much pain, she wondered, did he keep hidden behind that composed exterior?

Stelle gave him a gentle, understanding smile and nodded.

He opened the door.

And beyond it unfolded a greenhouse.

The clamor and brilliance of the palace faded away behind them. The air was warm and humid, scented with greenery and honey. Light spilled through the glass archways of the ceiling, breaking across droplets of water clinging to leaves.

Everywhere — flowers. Hundreds of them.

From tidy lavender bushes to cascades of morning glories draping over arbors. Petals in shades of pale blue, crimson, creamy white, and deep violet.

Somewhere farther in, the quiet burble of a fountain could be heard.

They stepped inside, the path of white sand and pebbles crunching gently beneath their feet. Hidden amid the foliage were delicate glass benches and wrought-iron lanterns. Everything here seemed to breathe softly, like a forest in the stillness of night.

It felt like they hadn't just crossed a threshold, but stepped across worlds.

The domed ceiling of stained glass poured golden light into the space. A gentle mist of warm air shimmered between the leaves, and the scent in the air was so rich it made Stelle's head spin — not from heaviness, but from its softness. It was as if the air itself had turned to liquid honey.

The flowers weren't planted in tidy rows — they danced.

They draped in long, cascading garlands from the beams: curling grapevine, bougainvillea, and unfamiliar crimson lilies with pointed petals. Nearby, modest islands of lilac and jasmine bloomed beside lavender and rare mountain tulips whose cups would close at twilight. Between the beds stretched carefully manicured paths paved with pearly tiles.

Stelle froze.

Her eyes caught every glint of light, every fluttering petal — she looked like a flower herself, one that had somehow come to life and wandered into the greenhouse. Releasing the prince's arm, she took a step forward. Then another. As if she couldn't believe she was allowed to simply exist in a place like this.

She twirled slowly, trying to take it all in, her eyes shining, her lips parted in awe.

"It's magical," she breathed. "It's like we've stepped into paradise."

The prince smiled softly, slipping the arm she had held behind his back again — clearly a habit of his. And admittedly, a rather charming one.

"This place truly lives apart from the rest of the world," Sunday said, walking slowly beside her. "No formal meetings are ever held here. Even the servants are instructed to move quietly. It's… a sanctuary of silence. I most often visit it at night."

He stepped toward a cluster of bushes wrapped in tiny, flame-colored blossoms.

"This is an ash mirianthus," he said, gesturing with graceful precision. "Its petals only bloom at a specific temperature. If it gets too hot or cold, it… falls asleep."

He gently brushed one blossom with his fingertips — and it trembled, as though it recognized him and responded to his voice.

"It might be difficult to grow," he added quietly. "But it seems… happy here."

Stelle nodded eagerly, inching closer. She circled the plant, inspecting it from every angle — and then, thinking the prince wasn't looking, gave a soft puff of air toward the blossom just to see what would happen.

The flower promptly recoiled.

Apparently, she had overdone it — a few petals detached and fluttered away in the current.

She hiccupped in alarm. Straightened up at once. Looked away with the most innocent expression imaginable — "That wasn't me."

Quickly, she blurted out the first distraction she could find:

"Oh! Over there — what beautiful little flowers! What are those?" she said, pointing toward a strange plant with deep blue, almost indigo petals that shimmered as though dusted with frost. Without waiting for an answer, she half-dashed in its direction — or at least, as much as heels and a formal gown would allow.

Had she not been so determined to avoid Sunday's gaze — fearing she'd just committed a botanic crime — she might have noticed the slight quirk of amusement tugging at his mouth, quickly smoothed away into that habitual princely neutrality.

Like the true gentleman he was, he chose not to call attention to her adorable little moment of panic. Instead, he joined her quietly and said with a faint squint of curiosity:

"You have a keen eye. That's moon aconite. Beautiful, yes — but dangerous. Its sap is poisonous, but the petals emit a soft glow in the dark. A shame we won't see it just now."

He paused a moment, his gaze still fixed on the flower.

"It was planted in memory of Queen Elysia. People called her a witch because she healed others with tinctures. But her recipes were used by the royal apothecaries for over a century."

He leaned in slightly, his voice lowering.

"They say moon aconite blooms more vividly if watered on the anniversary of the one who planted it."

Stelle listened as if under a spell.

It was astonishing — just a plant, and yet it carried so much within it. Not just lifeless botany, but a past woven into its scent, color, and place in time.

"And that one…" the prince pointed to a rose-gold flower in the corner, its soft petals curled inward as though in sleep. "Almost no one ever notices it."

He brushed his fingers lightly against the plant's leaves.

"That's fragrant zariellum. It grows in only one place in the entire kingdom — on damp slopes near the hot springs. They tried to bring saplings here for the greenhouse for seven years, and not a single one took root. Then…" Sunday's voice softened with a faint smile, "one of the gardeners — a very young man — started coming here every morning to play the flute for it."

The prince smiled.

"And by the third month… the zariellum bloomed. On its own. Unexpectedly. And ever since then — it's flowered every year."

"It must've fallen in love with music," Stelle whispered, spellbound.

The man nodded with meaning, rising again. Who better than him to know what music could stir in the soul — or in petals?

They walked on, and the silence between them no longer felt awkward. Quite the opposite — it felt companionable, comfortable. Stelle flitted from side to side of the path, trying to glimpse or sniff every beautiful blossom she came across, though there were far too many to catch them all.

She muttered little comments to herself, gasped, giggled, marveled aloud — and His Highness simply walked beside her with a small smile tugging at his lips, clearly entertained by her almost childlike wonder. As if she were seeing flowers for the very first time.

Eventually, they came upon a small tree with fan-shaped leaves and round blossoms that resembled fluffy spheres. The petals were pale yellow, dusted with a fine silver pollen — as if someone had dipped a brush in moonlight and gently swept each bloom with a loving hand.

Stelle squinted curiously and leaned in closer. Then smiled, inhaling the soft scent—when suddenly...

"Aah-choo!"

She sneezed.

Sharp. Loud.

So forceful it made her rock slightly where she stood, and the blossoms in front of her quivered in sympathy. She could feel the startled flinch from the man beside her.

Face blooming red, she straightened in a flash and slapped a hand over her mouth.

"S-sorry! I didn't mean to—! It's the pollen—!"

"You are the Chosen One," the prince interrupted solemnly, his tone grave, his face the very image of royal composure — as though announcing a decree before the court.

"…What?" Stelle blinked at him, stunned.

He held the silence just long enough before replying — voice perfectly level, entirely unreadable:

"The blooming tumbelius achoonium is considered sacred in several ancient treatises. It is said that if a person sneezes in its presence, the flower accepts them as its own. Lady Stelle, you are now — officially — its bride."

Her eyes grew as wide as saucers. Her brows practically disappeared into her hairline. And her blush? It could've rivaled the scarlet lilies.

"W-wait, seriously?!"

"But of course," he said, deadpan, not a twitch betraying him. His gaze was so grave, so utterly convincing, that for a moment Stelle actually believed she'd just gotten engaged — to a flower. Right there. In a greenhouse.

Her eyes darted in panic, clearly calculating how one lives a life married to a plant.

And that was the final straw.

The prince exhaled sharply, the corner of his lips twitching as did his voice.

"Lady Stelle, forgive me…" he murmured, turning away slightly and closing his eyes — clearly struggling to contain his laughter. "I made that up just now. You don't need to be so afraid."

She stared at him in stunned silence… then narrowed her eyes into a suspicious, razor-thin squint. Her lips pressed into a flat line.

I'm an idiot.

That look — such genuine, wounded innocence — finally broke his restraint. He covered his mouth with one hand, and a soft, stifled chuckle slipped through. Even his brows twitched as he tried to rein himself in.

"That wasn't funny!" she huffed, arms crossed defiantly over her chest. "And I trusted you, Your Highness! How could you play with a young lady's heart like that? I was already imagining a future bound to a fluffy plant. I was thinking about what we'd name our mutant children."

"I deeply apologize…" he said, still fighting the tremor in his voice — which only grew worse at her indignation. "It won't happen again…"

Silence fell between them for a moment — then Stelle herself burst out laughing, bright and unrestrained. The sound was clear and joyous, echoing off glass and leaves alike. She hadn't expected to laugh like that tonight — not truly, not freely.

But here she was. Laughing without shame. Without fear.

And for a moment, Stelle seemed to forget about anything else and enjoyed the brief moment of freedom, despite being at a Royal Palace.

Notes:

they're so cute TwT

Chapter 10: Stelle and the Prince(s)

Summary:

Stelle just wanted to leave a good impression.
The universe had other plans. Mostly involving drama. And at least one prince too many.

Notes:

this chapter turned out a bit shorter than other ones but at least i posted it sooner hehe

Unfortunately, all fairy tales must come to an end. They had to go back. No matter how much they wished to stay in that greenhouse for the rest of the day.

The doors opened once more, and the harsh light of crystal chandeliers poured over them like a splash of cold water—sharp, ringing, and foreign after the soft atmosphere of the conservatory. The air felt drier, hotter, the noise louder, and the stares palpable.

Stelle re-entered the hall arm-in-arm with Prince Sunday, trying to maintain the same confidence she had before. Though truthfully, the heaviness in her chest had eased. Everything now felt... just a little bit simpler. That lightness remained within her, like the warm aftertaste of something sweet.

The murmur in the hall didn't die down at once. But those who noticed their return fell silent. Some froze with raised brows. Others exchanged glances. A few ladies off to the side suddenly began fanning themselves furiously, covering half their faces—but even so, their sharp gazes were unmistakable. Several young men nearby quickly stepped aside—either to make way or simply to avoid being caught in His Highness's gaze.

They slowed near the edge of the grand hall, and the girl gently slipped her hand from his arm, stepping once more in front of him. She looked up—and couldn't suppress a modest smile.

"Your Highness…" Stelle began softly, placing one hand over the other. "I don't know how to thank you. I feel much better now."

Sunday inclined his head slightly, his gaze softened, though it remained reserved. He no longer looked quite as relaxed as he had outside the hall, but even so, she felt safe in his presence.

"I'm glad to hear it," he replied simply with a nod. "Then I made the right choice. Will you be all right from here on your own? I need to excuse myself."

Maybe it was just a polite formality, but his concern still touched her. Stelle nodded gently—she had already taken up so much of the Crown Prince's time, a man most people could only dream of even glimpsing.

She sank into a low curtsy, and the prince returned it with a mild nod. Then he turned and drifted back into the heart of the hall. The moment he left, it somehow felt colder, as if someone had stolen the shield from a knight. But she couldn't hide behind his back forever—she had to hold her own now, especially not to disgrace His Highness's name.

She hadn't taken more than a few steps before the first wave of eager conversationalists closed in around her. The silver-haired girl had to summon every ounce of self-control not to sigh aloud. Instead, she plastered on a polite smile. Like clockwork, unfamiliar faces emerged from every direction, each wearing the same rehearsed, artificial smile. So cordial it was nauseating.

"Lady Stelle!" trilled a woman in deep violet, who until now hadn't shown the slightest inclination to acknowledge her existence. "You look absolutely radiant tonight—outshining every star in the endless heavens."

"A stunning entrance," chimed in a man in his forties with teeth far too white. "Your debut will no doubt be the talk of the court for quite some time. Everyone is positively dazzled by the… exceptional attention His Highness paid you."

That last part, at least, Stelle had no doubt about.

The tone of his final words had been wrapped in a compliment, but it reeked of condescension—like she was a stray kitten graciously scooped off the street.

And they kept coming—marquises, viscounts, young heirs, and ladies dressed in the latest fashions. Some approached with genuine curiosity, but most masked cold calculation behind a veil of feigned delight. Stelle had to navigate through the flood of phrases, maintain her posture and smile, though with each passing moment, she felt more like a piece of meat dropped into a shark tank.

"I was absolutely charmed by your composure during that… unfortunate misunderstanding," cooed a countess with a razor-sharp chin, her voice dripping with venomous sweetness. "Such poise. Such restraint. Those ill-mannered little pests got exactly what they deserved."

Stelle offered a soft smile.

"Thank you, my lady. It's important to me not to bring dishonor to my family."

"Oh, but of course!" the woman exclaimed, raising her glass to her lips. "Especially now that you have such a… shield behind you."

A faint scoff echoed from somewhere behind them.

No one dared say it outright, but the resentment in the air was palpable. It clearly irked them that the new girl now enjoyed a sudden immunity. All they could do was gnaw at their nails and plot how to subtly exploit it. After all, Prince Sunday had brought the matter to a close so definitively—even the palace maids were gossiping about it now.

She had become a pawn on the political chessboard. She might not have held a title yet, but the influence of her House—and the attention of the future monarch—granted her more privileges than most. So all they could do now was smile to her face while weaving their little schemes behind her back.

"I do hope that after all this, you won't start treating other debutantes with… prejudice," purred a young aristocrat, her smile so sweet it could rot teeth.

"Of course not," Stelle replied calmly, shaking her head without so much as a blink. "We're all equals here. Until we prove otherwise."

Her innocent smile still shone, but those who listened closely could feel the sting in her softness. Perhaps it wouldn't be long before Stelle learned to bite back.

The conversations began to blur into one. So repetitive, they no longer required effort to follow—if anything, they made Stelle sleepy. At this point, she'd sooner die of boredom than social disgrace. If only something interesting would happen…

As if on cue, the orchestra swelled. A bright flourish of violins sliced through the hum of courtly chatter. The first chords of a grand, gentle melody rippled like a stream of gold through the hall.

A waltz.

Light and flowing, yet full of solemn elegance—fitting for the opening dance of a debutante.

The hall collectively held its breath. Everyone knew the tradition: it wasn't a privilege but a duty. The debutante leads the first dance. Hundreds of eyes turned toward her, expectant, sharp.

Stelle could almost feel the space around her tightening—as if the music spun from spider silk, winding steadily around her throat.

And then… it began.

"Lady Stelle, it would be the highest honor to accompany you for the first dance," declared a young nobleman, stepping forward with a theatrical bow.

"I would be delighted to present this as a symbol of our mutual devotion to the Crown," cut in another, grinning far too wide—as if his teeth alone were his best asset.

"I spoke first," snapped a third, casting a frigid glare at his rivals.

"Oh, please. Lady Stelle and I already discussed this beforehand," lied a fourth with shameless ease, barging in with a smugness that made it clear he was inventing as he went.

Stelle wanted nothing more than to sigh dramatically and roll her eyes so hard they got stuck in her skull. Instead, a crooked smile tugged at her lips.

A thick circle quickly formed around her, buzzing with suitors vying for attention—outstretched hands, lowered heads, voices clashing in a chorus of eager insistence. Their manners were refined, their speech polished to perfection. But not a single one could hide the greed gleaming in their eyes.

They weren't looking at her. They didn't want her hand. They looked through her, already envisioning their claim to the southern port, picturing themselves swimming in profits and rubbing shoulders with the Prince. She wasn't Stelle to them. Just an opportunity. A walking investment.

Disgusting.

She didn't just feel unwilling to dance with any of them—she wanted to spit in each of their hungry faces.

Her temples throbbed.

Everything began to blur. The cloying scent of colognes, the overlapping voices, the tension pressing down on the girl's chest—

Too many people. Too close.

Clawing.

Loud.

And suddenly… something changed.

At first, she didn't understand why. The clamor dulled all at once, the young men's faces shifted—stretched into expressions of awkward politeness, their smiles tinged with something suddenly artificial. A ripple of whispers swept through the hall like wind through tall grass—soft, but heavy with tension. Heads turned in their direction.

Stelle tilted her head slightly, puzzled.

Then, one by one—reluctantly, but unmistakably—the suitors began to part, stepping aside as if obeying some silent command, clearing the space before her.

And there he was. His Highness Sunday. Again.

He moved as though the ballroom was his own stage, his own play—and perhaps it truly was. Perfect posture, fluid movements, a cold elegance that captivated the eye. And those eyes—locked on her, unwavering.

Her heart skipped a beat, brows lifting in surprise. She stood frozen, not expecting to see the Prince again so soon, let alone like this, at the very center of attention.

But he approached. And smiled.

He inclined his head slowly—with restraint, with regal composure—and extended his hand to her like someone out of a fairy tale.

"Lady Stelle," he said, his voice gentle, yet carrying clearly through the hall, "would you do me the honor of your first dance?"

Stelle didn't understand what had just happened—at least, not right away. She blinked in surprise, lashes fluttering. Wonder lit up her eyes, and slowly, her lips curved into a genuine smile. A warm light seemed to bloom inside the grey-haired girl—he had come to rescue her. Again.

He had chosen to claim her first dance, making sure no one else could puff themselves up, thinking they'd won some sort of prize. That they'd secured something special. He left no room for that. And it couldn't have worked out more perfectly. This—this was an honor beyond words.

"Of course, Your Highness," she whispered on a soft breath, placing her hand into his—so warm, even through the glove.

The hum of the hall died completely.

Someone covered their mouth with a gloved hand.

Someone dropped their fan.

Someone else let their glass slip through their fingers with a loud, shattering crack.

The young viscount who had been lunging forward just seconds ago recoiled as if struck.

Stelle had no idea what had caused such astonishment.

But at this point, she didn't care.

She was already growing used to the burning stares from every direction. All that mattered was the firm hand closed around hers. And just like that, everything calmed.

The prince led her forward through the parting crowd. The murmurs, the gazes, the taut, narrowed eyes—they all melted away. She stopped noticing. She stopped caring.

She didn't even realize a pair of violet-aquamarine eyes were watching her intently from afar.

They reached the center of the ballroom, and the guests instinctively formed a wide circle around them.

The orchestra shifted into a new rhythm, gracefully picking up their movement. The violins played softer now, more fluid. The strings deeper, more resonant. And the harp—light as air, as if weaving a path of golden light beneath their feet.

The platinum-haired prince leaned slightly toward her, asking permission with his gaze—only then did he place a hand gently at her waist. Restrained, nothing improper, yet that subtle contact was enough to bring a soft blush to Stelle's cheeks. Her hand settled on his shoulder as she'd been taught in countless dancing lessons. Still, something inside her tightened, and her heart beat a little faster than it should have.

The prince smiled at her gently.

And then he led.

In the very next moment, they were gliding across the ballroom floor, alone at the center of it all, surrounded by a sea of astonished eyes.

The first circle was slow, almost tentative. It was as if Sunday was studying her rhythm and getting a feel for her style.

The second—more assured.

And then, he guided her as if nothing else existed beyond the dance. Every step was precise, as though he knew where her foot would land even before she decided to move. His hand—warm, steady—rested on her back with such gentle assurance that it made her breath catch without warning.

"You dance as if you were born on a ballroom floor," he murmured softly, so faint it was barely audible, yet his voice sent a tingling vibration through her body.

She only smiled in return—shy, almost dazed. Words failed her. The truth was, she danced this way only because of how flawlessly he led. With him, even a complete novice would glide like royalty.

A strange flutter bloomed within her with every moment their eyes met. It spread under her skin like a quiet spark—glowing, humming, inexplicable.

Her flowing gown traced half-circles around them, like waves of silk falling into rhythm. Her heels tapped softly against the marble, matching the violins beat for beat.

They didn't know each other at all. And it would be foolish—presumptuous even—for Stelle to think they ever might.

And yet… why did it feel like she could tell this man anything in the world?

It made no sense.

On another turn, when he spun her in place and then drew her closer than before, her body briefly pressed against his chest, and her cheeks ignited with heat. She nearly lost the rhythm.

She felt his warmth, even through layers of fabric. The faintest hint of his scent reached her—fresh, with notes of pine and a trace of soft incense. Subtle. Enveloping. And disarmingly pleasant.

"I'm glad you didn't refuse," he whispered against her temple. His voice was softer than the music, but the vibration carried through her skin. "I don't get the chance to dance often."

She looked up at him, surprised.

"You… don't dance?"

The prince only gave her a knowing smile. No explanation followed.

And Stelle's heart was suddenly beating much faster than the waltz demanded.

Her cheeks flushed—a traitorous warmth rising in them. The heat that washed over her skin pulsed through her stomach with a sweet, aching tension.

And when their steps finally slowed, as the waltz shifted into its final, graceful measures, when he leaned in to guide her through the closing movement… she found herself thinking she wouldn't have minded dancing with him a little longer.

The last note dissolved into the air—

And the hall erupted in applause.

Loud. Resonant. Of course, not all were genuinely pleased with the scene they had just witnessed—but still, they clapped.

The prince gently released her; the warmth between them fell away, and something about that absence stirred a quiet sadness in her chest. But not for long—because in the next moment, he dipped his head slightly, one hand behind his back, and with the other, he took her hand, lifting it toward his lips.

He was going to kiss it—the way royal etiquette prescribed.

Stelle held her breath, lips pressed together.

But… he hesitated. Just a breath away.

His brow twitched slightly, drawing together almost imperceptibly; his eyelids widened a fraction.

His amber eyes had fallen to something on her hand.

And the only thing there that could've drawn such attention—

Was the ring on her fourth finger.

His smile faltered.

He stared at the ring for a few seconds.

Thoughtfully.

Expression unreadable.

Then his gaze lifted back to Stelle. Silent. He didn't ask.

Instead, his lips finally brushed her fingers. Softly. Almost weightless.

And when he straightened, the smile returned to his face. But now… there was something else beneath it. A trace of something elusive. His eyes searched her, as if trying to decipher a page written in invisible ink.

"You did wonderfully, Lady Stelle," he said again.

But something had shifted beneath that warmth, buried deep in his voice.

He let go of her hand, and she kept looking at him, puzzled. Her makeup did little to hide the blush still clinging to her cheeks. She couldn't help but wonder what was running through His Highness's mind… but who was she to pry into the thoughts of someone like him? Especially after everything he had done for her tonight.

"I hope you enjoy the rest of the day, my lady," Sunday said at last.

The restraint in his tone had returned, bordering on formal now.

His face had shut itself off again. No trace of emotion.

As if someone had flipped the switch, and the cold heir was back in place.

He gave a brief nod.

Turned.

And without another word… walked away.

The edge of his cloak flicked past the guests—then vanished into the crowd. And with it, that fragile shield disappeared once more.

She wasn't given even a second to breathe, to think.

"Lady Stelle!"

"May I express my admiration?"

"Surely you wouldn't deny me the honor of just one dance?"

The crowd closed in again.

Those same insufferable smiles from all sides.

Only now, her value in their eyes had risen. Everyone wanted a piece—an alliance, a favor, a scrap of royal attention.

Men—older, younger, heirs, and lesser lords—flocked around her like moths to a flame. Some tried to charm her with jokes. Some offered polite concern. Others began reminding her they had "already spoken earlier," as if that somehow entitled them to something.

And she…

She couldn't say no, no matter how much she wanted to.

Etiquette demanded politeness.

Protocol demanded participation.

Refusing a dance without a valid excuse was simply not done.

So she gathered herself, lowered her head with practiced grace, and let the first gentleman lead her onto the floor.

And so… it began.

A string of dances that felt endless. Each minute dragged like an eternity. One suitor let his hands wander. Another made crude jokes. A third hinted at wanting a "closer friendship." The fourth stared at her unblinking, like trying to bore a hole straight through her.

And then it all blurred. Stelle stopped keeping track.

They may be different. But to her, they all wore the same face. And they all shared one thing in common: each of them seemed determined to crush her toes.

Still, Stelle kept spinning.

The partners changed. The feeling did not.

With each new hand at her waist, it became harder to breathe. But no one noticed how tired she was. No one saw how forced her smile had become.

Why would they? They only cared to seize the moment. Take what they could while her value was high.

***

With no small effort, Stelle finally managed to slip out onto the balcony—quickly, on her toes, doing her best not to draw attention. Only once the door clicked shut behind her did she breathe out—ragged, deep, almost a groan.

The cool afternoon air hit her face like a gulp of life after an hour spent drowning. It licked gently at her burning cheeks, flushed from dancing, tension, and too much pretending.

Her chest rose and fell in heavy, uneven breaths. The dress felt too tight. The heels—like some medieval form of torture.

Staggering slightly, the silver-haired girl made her way to the marble railing and leaned her whole weight against it. The cold stone burned pleasantly through the fabric of her gown. She wanted to close her eyes and melt into it. Just for a minute. Or two… or forever.

"God," she exhaled, voice hoarse, "how much longer…?"

The balcony overlooked part of the garden, and the sight of the flowers immediately eased something in her. She couldn't help but think back to when she and His Highness had been in the greenhouse… It felt like a lifetime ago.

And yet, that memory still shimmered warm in her chest. Possibly the only good one from this entire day. Well, maybe going home would be another.

Stelle couldn't help but wonder—why had the Prince done it?

What had compelled him to give her so much of his precious attention? Especially after all those lavish gifts... It was strange. Stelle had never realized just how important their House was to the Crown. Mother had never mentioned what exactly she did. And her tutors had always neatly skirted the subject.

Only now was the truth starting to dawn on her.

The girl hadn't even caught her breath yet when—click.

The door.

She tensed instantly. Froze.

Of course, someone had to come out here now.

A step.

Then another.

Before she could turn around, a voice spoke behind her—predatory silk, with that lazy, faintly dismissive lilt she now knew all too well.

"Worn out already, sweetheart?"

That was all it took.

The world stopped.

Her hands, resting on the cold stone, suddenly clutched it like an anchor.

Her stomach twisted.

Her heart didn't beat. It dropped straight to her feet.

She didn't turn around right away. Too many emotions surged into her blood all at once.

Anxiety. Fear. Anticipation. And—just a little—relief.

It all mixed into one lethal elixir.

Ace.

No… Prince Aventurine.

The one she had sworn she never wanted to see again.

And the one she'd been waiting for.

"A retreat from the battlefield? How dull," he continued, tone lightly mocking—but his voice, steady. Cold. Confident. Not the slightest hint of hesitation.

And that composure… was more dangerous than any emotion.

For a moment, Stelle forgot how to breathe.

Every word he spoke seemed to strip away the mask of the polished lady she had worked so hard to wear, peeling it back to reveal the truth underneath: someone frightened. Uncertain.

Her head turned slowly toward the voice.

There could be no doubt—it was him. The Second Prince himself.

He stood framed in the doorway, chin slightly dipped, and his heterochromic eyes… read her like an open book.

Stelle swallowed. Her face, a mask. She couldn't afford emotion now. The girl turned fully to face him.

"Your Highness," she said softly, dipping into a flawless curtsy. "I wasn't expecting to see you here."

He didn't reply at once.

He simply looked at her—intently.

And then, taking a single step closer, he spoke with the same glacial calm:

"How's your grandmother?"

The world shattered. Her breath caught mid-throat. Oh, no.

No, no, no.

Her heart thundered painfully. But somehow, she managed to keep her expression intact. Even summoned a polite smile.

"Sadly," she answered, eyes lowered, "she's no longer with us. But… thank you for your concern."

Don't flinch. Don't give yourself away.

She had to leave. Now. Before her body betrayed her.

Stelle took a step to the side, pressing her lips together.

"Forgive me, Your Highness. I must return—"

She actually managed a few steps. Managed to walk past him.

For one breathless moment, the prince let her believe she'd escaped the predator's hold.

But no.

His voice came again—soft. Almost tender.

"I see you did end up liking the ring."

She froze mid-step. Eyes wide. Muscles tensed.

Thank God her back was to him.

Something fragile cracked inside her.

Her gaze dropped slowly… to her trembling hand. To the finger bearing the ring. The ring set with aventurine stone.

Of course. Of course, it made sense now. It was so obvious—his name, the stone, the gift. He'd left her a clue from the very start. And she hadn't been clever enough to see it.

When had he noticed the ring?

Had it been right away?

Slowly—deliberately—Stelle turned to face him, praying to every god she knew that the blond man before her wouldn't notice the faint tremor in her shoulders.

He took a step toward her.

The sound of his shoes striking the marble rang louder than the entire ballroom behind the doors. Nothing stood in the way now.

"That ring was custom-made," he said, voice detached, as if he were discussing the weather. "A gift made only for me. A calling card, if you will. A token that Aventurine had been wrapped around someone's finger in defeat."

Stelle lowered her hand, as if the ring had suddenly become too heavy to bear.

A chill crept down her spine. Her breath hitched, though her lips still clung to a fragile smile.

Don't flinch. Don't flinch.

"You must be mistaken," she said quietly, forcing herself to meet his gaze, to sound convincing. "I believe this is the first time we've met."

He stopped in front of her.

Far too close. Closer than propriety would ever allow. So close, she could feel his warmth. His danger.

"Then," he said softly—deliberately, like testing her limits—"you must have stolen it."

Her smile faltered at last.

Inside, a wave of fear and fury surged.

But outwardly… she only stood taller. Straightened her back. Held the man's gaze. There was fear in her amber eyes—but no surrender.

"Those are… bold accusations, Your Highness," she replied coolly. "Are you saying you suspect me?"

The man arched a brow, narrowing his eyes just slightly.

"I don't suspect. I know you're a liar—so yes, I believe you'd be capable of stealing, Ray."

The name hit like a verdict. Like a gunshot. Like lightning in the dark.

Her fingers clutched the edge of her gown. Trembled.

Even her breathing—something she had worked so hard to control—suddenly felt too loud in the night's silence.

"Or did I get it wrong?" he murmured. "Maybe along with the dress, we're changing names now, too?"

Stelle feigned confusion. Even if it only delayed the inevitable exposure… it was easier that way.

"Forgive me, Your Highness…" her voice faltered halfway through. But she caught herself. Smiled—like she'd practiced. "...I don't understand what you mean."

The prince let out a soft chuckle.

"Of course you don't," he exhaled lazily. "You've forgotten, haven't you? The poker game. Your precious festival. The raccoon…"

His voice dipped lower, and in those deep eyes, a glint of something dangerous flashed.

"…and even me?"

The corners of his lips curled upward ever so slightly. He was savoring this—every second of it. Waiting for her to break.

But she looked away. Lowered her head, as if to curtsey—no, to hide.

"Excuse me," she said, voice faint, muffled. "I really must return. Otherwise…"

"Otherwise what?" he interrupted.

Silence.

Her legs refused to move.

And then—he leaned in closer. Close enough for the girl to feel the heat of his breath. Close enough for goosebumps to rise along her skin.

And with a voice so soft it nearly sounded kind, he whispered:

"Come on… after everything, are you really not going to say a single real word to me?"

Silence again.

Heavy. Crushing. Endless.

And then—Stelle raised her head.

Steadily. Slowly. It was as if a set of invisible scales were tied to her temples, and on one side was reputation. On the other… fear.

Looking him straight in the eye, she parried:

"My name is Stelle. I don't know anyone named Ray. And I have nothing to do with her."

She said it almost ceremoniously. Too crisp. Too polite. Too deliberately confident.

The blond man didn't blink. Didn't flinch. He simply straightened, never taking his eyes off her.

And Stelle didn't wait for a reply.

She turned. Her hand found the cold bronze handle. The door gave a slight creak. Just a little more—and she'd be back in the ballroom.

Back to the suffocating but relatively safe world of dances and hollow conversations. At least they didn't know…

She didn't make it.

"Stay."

His voice came sharp. Low. Even. Commanding.

She wanted to ignore it. Wanted to slip away anyway—

But then he reminded her of the distance between them.

"That's an order."

It was like a bucket of ice water thrown over her.

To someone of her standing, a prince's command was nothing short of sacred.

She had no choice now—unless she wanted to risk punishment.

For now, she was just a debutante. A duchess's daughter on paper, with a secret wrapped around her neck like a noose.

Stelle slowly lowered her hand.

The door clicked closed behind her, like a gate sealing off any path to safety. A path that was no longer hers to take.

She turned back toward him, her expression filled with wary disbelief.

Her fingers curled into fists, hidden in the folds of her skirt.

The prince stepped forward.

Slowly—like a predator not rushing, because it already knew its prey had nowhere to run.

Stelle backed away. She would've done it again if her back hadn't hit the door.

Thud.

No more room.

She was cornered now, like a bird in a cage before the hawk.

And Aventurine didn't stop. He stepped in close. Too close.

Before she could react, his arms braced on either side of her, palms pressed against the wood.

His body cast a shadow over her, like a canopy. A trap.

And the silence thickened. Pressed in. Heavy. Echoing. Unbearable.

"Stelle," he said, softly, almost gently.

It was the first time he'd spoken her real name aloud. Directly. Not in front of everyone.

But there was no tenderness in it.

"How long do you plan on lying?"

She tried to breathe, but her lungs refused to obey. Her heart pounded so violently, she genuinely feared her ribs might crack under the force.

Instinctively, she muttered:

"I'm not… You're mistaken…"

He clicked his tongue.

A dull sound of irritation.

His eyes darkened with growing frustration. His brows furrowed.

And then—

He kissed her.

Without warning.

She gasped into his mouth—a tiny, ragged squeak. Amber eyes flew open. The girl's whole body went rigid. Her cheeks flared a burning red, heat racing down to her stomach, where it curled into a tight, sickening knot. Like a bomb of butterflies detonating inside her.

There was no affection in the kiss. No tenderness. It was a threat. A claim.

A kiss not given out of love, but to prove something.

The silver-haired girl let out a muffled whimper against his lips, strained, protesting.

Her fingers clutched the fabric of his clothes—she wanted to push him away, but couldn't. Tried to turn her head, tried to pull back even a step—

But he pressed her harder against the door.

Body to body.

Back to wood.

His kisses grew hotter. Deeper. More insistent. Not just demanding — consuming.

As if anger and desire had melted into one burning touch.

And her body… Traitor.

Responded with a slow, aching pulse. The heat that bloomed low in Stelle's belly surged up her spine in a trembling wave. A ragged breath escaped her quivering lips.

Her knees turned to jelly. Every thought vanished.

His mouth, heat, scent—they were Stelle's greatest weakness.

His hand slid around her waist, firm and possessive, like the final line had been crossed.

That new touch helped her snap out of the daze for a while.

No.

With both hands—suddenly, violently—she shoved him back.

Aventurine stumbled a step, caught off guard. Their eyes locked.

And Stelle looked at him with deep betrayal. Her eyes filled with shame. Fury. Humiliation.

Flushed.

Breathing unsteadily.

Her lips trembling, and tears stinging the corners of her eyes.

She said nothing. No screaming. No drama. Just silence too heavy for words.

With a sharp motion, she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, like erasing a sin. A mistake.

Then she turned on her heel. And ran.

The door slammed behind her. She fled in defiance of his order. Broke every rule she'd ever been taught.

Damn his title.

Damn honor.

Damn the consequences.

Aventurine remained where he stood. His chest rose and fell. Brows drawn together. And on his face—genuine astonishment.

He stared after her for a long moment, eyes wide, stunned.

One thought rang loud in his head—too loud, too impossible to accept:

"I just... got rejected?"

***

Stelle burst into the ballroom, gliding through its depths in search of shelter. The chandeliers blinded her; the sounds multiplied in echoes, mocking her. Heads turned. Someone scoffed under their breath. Another let their gaze sweep over her—top to bottom—looking for flaws to latch onto.

The silver-haired girl moved forward, barely seeing the path ahead. The fabric of her gown tangled at her ankles, heels slipping on marble. Everything blurred. The air felt too thin. Her heart beat wildly, like a creature trapped in a corner.

She needed a corner. A shadow. A place to hide—just for a moment.

"You look… dreadful."

That voice.

Kafka.

Her mother stood slightly to the side, as if she were merely observing the ballroom. A glass of red wine still in hand. Her posture—impeccable. The line of her shoulders—regal. And her eyes—piercing. As though she already knew everything before it happened.

Stelle flinched. She hadn't even noticed she'd walked straight into her mother—how humiliating.

Kafka's eyes ran over her, head to toe.

Brows slightly raised. Her voice even—no irritation, no warmth. Pure statement.

"Flushed, breathless, disheveled…" she added, almost mechanically. "Someone got a bit too carried away with dancing?"

A lump rose in Stelle's throat—shame struck immediately. She was supposed to look perfect. Composed. Instead, she'd let herself appear like this… So, she said nothing. Head bowed slightly in a quiet, obedient silence.

Kafka arched a brow, as if waiting for something. Then gave the faintest nod to herself, like she'd ticked something off a list, and her tone shifted—louder now, colder. The kind of sharpness reserved for a post-mortem analysis.

"You let those girls corner you. Left yourself wide open for a hit from behind. You froze. Failed to respond with dignity." She swirled the wine in her glass, watching the garnet liquid catch the light. "If not for His Highness, your reputation would've been in ruins on the very first day."

The girl clutched the folds of her gown, lips pressed tightly together. Of course, her mother would bring up that humiliation—there was no avoiding the conversation. Fear crept into the darkest corners of her soul, and her heartbeat quickened.

But the Duchess went on:

"You left with the Crown Prince alone, disappearing without a word. Returned wearing a blissful expression—what are people supposed to think?" Her voice rose ever so slightly, almost playfully—but the chill it sent down Stelle's spine was unmistakable. "And then, your first dance… with the man who doesn't dance. Prince Sunday himself. In front of everyone. I dread to imagine how long people will whisper, spin their little theories."

The woman with violet hair exhaled softly and took a sip of her wine.

"Then you ran off again—and returned in this state."

Each sentence struck like an arrow to the chest. Like stones tossed into a still pond, the ripples spreading wider and wider. Stelle held her breath, bracing herself.

Here it comes. She's going to say I embarrassed her. That I failed. That I disappointed her.

Her mother paused, and each second stretched out like the silence before a verdict.

Stelle shut her eyes tight, flinching as if expecting a blow, even though her mother had never once raised a hand to her.

Kafka looked at her daughter and… smiled. Gently, almost in quiet wonder.

"I didn't expect this," she said, and her voice softened, enveloping the girl's heart like a warm embrace.

Stelle's eyes shot up in confusion. A shock wave swept over her, head to toe—there was no judgment in those violet eyes.

"You handled it," her mother nodded. "Even better than I hoped."

Silence.

The amber-eyed girl was completely taken aback. She didn't know what to say. Words refused to form into sentences. She tried to understand what could have earned her such praise when the entire evening had felt like a disaster to her.

"But I…" the silver-haired girl exhaled, shaking her head slowly. "I didn't do anything. I just…"

Kafka let out a soft chuckle, eyes fluttering closed.

"Just were yourself? That's what worked."

A gentle touch to her shoulder made Stelle's body relax at once, as if a blade held to her throat had finally been withdrawn.

"Of course, it wasn't perfect," her mother continued calmly. "But you made him look. And thanks to that… we've gained far more today than we've lost."

Relief washed over her like warm water, and she finally let out a quiet breath.

Only then could she smile—truly smile. There was nothing more precious than her mother's praise.

***

The music had gradually faded. The dance floor now lay empty. One by one, the guests had begun to scatter—some drifting off to discuss business in the smoking lounge, others gathering at the wine tables, and many disappearing into side corridors to exchange gossip and impressions. The tension that had once gripped the hall was finally beginning to loosen—breathing came easier now.

Stelle stood beside Kafka, uncertain of how to feel. She was exhausted—her legs throbbed, the heels had chafed her feet raw, and every step sent dull aches up her calves. She no longer had the strength to keep up conversation—all she wanted was to collapse into bed and sleep for at least five years.

And it seemed, soon, she would finally get her wish. The debut was drawing to a close. Her first appearance, her first celebration, her first brush with a new reality—it had all been leading to this final act.

"It's time," her mother said softly, nodding toward the throne.

Stelle's heart clenched. Another encounter with the King and Queen. The thought sent a fresh wave of nerves rippling through her. But she nodded obediently.

The path to the dais was clear, as if everyone instinctively understood it was time for the curtain call. The few remaining guests stepped aside, offering subtle glances as the two approached.

Under the chandeliers, which gleamed like midday sun, Stelle walked with her back straight. Composed. Despite the leaden weight of her legs and the biting pressure of her shoes. When she reached the throne, the silver-haired girl came to a halt. Then curtsied—deep and elegant, her gown pooling across the floor like a dark ribbon of spilled wine.

"Your Majesties—my deepest gratitude," her voice rang out clearly. "This day will stay in my heart forever. I… I was truly honored to spend the most important day of my life in your presence, and I promise to put your gifts to good use."

The King gave a brief nod—reserved, yet his eyes were gentler than they had been at the beginning.

Queen Jade offered a faint smile, and under her piercing gaze, Stelle couldn't help but feel the urge to bow even lower.

"You are a curious girl," the Queen sang, tilting her head. "We eagerly await news of you. I do hope you won't disappoint us."

"We look forward to a fruitful alliance," the King added softly.

Kafka bowed in response, as befitted a duchess. Stelle—lower still.

"After all that Your Majesties have done," she said, voice steady, "I will do everything in my power to serve our Kingdom well."

According to tradition, the King and Queen dipped their heads ever so slightly in farewell. It marked the end of the audience. Their leave was granted. They could go.

Kafka turned first, and Stelle followed. The walk back to the doors felt longer than when she had first entered.

At the main entrance, the hall had already quieted. The horses were harnessed, and the footmen—dressed in embroidered livery—stood stiff as golden statues by the carriage doors.

The Duchess's carriage awaited at the edge of the drive. Its black lacquered surface gleamed under the lights, gold patterns glinting like veins of sunlight. The spider emblem drew attention immediately. Kafka approached the door, unhurried, as if the exhausting evening hadn't left the slightest mark on her flawless posture.

Stelle let out a quiet breath of relief and was about to step up into the carriage, when behind her, she heard the soft sound of approaching footsteps.

Unhurried, light... As if the waltz had never ended, just gone on without an orchestra.

The girl turned—and her heart slammed against her ribs.

Sunday.

He walked alone. No guards, no attendants. That calm, reserved smile on his lips was instantly mesmerizing. His beauty truly felt otherworldly—like he had stepped straight out of a legend.

Kafka didn't interfere. She cast the prince a quiet glance through half-lidded eyes—and remained in the carriage.

"Lady Stelle," he said, his voice smooth and steady, not a trace of weariness in it. Was it really just her who felt so utterly drained from the night?

"I beg your pardon for the delay, but I had to say goodbye in person."

Her heart tightened.

He came just for me?

Did he do this for every debutante lucky enough to hold their event in the palace?

She lowered her gaze. Something about it felt unfamiliar—awkward, yet… warm. Her lips curved slightly into a smile, light as the brush of a spring breeze.

The prince stepped closer—close enough to reach out and touch. One hand slid behind his back, the other rested over his chest.

"I wanted to thank you for today." He inclined his head slightly. "Your debut will not soon be forgotten. It marked the beginning of a new chapter—not only for you, but perhaps for all of us."

The girl felt her cheeks warm slightly, hesitating, unsure what to say. The words caught somewhere between her throat and her heart.

"And…" Sunday continued, his voice gentler now, "I hope you haven't changed your mind about my invitation? Next Sunday, at the theatre. I'll send an official invitation—it'll have all the details you'll need."

Stelle pressed a hand to her chest and nodded, her smile blooming at once. She finally lifted her gaze to meet the young man's amber eyes.

"Of course! I can't wait."

A soft smile touched the prince's lips. He nodded and then took a step back with the same quiet composure with which he had arrived.

"Until then," he said softly, just for her.

"Until then, Your Highness," the girl replied, tilting her head, unable to stop smiling like a fool.

The prince turned and disappeared soon, but Stelle watched his perfect silhouette for a few more seconds until a familiar voice gently called her name.

The spell broke instantly, and she gave a startled flinch. Hurrying to climb into the carriage with the help of a footman, she nearly tripped on her gown.

The carriage rolled into motion, and her heart still refused to settle into its normal rhythm. A faint blush lingered on her cheeks, and a soft smile refused to leave her lips as she gazed out the window at the slowly retreating palace.

Stelle shifted on the seat, carefully smoothing the folds of her skirt. Her back ached from the tight corset, her feet throbbed from the heels, and her temples pulsed from the noise, the lights, and the whirlwind of thoughts. And yet… why am I smiling like this?

The space within the carriage was quiet. Warm. Perhaps even too warm. Maybe it was the contrast with the evening air—or maybe… something else entirely.

The girl closed her eyes.

And then the memories began to rise before her—vivid, bright impressions, all bearing the face of Prince Sunday.

Just yesterday, she wouldn't have even dared imagine speaking to the Crown Prince himself without fainting from sheer anxiety. And today… he had left such a warm hue on her heart, the lasting impression of someone genuinely kind. Someone she could speak to without feeling suffocated, unlike most nobles.

How strange. With a position as high as his, wasn't he supposed to be the king of the borelords? And yet, he turned out to be the biggest sweetheart of them all.

Ah, the way he stood up for her against those vipers. The way he placed his hand on her back. His voice had been so firm, merciless—his gaze like ice. Not a moment of hesitation when it came to doling out punishment. Her heart gave a pleased little squeeze at the memory, and a spark of smugness made her snort. Serves them right.

And then… then came the best memory of the entire day—walking through the gallery and greenhouse. A moment carved out just for her, just so she could breathe, escape all the stifling chatter. And it had felt… magical. Warm, calm, serene. His presence wasn't overwhelming—it felt natural. Like he belonged there beside her. He'd even cracked a joke—who would've thought?

And the dance… her first dance had been with the Crown Prince?! No one in an asylum would believe her! The memory of those gentle touches still burned faintly on her waist and back. And when he had pulled her close—just for a moment—and whispered by her ear… her cheeks flared all over again just thinking about it. Butterflies exploded in her chest like fireworks, practically shouting "hooray!" inside her ribcage. He was warm, safe, utterly charming…

She still didn't know what to make of that whole "Prince Sunday doesn't dance" thing. Because if that man didn't dance, then pigs might as well fly. He had moved flawlessly, like it was second nature, like he'd done it every day for years.

The only thing that lingered like a pebble in her shoe was how he kept glancing at that ring.

That moment had dimmed even the fluttering joy of his kiss to her fingers, though that had been delightfully dizzying.

But now… now everything began to click into place. The thought came uninvited, inevitable.

The balcony.

Aventurine.

His words about the ring… how it was made especially for him. One of a kind.

That's why Prince Sunday had looked so surprised.

Damn.

Her eyes flicked—against her will—to that damned ring. And what devil had possessed her to wear the cursed thing today of all days? It had brought nothing but trouble. She swore to herself—never again. She'd rather jump off a balcony than put it on once more.

What must Sunday think now? That she really had stolen it? Or worse… that she was somehow involved with the Second Prince?

Stelle wasn't even sure which idea horrified her more.

All she could do was hope he'd dismiss it—chalk it up to coincidence. That was her only salvation. She wouldn't wear it again, that much was certain. The whole situation should dissolve on its own… right?

But the moment her thoughts drifted back to the ring…

Her lips burned with phantom heat, blood surged through her veins, and her breath caught in her throat. Her thighs pressed together instinctively at the memory of that tingling, slow-building ache.

His heat, his lips, his body—pinning her tightly to the door. The way he kissed her, feverish and greedy—had even that been calculated? Just another way to put her in her place?

But… do you kiss someone like that unless you want them?

She swallowed hard, shaking her head quickly, trying to sweep those dangerous, muddy thoughts away before they pulled her in too deep.

No.

No. She had to get him out of her head. He was nothing but problems, and there could never be anything between them. Ever. No one could find out.

But that's the problem, isn't it?

Would he keep it secret?

What reason would he even have to protect her? He could spill everything with a smile, hold up the ring as proof—and now it didn't matter whether she wore it or not. The Crown Prince himself had seen it. There would be no hiding.

Her future would be over.

Her situation was… very, very bad. To say the least.

All she could do now was cling to the faint hope that Aventurine, by some miracle, possessed a shred of decency—or at least enough self-preservation to keep quiet. If a word like "decency" could even be applied to someone like him. Oh, if only someone would sew shut that arrogant, poisonous mouth of his…

If not for Prince Sunday—if he hadn't come to say goodbye, hadn't spoken to her so kindly—the debut would've ended in disaster. But he had. And his words had been so gentle, so sincere.

So… maybe he had forgotten the ring.

Please. Let that be true.

The girl had sunk entirely into the depths of reflection and memory, drifting away from reality. She stared out the window without blinking, her gaze unfocused. Her temple rested against the glass, which trembled softly each time the carriage wheels jolted over the cobbled stones.

This day… had certainly been eventful. That much couldn't be denied.

And truth be told, every good moment—all of them—had been thanks to Sunday.

She had no idea how to thank him for his kindness. Around him, she had felt alive, not like a doll being paraded at auction.

The silence inside the carriage—broken only by the rhythm of hooves and wheels turning—was suddenly pierced by Kafka's voice.

She spoke in a tone almost sing-song, sly and lilting, watching her daughter through half-lidded eyes.

And the moment Stelle registered the meaning of those words, her cheeks flared crimson.

"His Highness likes you."

Notes:

no way cap

Chapter 11: Stelle on the Concert

Summary:

Debut season continues. This time: with music, tears, and one dangerously charming conductor.

The windows of the study were flung wide open, but not even the crisp bite of the autumn evening could cool the heavy atmosphere within. The air reeked faintly of sealing wax, old paper, and the lingering trace of cologne. Somewhere on the desk, a wax candle burned low, its flame reflected in a half-full glass of whiskey and the smooth surface of a paperweight etched with the Crown's emblem. The only sound was the scratch of a pen on paper.

Inside, all was in perfect order. Dark leather chairs, a writing desk of polished blackwood. The walls were lined floor to ceiling with bookshelves, packed with thick ledgers, folders, trade contracts, and financial journals.

Prince Aventurine sat slightly hunched over the desk, his collar unbuttoned, his blond hair a little tousled. Evening had long since fallen, but his work showed no signs of ending—just another hour buried in figures and ink. Before him lay a mountain of paperwork: letters from Houses claiming entitlements, reports from the border, quarterly audits, and trade agreements demanding scrutiny. His right hand moved swiftly, confidently, filling in figures with the ease of long practice.

"Your Highness," came a voice from behind the door. A royal guard. "His Highness the Crown Prince requests an audience."

Aventurine didn't respond immediately. He set down his pen, rubbed his temple, and sighed. The fatigue was catching up to him. At last, he spoke with a familiar drawl, wearied but effortlessly casual:

"Let him in."

The doors opened, and Sunday stepped inside, offering a slight bow. His steps were soft, measured, like he walked on glass and hated the thought of scuffing it. His uniform settled perfectly into place, platinum hair stirred by the wind. Still every inch the paragon of royal grace, poised and composed. But in his amber eyes—something glinted. Something sharp.

"Good evening, brother," he said evenly. "I hope I'm not interrupting."

"Only my boredom," Aventurine replied with a crooked grin, not bothering to rise. He leaned back in his chair, clasped his hands behind his head. "I was beginning to miss your visits. A rare treat."

"Pity they rarely come for pleasant reasons," Sunday said coolly, stepping further into the room, hands behind his back. "How are you?"

"Business as usual—taxes, negotiations, invitations, and idiotic requests. Someone wants half the forest, someone else wants fishing rights, and someone's desperate to marry off their daughter. But me? I've only got one love." He tapped the side of his glass. "And accounting."

"Such touching loyalty," Sunday murmured. Then his tone shifted. Sharpened. "Let's not waste time. I'm not here for small talk."

That got Aventurine's attention. His smile lingered, but his spine straightened ever so slightly.

"Oh?" he drawled. "What is it then? Did you find a leak in the treasury and suspect I've been blowing it all on wine and women?"

"No. This is about Lady Stelle," Sunday said, cutting straight to the point.

The silence that followed was immediate and heavy. Like ink spreading across parchment.

Aventurine reached calmly for his glass.

"Ah, that lady," he mused. "So you came to me, late in the evening… over a girl?"

"What is your connection to her?"

The smile didn't leave Aventurine's lips, but his eyes gleamed with something else now. A glint of amusement. A game.

"I could give you any number of answers, brother. Depends—what is the reason behind the question?"

"The ring," Sunday said without hesitation. "You no longer wear it. But she does. On her fourth finger."

Aventurine gave a soft hum and swirled the amber liquid in his glass.

"Touched that you're keeping such close tabs on my jewelry."

"Where did she get it?"

"Shall we turn it into a guessing game?" Aventurine leaned forward, resting his cheek against a loosely curled fist. "Makes things more fun. Let's see… Option A—she found it on the street. Option B—she stole it. Option C—I slipped it on her finger myself. Which one do you like best?"

Sunday didn't flinch. His gaze cut through the jest with cold precision.

"Enough. Stop playing games. Answer me—seriously."

For a brief moment, Aventurine said nothing. The smile dimmed. His eyes still gleamed, but something flickered behind them.

"I wonder..." he murmured, slowly narrowing his eyes.

"She's not your toy, Aventurine." Sunday's voice hardened, the steel behind the silk revealing itself. "If you're looking for another dalliance—find someone else. She's an ally. And you know exactly how powerful her mother is. House Solaris means more to us than your amusement."

"I know, I know," Aventurine waved dismissively, as if batting away a buzzing fly. "Kafka. The great and terrible. Spider Queen of the realm. What—do you think she'll descend from her web to punish me for spoiling her precious little doll?"

"This isn't a warning. It's reality. We can't afford to lose her trust. I won't let you endanger that."

Aventurine sighed and rolled his eyes dramatically, tossing his head back. When he looked at Sunday again, the lazy grin had returned, though now tinged with something unreadable. A flicker of… was it mockery? Disappointment?

The Crown Prince took a step closer. His voice dropped lower, colder, cutting with brutal clarity:

"I don't know what you promised her, or why you put a ring on the one finger that means something to every woman. Was it just another hand played in your disgusting little game?"

"Who says I promised or did anything?" Aventurine shrugged, feigning innocence. "Maybe she just liked the look of it. Maybe she put it on herself."

"And you allowed that?"

"Why not?" he replied with a sly grin. "It looked good on her. Suited her delicate little face. Though I must say, her expression's even sweeter when—"

He didn't get the chance to finish.

Sunday's hand came down flat on the desk—firm and unrelenting. His voice rose, cold and sharp:

"Watch your mouth, brother."

Aventurine's smile twitched, then he drained the rest of his whiskey in one swift motion and set the glass down with a dull thud.

"…Tell me something," he said, eyes gleaming beneath half-lowered lashes. "Is all this fury just about protecting our alliance with Solaris?"

There was no answer.

Only silence.

But it pressed harder than any blade.

The blond prince raised his hands in a mock gesture of surrender. Yet still, the game lingered in his tone.

"Alright, alright. No need to get worked up. Can't make any promises, though. But… if you ask me, it's more likely she'll come crawling to me than the other way around."

It wasn't shouted. Wasn't crude.

But it landed like a slap.

The tension in the room pulled taut, like a silk thread suspending a blade.

They stared at each other, unmoving. One gaze burned with quiet disgust. The other shimmered with insufferable amusement.

"You're pathetic, Aventurine," Sunday said at last, the words delivered with cutting finality.

He stepped back, straightened the line of his mantle, and turned toward the door.

And just as his fingers touched the handle, he left a final command:

"Stay away from her."

The door clicked shut.

And just like that, the Crown Prince was gone.

Only then did Aventurine's mask finally crack. His brows knit together, and the smirk vanished. He narrowed his eyes at the closed door, his gaze sharp and burning.

At last, after a long silence, he scoffed under his breath with disdain:

"…As if."

***

Mornings were never kind.

First came the whisper of fabric, the faint rustle of steps, and the barely audible chime of metal buckles. Then—a touch to her shoulder. Gentle, yet firm. Someone called her name, but the voice lacked its usual softness, none of the playful warmth she'd grown used to.

Her lashes fluttered slightly, but she didn't open her eyes. It felt like she'd only just fallen asleep. Her eyelids were made of lead, and her head—an aching, heavy block still echoing with yesterday's voices. All she wanted was to curl up again, bury herself in pillows, and disappear into darkness. No more dresses. No more waltzes. No more forced smiles. Just the bed. And silence.

But the hand touched her again—this time with a little more insistence.

At last, she begrudgingly blinked her eyes open, letting out a low, muffled groan.

Silver morning light slipped through the heavy curtains—soft, diluted. The room was still cloaked in shadows; dawn had begun arriving later now.

Stelle's body ached. A dull pull in every muscle—her legs, her shoulders, her neck—as if she'd been trampled by a herd of elephants.

She stretched with a wince, rubbed the sleep from her eyes, and yawned.

Still half-asleep, but already, something felt… wrong.

She glanced around—and found no one she expected.

There were no signs of Lizzy or Elia—no bubbly voices, no giggles, no whispered gossip. The girls who sometimes got on her nerves, but made every morning feel lighter. The ones she'd grown used to, almost like sisters.

The maids standing around her now were… different.

Women in their middle years, with flawless posture and movements honed to precision. Not a single unnecessary sound. Not a single stray glance.

"Good morning…" Stelle tried to speak, but her voice came out rough, strained. "Where are Lizzy and Elia? Are they sick?"

No reply.

Instead, the maids offered her a reserved bow and gestured for her to follow them to the bath. The most she managed to glean during the entire morning routine was that they were new. And even that was only confirmed with a curt nod.

Brilliant. So informative.

The silence was unbearable. It stretched each moment out longer than it had any right to, despite how efficient the women were. Their movements, while precise, felt cold and clinical. Too sharp. Too detached. Like machinery wrapped in silk gloves.

Ultimately, Stelle had no choice but to surrender and simply follow their gestures and quiet instructions.

When one of the women bent down to fasten a pin in her hair, Stelle's gaze drifted—and her breath caught.

It was still there.

The ring.

That cursed, damned ring.

The green gem stared back at her now like it was mocking her. As if the name engraved inside pulsed with amusement. Her lips curled in revulsion, memories of last night slamming into her like a wave—the voice of the man who had once worn it, his hands, his words. All of it.

"Don't frown, Lady Stelle," one of the maids said calmly. "You'll get wrinkles."

Of course.

With a sigh, Stelle forced herself to smooth her brow, if only halfway. Then, with one sharp motion, she tore the ring off her finger and flung it onto the vanity. It landed with a clink, flipped once or twice, then rolled to a stop.

"Take it," she hissed through clenched teeth, not even sparing it a glance. "Far away. I don't want to see it again. Ever."

The maid silently picked up the ring—between two fingers, carefully, the way one handles something unpleasant. No comment. No glance.

And in that moment of silence, Stelle truly felt… alone.

Alone in the absence of words that never came.

In the eyes that didn't seek hers.

In the touch of hands that were precise and cold, instead of the warm, clumsy ones she'd grown used to. Grown fond of.

Her chest tightened, and she lowered her gaze. She felt once again like a little girl—left standing in the corner, forgotten. Elia and Lizzy had been the last people she could call friends. And now, they were gone.

She clung to the hope that maybe they were just ill… but memories from the past few weeks clawed their way back. The strange way the girls had acted. How they'd stiffened any time the debut was mentioned.

And now, the very morning after, gone without a trace.

No. This couldn't mean anything good.

The maids soon finished. The final touch—a hint of perfume. Not too bold: fresh, laced with notes of cherry and black tea. Stelle inhaled quietly, and her shoulders rose just a little.

She was ready.

…Or at least, doing a good job pretending.

"Allow me to escort you to your new assignment," came the neutral voice of one of the women. She gestured toward the door.

With a curious lift of her brow, Stelle nodded.

They led her toward the same wing where her mother's office resided, though they stopped short of it. One of the women opened a door nearby and stepped aside to let her in first.

Stelle's eyes widened, and a smile bloomed on her lips the instant she crossed the threshold.

"This is for me?" she exclaimed, unable to hide her joy, practically bouncing in place.

"Her Grace asked us to inform you," the maid replied, "that this is your personal study from this day forward."

Spacious, yet cozy, the room was bathed in the soft gloom of morning light, streaming in through tall windows veiled with pearl-grey curtains. Unlike her mother's heavy and imposing chambers, this office breathed warmth and quiet. There was no weight of scrutiny here—only the occasional echo of footsteps across pale parquet.

In the middle stood a neat writing desk made of cherrywood, its surface covered with glass. Beneath it, someone had carefully arranged a selection of elegant stationery. At the edge rested a thick tome, its cover frayed, pages yellowed and slipping loose, as though it was barely holding together. Beside it lay a small stack of notebooks and mysterious documents waiting to be explored.

One wall was entirely lined with bookshelves stretching up to the ceiling. Some shelves remained empty, as if suggesting that everything was still ahead. Others were filled with collections of laws, political chronicles, philosophical treatises, and even classic literature.

Beneath the windows, one corner resembled a small sitting room—a pair of armchairs, a cozy rug, and a wide sofa in a shade like moonlit dust, adorned with soft pillows. Nearby stood a marble table already set with a porcelain teacup and a delicate teapot. It looked like an invitation—an invitation to evening conversations. Gentle ones. Private ones.

If only there were someone to share them with.

Behind the desk, a map of the kingdom hung on the wall—coastlines embossed in gold, with tiny flags marking key territories and trade hubs. Each detail glimmered faintly in the morning light.

The air was fresh, tinged with the subtle scents of paper, polished wood… and was that cherry tea? Everything felt harmonious—the palette of soft greys and deep reds, the quiet, the thoughtful furniture arrangement. It was a room made not just for work, but for presence. For thinking. For becoming what she was meant to be.

Stelle stepped further inside, trailing her fingers over her new domain, as if to confirm it was real.

The maid interrupted her quiet reverie.

"From this day forward, Her Grace will entrust you with some of her responsibilities and assign you specific tasks. Today, you are expected to work through everything on your desk. That includes the revenue and expense records of the Southern Port for the past twenty years. Your task is to analyze them, identify any funding gaps, and—using the supplementary materials beside them—propose likely causes as well as solutions for recovering the losses and improving the port's financial health."

Stelle's eyes widened to the size of saucers.

All that… today?

Her heart plummeted. The girl stared at the maids, half expecting one of them to crack a smile and say, "Just kidding." But they spoke again—just not the words she hoped for.

"And at 14:00, you are scheduled for a complete review of introductory etiquette in aristocratic settings, including your responses to provocations and the art of polite conversation. Duration: no less than three hours. Please plan your time accordingly."

That felt like an arrow straight to the heart. It seemed like mother had decided to launch a full-scale correction campaign...

Stelle let out a sigh—and even that didn't go unnoticed.

"Lady Stelle, do not slouch. And no sighing—it's unseemly."

Oh, how she longed to roll her eyes and say something sharp in return. Instead, she straightened her back and slid a neutral expression over her face like armor.

"…Understood," she muttered with zero enthusiasm, stepping toward the chair.

It was lovely—cherrywood carved in graceful swirls, upholstered in soft maroon velvet. The girl sat down, and despite herself, the corners of her mouth twitched faintly upward.

At least it was comfortable. A small mercy. Maybe, just maybe, her spine would still be usable by the end of the day.

And then she noticed it—lying alone at the edge of the desk, set apart from the other documents.

Stelle's eyes flicked toward the seal, instantly widening, her heart clenching tight.

No… it couldn't be.

There was no mistake. The royal seal.

"My lady, we will bring your breakfast here. We'll return shortly," the woman said with their usual mechanical grace, bowing before they turned to leave.

But Stelle couldn't have cared less. Not now. Not for anything.

The moment the doors shut behind them, she reached for the envelope, her fingers trembling with anticipation. It felt heavy, almost like it was made of silver rather than paper. Even the scent clinging to it was unfamiliar, foreign to the usual world. Light, citrusy, but layered with notes of incense and papyrus. Something refined. Expensive. Distant.

Her fingers moved carefully, reverently, peeling the seal open with a soft snap.

She held her breath. The parchment unfolded in her hands with silken ease, and there it was.

A flawless hand.

The lines didn't waver. The letters, clean and precise, were formed with mechanical elegance. No flourishes. No ornamentation. And yet, every line spoke of control. Of taste. Of power behind the pen.

Her heart quickened the moment she began to read:

 

Lady Stelle,

I hope you are feeling well after yesterday's events.

Allow me once again to express my admiration for your debut—you carried yourself with grace and dignity.

As I mentioned, please accept this as an official invitation to the concert that will take place next Sunday at 19:00 in the Gabrielle Wood Theatre.

Truthfully, the program had already been finalized several months ago, but our meeting has inspired me to make a complete change of plans. I had originally intended to dedicate the performance to the history of your House. However, I now dedicate it to you, my lady. And to the way I came to see you, even within the brief time we spent together.

I hope the music may bring a moment of beauty into what must be a demanding and complex entrance into adulthood.

Please consider this letter both your formal invitation and confirmation of your reserved seat. Kindly remember to bring it with you on the evening of the performance.

With respect,

Sunday Wood

Crown Prince

Keeper of Order and Regent of the Department of Culture

Stelle read it twice. No—three times. Then again. As if searching for some hidden layer between the lines.

Her fingers tightened around the edges of the letter, lips parting slightly, breath shallow.

Her chest felt tight, but not with fear. With anticipation.

A soft blush bloomed across the girl's cheeks. She hadn't even noticed how tightly she'd gripped the letter until she saw the faint impressions her fingers had left along the edges. His Highness had written and sent this… so quickly? It had only been one night.

Stelle didn't know how to react. It all felt so… overwhelmingly kind. So thoughtful, so personal, so beautiful—it didn't seem real.

Something twisted inside her, a gentle ache. As if her heart, unaccustomed to gestures like this, couldn't decide whether to rejoice or retreat.

She ran a fingertip across the first line, whispering the salutation to herself—"Lady Stelle." So simple. So formal.

And yet, for some reason… it sent a delightful shiver down her spine. She could almost hear his voice—melodic, restrained—saying it aloud.

The silver-haired girl sank back against the soft chair, warmth flooding her face. Gods, she hoped no one would walk in now. She didn't want anyone to see how foolishly she was smiling, pressing the letter to her chest like it was something sacred.

But it was. It was from him.

The Prince. The Crown Prince.

Suddenly, she felt small. Insignificant. He was speaking of symphonies and inspiration, of rewriting entire programs in her honor. His endless list of titles felt like a mountain—and she... she couldn't even make sense of the financial records sitting in front of her. She didn't even know how to stop blushing when someone looked at her.

And he—he had looked.

Not like the others in the ballroom. Not like Aventurine. The very thought of that name made her expression tighten. A flicker of pain. Her heart gave a sharp little twist.

She didn't want to disappoint Sunday. Didn't want to make a fool of herself. Not in front of him.

"Gods…" she muttered under her breath, swinging her legs back and forth in a nervous rhythm. "How dare he send something like this… What if I get the wrong idea?"

She bit her lip and sighed dreamily, gazing out the window as if the breeze might carry her foolish thoughts away before anyone overheard them.

***

Stelle managed to steal a moment away from her study. She had to speak with her mother—there was something she needed to ask. Time was precious now, and she doubted Kafka would appreciate the interruption, but this wasn't something she could ignore.

She reached the door of her mother's office, upholstered in deep wine-colored velvet, and paused.

A deep breath. Another. Then she knocked—precise, polite, not a hint of desperation.

"Enter," came her mother's voice at once—calm, distant, as always.

Exhaling, gathering every shred of resolve, Stelle stepped inside. The familiar scent of roses wrapped around her immediately—the signature perfume Kafka favored. The room's austere ambiance starkly contrasted with the quiet comfort of Stelle's new study.

The grey-haired girl slipped through the door, one palm resting lightly against her chest, and dipped her head in a respectful bow.

"Good morning, Mother. How are you feeling today?"

Kafka let out a soft breath, the corners of her lips lifting in a faint smile.

"I'm well. Thank you for asking." The woman set her pen aside and folded her hands, narrowing those sharp, penetrating violet eyes. "But that's not what you came here to ask, is it?"

The amber-eyed girl faltered, a nervous chuckle escaping her—nothing ever escaped the Duchess's notice.

It took her a moment, but eventually, the words tumbled out, her gaze dropping to the floor.

"I just wanted to ask about… Lizzy and Elia."

A pause. Brief—but each second struck like a blow.

Trying to ease the tension, to explain herself, Stelle continued in a hesitant voice:

"I didn't see them this morning… They've been replaced. And the new maids… they're different."

Kafka still didn't respond. She observed her daughter with a look that could shake anyone's composure. Then, slowly, she leaned back in her chair, crossing one leg over the other. When she finally spoke, her tone was calm—and cold.

"Their contract expired. They were hired only until your debut and were fully aware of that arrangement."

Stelle's breath caught. Her lips parted, but no sound came out.

Truth be told, she'd suspected as much even before coming here. It had been obvious, really. But hearing it aloud…

It hit like a blade to the chest. A dull, kitchen-blunt knife carving straight into her heart.

So that was it. The end. She really didn't have any friends left now.

Stelle's eyes burned, and a tightness pinched her nose. But she bit down on her lower lip and swallowed it all—every tear, every tremble.

"From now on," the Duchess continued, "you need attendants who can reflect your status properly. In appearance. In conduct." She lifted her chin slightly. "And with no unnecessary chatter."

"But… they were…" Stelle didn't finish the sentence.

What was she going to say? Warm? Alive? Real? They laughed, understood, and snuck her sweets when they weren't supposed to.

None of it mattered now.

The Duchess was already looking elsewhere, as if the conversation had concluded.

"You'll have more servants in your life than you'll ever be able to count," Kafka said coolly. "You don't need to befriend them, Stelle. You're not just some girl off the street. It's time you accepted that."

And with that, nothing more. She picked up her pen again, flipped to a new page in the dossier before her, and began writing—dismissing the moment like an unnecessary paragraph.

Stelle lowered her head.

"…I understand, Mother," she whispered. "Forgive the interruption."

She bowed—deeper than before—and slipped out as quietly as she'd come.

Something inside her gave a soft, splintering crack. Like crushed glass underfoot.

And only once the door shut behind her did she allow a single tear to escape, sliding down her cheek in silence.

***

A week had passed.

And if Stelle had ever believed that the hardest part was preparing for her debut, she could only laugh now. Or cry. Depending on the day.

Because after the ball, everything only got worse.

The week blurred by in a whirlwind of lessons, assignments, evaluations, and taut silences. From morning until late into the evening—it was like being swept into a relentless current, with no hope of catching her breath. Every day began the same: a precise knock from the new maids, so eerily quiet and exact that sometimes Stelle wondered if they were even human. Breakfast was served in silence. Makeup—wordless. Hair—soundless. Everything followed a rigid schedule, military in its efficiency, and all she could do was keep up.

Her mother had taken the idea of "corrective training" very seriously.

Where once her education had been theoretical, now it was practical. Harsh. Daily.

She was made to reenact the scene with the four girls from the ball—again and again and again. Rehearsing the dialogue. Analyzing her errors. Adjusting tone. Reworking facial expressions. Over and over until she lost count. Ten times? Twenty? More? Sometimes she feared her actual memory would vanish, overwritten by rehearsed lines and curated reactions.

And then—there were the documents.

Each morning, a new stack waited for her on the desk. Financial reports, old contracts, dispatches from the port, analytical notes, and letters from trade representatives. At times, the numbers and headers blurred together in a dizzying haze. But there was no escaping it. No option to fail. She wasn't just expected to read—she had to understand. Identify key points. Extract conclusions. Compose written summaries.

Every mistake was noted, reviewed, dissected beneath a metaphorical magnifying glass.

Aristocratic protocol, rhetorical formulas, expressions of gratitude and polite refusal, the art of maintaining composure under pressure—all of it became as routine as breakfast and dinner. Small talk was no longer a mere subject—it was a battlefield. She was forced to argue with her instructor, discuss politics, respond to provocations, and deliver subtle insults—all while keeping a pleasant smile.

And through it all… no one ever asked how she was feeling.

Stelle tried. She truly did.

But at times, it felt like she was living inside someone else's schedule. Following someone else's rhythm.

Her life had folded in on itself like a piece of paper and now lay forgotten in a drawer, buried beneath thick tomes.

The only thing that comforted her—her only reprieve—was her study.

Her one small corner of quiet. A place where she could finally exhale.

Where she could finish a cup of tea in peace, glance at the map on the wall, and remember: out there, beyond the tiny flags, was the sea. And air. And a normal life.

And the letter…

Sunday's letter ended up in her hands far more often than she'd admit.

She couldn't help it—her fingers would reach for it instinctively, unfolding those flawless lines just to read them again. And every time, the words stirred something in her. Every time, they made her smile—like a fool.

But it helped. It made things easier. Lighter.

And now—

The day had come.

The day of the concert.

The carriage was already turning onto the capital's grand plaza, and Stelle's heartbeat quickened with every passing second. The clatter of hooves and the gentle sway of the coach were nothing compared to the storm inside her head. It was hot within the carriage—or maybe that was just nerves. Her neck was damp. Her palms, clammy.

She sat up straight, just as she'd been taught, though her back ached in protest.

Her attire had been carefully selected—deep cream-gold fabric, elegantly cut, with a graceful neckline. The material was smooth, noble, and flowed like poured light, the hem gathered in soft pleats. Her favorite golden star-shaped earrings glittered in her ears, and her hair was secured with nearly invisible pins, expertly placed by the maids.

But inside… Stelle didn't feel like an heiress. Not a "Lady Stelle." She felt like a girl going to her first date.

The carriage wheels gave one final creak—then came to a stop.

"We've arrived, my lady," came the coachman's voice from outside.

Her heart clenched at once, as if it meant to stop right then and there.

She swallowed hard, holding her breath. Extended her hand. Stepped down from the carriage.

And suddenly the city reappeared before her, like something ancient and sacred, awakened once more.

Evening had already given way to night, and the capital stood in full splendor.

The Grand Plaza. The central stage of the city's life—perhaps of the entire kingdom.

In the distance rose the familiar spires of the Cathedral of Saint Xipe, piercing the sky like marble lightning bolts. On the opposite side, radiant in the glow of countless lanterns, stood the Gabrielle Wood Theatre—gleaming as though carved from moonlight.

Through the rush of her own pulse, she could hear the distant hum around her—Sunday evening in the capital was anything but quiet. The square was alive with people, and many turned at once to look at her. Some whispered. Some pointed, shameless, and ungraceful.

And instinctively, Stelle's gaze darted through the crowd—searching for something.

No… someone.

Her heart stumbled in her chest with the sharpness of déjà vu.

How strange… Just two weeks ago, Stelle had stood here too. But everything had been different.

A different name. A different self. A different life.

Back then, March and Dan Heng had been with her. Their voices. Their laughter. Their teasing remarks—all of it returned to her in a warm wave of memory. March, barely able to stand from too much cider, and Dan Heng—calm and sarcastic. Those two had been with her through the brightest parts of her life—no, they were why those moments had been the brightest.

And now… The girl stood here no longer as Ray. And she stood alone.

She might've been dressed like a future duchess, standing before the golden gates of the capital, but inside she felt more alone than ever.

Stelle drew in a breath—slow, steady—gathering herself, forcing back the ache from her chest. She straightened her back, lifted her chin slightly, fixed her gaze ahead, just as she'd been taught. Because if she let go now and cracked even a little, she'd fall apart entirely.

But her heart fluttered for another reason, too.

What if… he was here?

What if Sunday had come to meet her himself?

No, no—don't be ridiculous. That was far too presumptuous.

Even knowing that, Stelle couldn't help scanning the plaza, catching every movement in her peripheral vision. Her cheeks burned with nerves, but she fought to keep her expression composed—even as everything inside her trembled.

She ascended the steps toward the grand entrance, doing her best to maintain the graceful, noble stride that had been drilled into her for months. Today was important. She had to be worthy of it.

Two guards stood at the doors, dressed in dark uniforms with crimson sashes across their chests. One held a guest list, the other wore the theatre's emblem on a silver armband. Nearby, a small table was set up to verify invitations—letters, scrolls, cards bearing crests and wax seals. Every one of them was scrutinized carefully—not just by name, but by appearance, identification, and the form of the invitation. Impeccable order.

Stelle inhaled deeply, held it for a moment, then exhaled slowly. She lifted her chin ever so slightly and stepped forward with a soft smile.

"Good evening," she said—surprisingly steady.

With a touch of confidence, even mischief in her eyes, she reached for the small purse on her shoulder. The letter was distinctive—she would've recognized it by touch alone. Soft. Heavy. With the royal seal.

It should be there. It had to be…

Her fingers swept along the inner edge of the bag.

Nothing.

Her heart skipped a beat.

She searched again—slowly at first, then faster. Emptied the contents. Checked the inner pocket. Again. Her nails scraped against the lining.

Still nothing.

The letter was gone.

For a split second, everything inside her froze.

No—no, no, please, not this.

She had taken it out so many times, reread it, traced the words, stared at the signature... She must have left it behind. Slipped it between books. Dropped it into a drawer. Tucked it under her pillow.

She… forgot.

A wave of cold washed over her.

"I… I'm so sorry," Stelle's voice trembled as she lifted her gaze to the guard. "I forgot my invitation. My name is Stelle Solaris. Perhaps it's on the list…?"

The man raised an eyebrow, scanning the documents in his hands.

"The name is indeed listed," he said, not unkindly, but firmly. "Do you have any identification document?"

When he saw her hesitate, his tone grew more resolute:

"Without a document or a verified escort, I'm afraid we cannot confirm that you are Lady Stelle. I'm sorry, but you won't be able to enter."

The second attendant—a woman—looked at her with a trace of sympathy, but still shook her head with a sigh.

"I'm sorry, miss. We're not authorized to admit anyone without proper verification. Especially not for an event of this level."

Stelle's lips trembled slightly, but she forced herself to replace panic with composed politeness.

"I… I understand. Forgive the trouble, but is it possible someone from the organizers—"

"I'm afraid everyone is already inside and occupied. We're not permitted to summon event leadership over such matters," the guard said with a regretful shake of his head.

Panic flooded through Stelle like a tidal wave.

No letter. No one nearby to ask for advice. Her mother hadn't come—Kafka had declared it was time for her to manage on her own. And manage she did, oh yes. Her first solo outing… and she'd already failed.

The Crown Prince had specifically reminded her not to forget the letter. And she forgot.

The girl wanted to sink to her knees, curl into a ball, and sob. Or scream. Or run.

She didn't even have time to go back for it—the town hall clock showed barely twenty minutes left until the performance began. She wouldn't make it back to the estate and return, not even with wings. And they almost certainly wouldn't admit her after the concert started anyway.

It was like fate had decided to laugh in her face again... No, not fate. Just her own stupidity.

How could she call herself a "lady," a duke's daughter, when she made such a ridiculous, humiliating mistake at such a crucial moment?

What a joke.

And the Crown Prince—he had gone to such lengths. Arranged the concert in her honor. Invited her in front of everyone—King, Queen, her mother. Spoken to her personally, sent the letter himself, rewritten the entire program just for her.

And she hadn't even managed to bring the invitation.

Pathetic.

The silver-haired girl took another deep breath, trying to hold on to the last thread of composure, though her chest felt as though it were being crushed in a vice. Her voice trembled, but she spoke slowly, properly. As she'd been taught.

"I apologize. I understand this is a difficult situation… But perhaps there is a way… you could confirm my identity by appearance, or—I can describe the letter's contents."

"I'm sorry, milady," the guard interrupted again, still gently but with finality. "We cannot override protocol. Please understand."

Stelle's fingers clenched—hard. Her knuckles turned white. Inside, something clawed at her, screamed to break free. To throw dignity aside, fall to her knees, sob, beg—

Let me in! This is all for me! I have to be there!

But all she did was lower her gaze.

She probably looked more like a beggar outside the temple than a noblewoman now.

She might've grown taller, but she hadn't grown up. Still the same irresponsible, lost girl.

She wanted the ground to swallow her whole. Her legs felt like paper. Her lungs tightened—breathing grew difficult. Despair washed over her, inch by inch, drowning her in shame.

What now? What was left?

Was there any option left except to fall to her knees and plead?

And then, like thunder on a clear day, a voice cut through the air behind the guards:

"Let her through."

It wasn't loud or harsh, but something in the atmosphere cracked around it.

The guards jolted as if doused in ice water. One of them turned at once, spine snapping straight. The woman beside him shifted nearly imperceptibly, stepping aside and bowing her head low. They parted like the sea—silent, immediate, and with such reverence that it was as if they had never stood in her way at all.

Stelle froze.

She lifted her head, eyes rising from the stone beneath her feet—toward the voice. Toward her savior.

And the moment she saw him, her breath hitched, her heart clenched, and a quiet gasp escaped her parted lips.

He had come.

The Crown Prince—but not in full court regalia. Tonight, he wore a tailored black tailcoat, elegantly cut, with long, flowing coattails. A crisp white shirt hugged his frame, its narrow collar fastened with a dark necktie. His sleeves were rolled up slightly to the wrists as if he had just stepped out from behind a conductor's stand. On his chest glimmered a delicate brooch shaped like the orchestra's crest.

His gait was light and effortless, but his presence always held an unspoken restraint. Yet tonight… he looked less like a future monarch, and more like an artist.

And—gods help her—he was breathtaking.

The lamplight traced soft shadows along his features: the straight bridge of his nose, the refined set of his jaw, the firm line of his lips—pressed together now in a silent seriousness—and those eyes.

Amber, hazed in smoke.

Always half-lowered, always distant, touched with a quiet melancholy. And yet, so present. So intent, when they found hers.

Her heart leapt. This couldn't be allowed—no one should be permitted to look this good. How did anyone in his orchestra manage to play around him and not stutter or miss their cues?

And then this god in human form stepped toward her, and all breath left her lungs.

He didn't even glance at the guards.

Instead, he stepped behind her, his hand slipping around with quiet precision—just barely resting on the small of her back. Gentle. Warm. Guiding.

"Come," he said softly—only loud enough for her to hear.

No room for refusal. No need for it.

Of course, she followed.

She would've followed that voice and those eyes to the ends of the earth.

Her heart pounded like a drumbeat, her hands were damp again, and her cheeks bloomed with a flush she couldn't hide if she tried.

She barely resisted the urge to stick her tongue out at the guards who now looked at her like a ghost risen from the grave.

Gods, and here he is rescuing me again. This was getting out of hand. He must think she's completely helpless and stupid—though… isn't she?

It was both unbearably embarrassing and… painfully pleasant. Because it meant he cared, didn't it? Even if he did it purely out of moral conviction, it didn't change anything. He was—such a good person.

The platinum-haired man led her inside, and Stelle caught the scent of him—subtle, almost elusive, notes of incense, wood, and something cool, like a river under a moonlit sky.

The foyer was quiet. Only the echo of their steps and the rhythm of her own breath filled the space. The Prince guided her away from the main stream of guests into a narrow corridor tucked out of sight. He stopped, withdrew his hand from her back—and immediately, something felt missing. Instead, he placed his arm behind himself as usual. But he didn't move away. He still stood so close, she could feel his warmth lingering.

Sunday spoke—low, restrained, but with something in his voice… something hard to name.

"I must offer my sincerest apologies, Lady Stelle. I should have come to meet you myself." He dropped his gaze, perhaps for the first time faltering in his flawless composure. "This is my fault. If I hadn't noticed your absence and gone to check… Forgive me for the awkwardness."

…Was that guilt in his voice?

Stelle's eyes widened.

"No! No, please, don't say such things!" she burst out, instinctively leaning forward as if to shield him from his own words. "It's my fault! I…" She swallowed, her gaze darting to the side, "I just… forgot your letter."

He blinked—softly, but clearly surprised.

"You… forgot?"

Stelle let out a quiet, miserable whimper, placing a hand over her chest.

"I'm so sorry, truly! It must look like I didn't care!" She shook her head, panicked, "But I reread it so many times and kept moving it around that—"

She said it without thinking. And regretted it instantly.

Her cheeks flared up, red as a sunset behind rooftops. She fell silent with a tiny squeak and clapped her hand over her mouth.

"I-I mean—nothing like that!"

Wonderful. Just wonderful. The future duchess, the glorious debutante, forgets her invitation to an event hosted in her honor—because, apparently, she'd read it so many times it practically fell apart.

Brilliant. Magnificent. Someone please send me to a convent.

Bracing herself for anything—disappointment, irritation, indifference, or at the very least a strained smile—Stelle froze in surprise when a soft breath reached her burning ears. She lifted her gaze, expecting the worst.

But instead… he was smiling.

Not widely. Not mockingly. But gently. Almost kindly.

He looked at her directly, and in that look—no trace of judgment. Only something warm. And something else—something that made her feel hot all of a sudden.

"I'm glad it pleased you," he said, tilting his head slightly. "Don't trouble yourself over it. What matters is that you're here. With me."

And just like that, she blushed again.

Get a grip, Stelle!

All I do is embarrass myself in front of His Highness—why does it always go like this?! Why, around him, do I turn into such a mess? Nothing ever goes to plan! I was supposed to be refined, composed, the picture of grace, and instead—I'm the exact opposite!

The strangest thing was… Sunday didn't seem to mind.

Even though she was doing everything wrong, he remained so patient, so gentle. How her mother had ever called him cold was beyond comprehension. Were they even talking about the same person?

Their quiet moment was interrupted by a theatre attendant—dressed in an embroidered coat, his manners theatrically polished. He bowed deeply before them and sang out,

"Your Highness! Allow us the honor of escorting your guest to her seat!"

But the Prince cut him off mid-sentence. His voice rose just slightly—louder than when he'd been speaking to Stelle alone.

"That won't be necessary."

He waved it off, almost absently. Without looking at the man, he extended his arm to her—just like he had at the ball, when he'd asked to walk with her. A modest smile curved Stelle's lips, and without hesitation, she accepted the invitation, gently looping her hand through his arm.

The blush still refused to leave her face.

"Your Highness, you don't have to…" she muttered. "I thought princes weren't supposed to perform the duties of mere mortals."

His quiet laugh nearly made her knees give out.

"I'm in your debt—and besides, I want to be sure you don't get lost on the way."

She puffed her cheeks.

"I'm not that irresponsible! Though…" she glanced aside awkwardly, "For some reason, it's with you that I end up doing the most reckless things… So maybe I don't blame you for thinking so poorly of me…"

"I don't think you're irresponsible, my lady," he said, slowly shaking his head. "But allow me to look after you a little. You're my personal guest tonight—how could I entrust you to an ordinary usher?"

Her heart picked up pace at the way he said that… Gods, he was trying to make her lose her mind, wasn't he? Stelle had no idea how to respond—too focused on trying not to visibly melt with embarrassment.

The Prince guided her down the corridor, the wide red carpets muffling their steps. The halls were spacious, yet somehow retained an air of grand intimacy. They climbed a few steps to the higher tiers. Wall sconces shimmered softly, casting golden light onto marble columns. Below, far beneath them, stretched the hall—parterre, private boxes, and the stage where soon he would stand. The musicians were already taking their places.

Stelle realized she was barely breathing.

"You look especially…" Sunday began suddenly, turning his face toward her, "... unforgivably radiant tonight."

She stumbled.

Fortunately, with his arm under hers, he caught her easily—and didn't so much as blink, as though he hadn't noticed at all.

"P-Pardon?"

The smile on his lips was almost playful.

"I'll have to conduct with twice the focus," he added casually. "You're liable to distract half the orchestra."

She nearly choked on air. Instead, she let out a quiet sputter. Was the Crown Prince really giving her a compliment? This had to be a dream. A dream within a dream. Dear stars, what was she supposed to do?!

He said it as if he were teasing—but his voice held a softness. He wasn't mocking. He saw her. And judging by that look… he liked what he saw.

"You ought to be ashamed, Your Highness…" she muttered, avoiding his gaze—but didn't even notice that she'd gripped his arm a little tighter with her hand. "Lying like that without even blushing… If you don't distract them, they won't even notice me."

Suddenly, he stopped. Stelle nearly stumbled again, barely catching herself in time. She blinked in surprise, looking up at His Highness—and the playful softness from earlier was gone, replaced by a serious expression. Her heart stopped.

Did I go too far? Fear coiled tight in the girl's chest. She shrank back instinctively, like a mouse backed into a corner.

"Your Highness…?" she whispered hesitantly.

"Lady Stelle," he began, solemn, and she liked it less with every passing second. "Answer me one question—truthfully."

She nodded, confused but obedient.

He didn't let go of her. Instead, he shifted his grip and took her hand fully in his, holding it tighter.

"Do you truly believe I'm the sort of man who would flatter and say things I don't mean just to win your favor? That I'd say you look beautiful if I didn't mean it? That I'd joke like that—without meaning behind the words?"

Stelle's lips parted in surprise. Her brows rose. How he looked at her with such seriousness made her heart clench.

She didn't know what to say at first, so she just shook her head slowly.

At that, he gave her hand a small squeeze, his eyes narrowing slightly, voice lowering a notch:

"I want to make one thing clear—once and for all: I am not like my brother. Yes, his words should be filtered and divided by a hundred. That's true. But I don't speak empty compliments—I have no reason to."

Her shoulders flinched at the mention of him.

Why… why bring him up now?

Had he… found out?

No—if he had, he wouldn't be standing here beside her, wouldn't be looking at her like this, calm and close. He'd be disgusted. Ashamed of her.

Stelle froze, blinking rapidly, mouth parting again in an attempt to say something—but nothing came out.

It was the Prince who spoke first. As if waking from a brief spell, he loosened his grip, exhaled, and gave a faint head shake. The corners of his lips lifted in the ghost of a smile.

"I don't know what came over me. Forgive me if I startled you. I just… wanted you to know that I'm sincere with you."

Stelle nodded gently. She didn't quite understand the reason behind such a sudden change in mood—but clearly, Sunday didn't take kindly to being accused of dishonesty, even as a joke. That, she made sure to remember. Still, there was something… almost nice about how much it affected him, that she hadn't believed him. And it meant—he really did think she looked… "radiant"? Her heart thudded faster at the thought alone.

It was almost impossible to believe that such an irresistible, beautiful man could see her as someone… pretty.

They walked on—Stelle slipped her arm through his once again, and now her heart felt wrapped in something warm and soft.

He cared what she thought of him. He cared what she thought about his words…

They didn't have far to go. And it felt like the rest of the world had faded away. All that remained were the muffled steps beneath their feet and his arm beneath her hand, which she may or may not have been holding onto a little tighter than protocol would suggest.

Soon, the platinum-haired man stopped once more. Before them stood a grand double door, heavy and gilded, bearing the emblem of the Crown. It gleamed faintly in the half-light, polished to perfection, as if it had just been shined in her honor.

"We've arrived," he said softly, turning to her. "This is the Royal Box. It's always kept open, no matter how full the theatre may be. Reserved for members of the Royal Family. And tonight—reserved for you."

He didn't rush. His gaze lingered on her face with the same careful focus he might've given a musical score before a performance. Almost reverent.

"You won't be disturbed here. And the view is the best in the entire hall," he went on. "And… I truly am glad you came. Though it's a shame the letter won't see the light of day."

Stelle sighed, rolling her eyes just slightly.

"Don't remind me, Your Highness," she mumbled, hiding a flustered smile.

He said nothing more. Only stepped forward, opening the door—and moved aside to let her enter first.

She stepped in, nodding gratefully.

And froze, her mouth falling slightly open in awe.

The box was enormous. A true private salon—with a curved wall that opened into a perfect view of the entire stage. Inside stood two luxurious armchairs upholstered in deep burgundy, and a wide, throne-like couch in the center. Velvet curtains, golden tassels, a cornice adorned with intricate patterns and stylized musical notes. Even a table was there—made of black glass, holding a delicate vase filled with fresh white roses.

Beneath her feet was a carpet of creamy caramel, where the light from the wall sconces shimmered like reflections on water. Paintings adorned the walls: musical scenes, dancers in motion, depictions of lyres and flutes. Every detail says: this is not just a seat but a stage within a stage. An honored space. Sacred. And the most incredible thing—it was hers. Tonight, it was hers.

Overwhelmed, Stelle stepped forward—and froze by the balustrade, looking down.

The hall. Magnificent, glowing. The parterre was a sea of dark heads and pale hairstyles. The boxes like notes on a musical staff, illuminated by golden light. The stage below—vast, framed by an ornate arch and heavy curtains of deep red. One musician reviewed their sheet music, another tuned a violin.

Her heart was beating far too loudly.

Stelle turned slowly—and met Sunday's gaze. He was still standing at the threshold. Calm. Focused. But that strange, soft, almost personal smile lingered in his eyes.

He tilted his head slightly.

"I must go. Otherwise, the orchestra might start without me—and they're not as good without a conductor as they like to think."

Stelle laughed genuinely in response.

"Thank you so much for walking me. And not just that. For everything, really…"

His eyelids lowered just a little—and that look made something inside her flip, while warmth returned to her cheeks once again.

"I hope you'll enjoy the performance. I wish you a wonderful evening."

And with a final gentle nod, he stepped out, leaving her in silence.

Only when the door closed behind him did she take a deep breath. Now she was truly alone. In the most luxurious box in the entire theatre. With a view over the whole country—because that's what this hall felt like. A stage upon which fate was played.

Stelle walked over to the armchair, sat down slowly, careful not to catch her dress. She sat upright, as she'd been taught, hands folded neatly in her lap. And only then did she allow herself to relax, just a little.

Her soul still thrummed like a drawn string.

It was really happening. The girl wasn't just here before a performance by His Highness Sunday—something she had dreamed of for some time now—but seated in this place, this box. She honestly didn't understand what she had done to deserve such honors, but in that moment, she didn't want to think about it.

If Sunday had decided it should be so—he must have had a good reason.

So Stelle resolved simply to enjoy it. A smile crept across her lips in anticipation, and her legs tingled—she already wanted it to begin. Right now.

Time dragged a hundredfold now that she had to sit still and wait.

But at last, the lights in the hall began to dim. First, the wall sconces faded, then the grand chandeliers above—one by one, like stars dissolving at dawn. It all unfolded slowly, like a gentle wave on a calm ocean. Stelle nearly jumped in her seat with excitement and anticipation. The hall exhaled—and stilled.

The murmurs died down. Voices fell silent. The silver-haired girl stopped breathing—clutching the hem of her gown in both hands, wide-eyed and unblinking.

On stage, amid the music stands and the unmoving silhouettes of the orchestra, only one path remained untouched—an illuminated walkway leading to the conductor's podium.

He appeared—and her heart clenched.

Sunday—so irresistible, now once again felt entirely out of reach. He walked slowly, his coat trailing behind him like a shadow, silver hair catching every glint of the spotlight. He didn't wave. Didn't bow. He simply walked—spine straight, expression calm, wearing that composed, royal restraint.

He took his place at the podium. Lifted his eyes to the audience, and paused—just for a second—his gaze lingering on the royal box. And Stelle… felt it through her entire being. Like a lightning strike. He looked up just for her.

Sunday gave a faint nod—perhaps to himself, perhaps to the orchestra, perhaps to her—and raised his arms with fluid grace.

Everything else vanished. The orchestra held its breath. A brief pause—thick with tension and anticipation—then sound bloomed.

The first note was warm, gentle. Like a sunbeam dancing across a ceiling on a bright summer day. Then another—lighter, higher, like the chime of temple bells by the harbor. The flute wove a delicate motif, and the harp picked it up, like a thin stream trickling from a mountain spring. Violins shimmered faintly in the background, like sunlight reflecting on water.

The music didn't merely convey joy or sadness—it was something far beyond any simple emotion. It felt like… freedom. Like a bright day unaware of the shadows to come. Like a barefoot girl running along a stone quay, not yet burdened by duty. Like quiet, wordless happiness. Like peace.

Somewhere deep beneath the melody, Stelle heard laughter—not real, but within.

Maybe it was her own. Or maybe her mother's—from the day the little girl had first attempted a curtsy, clumsily trying to mimic her.

She didn't even notice when a soft sigh slipped from her lips.

The music wrapped around her, lifting her higher. Flutes shimmered—like someone was painting the sky with splashes of light. And she… she felt like a child again. A child untouched by the weight of the world.

And when the choir entered—pure, gentle, invisible—singing a wordless note, something bloomed in her chest, light and achingly soft. Tears welled in the corners of her eyes before she could blink them away. A tender warmth pulsed in her heart. A smile—barely there, delicate—rested on her lips.

But then…

The music broke.

The Prince's hands made an almost abrupt gesture—and froze. The orchestra froze with him. The flutes fell silent, vanished—as if someone had blown them off the surface of a still pond. And into that unnatural quiet came the cellos—jagged, sharp, almost predatory.

They didn't play—they clawed.

Long, dragging notes scraped out like silk torn across dry wood. Each one felt like a step in a darkened room with a slick floor and air too thick to breathe. The violas followed, groaning—like ancient hinges on a door swinging shut behind you.

No one in the audience moved. The hall, moments ago glowing, seemed to dim to the color of stone. No one coughed. No one shifted. No one whispered.

Because now, the music no longer embraced—it crushed.

Sunday stood motionless, like a statue.

Every movement of his hands—precise, calculated, restrained—felt like command. His coat no longer draped; it sat on his shoulders like armor. He wasn't conducting anymore—he was summoning order. Every gesture—a decree. His baton—a whip.

The amber-eyed girl's shoulders tensed.

She sat up straighter—too straight. Elbows drawn in tight.

The music left no room to breathe. The strings quickened, tightening their rhythm like gears in a finely tuned machine. The winds joined in—not as decoration, but as enforcers. They shrieked in short, sharp bursts, as if to mark each mistake. The motif repeated, then shifted, then repeated again—like a student being forced to recite the same formula over and over, until her voice gave out.

As if… His Highness knew.

As if the music peered straight into her soul, dragging out everything buried deepest within. As if it knew exactly what it felt like—to be small, but no longer sweet and carefree. To be told to be graceful, not playful. Obedient, like a doll—or rather, a marionette. To sit in a chair carved from gold and feel like you were locked in a cold stone cell crawling with rats, too afraid to breathe. To be terrified of blinking at the wrong time. Of letting a crumb fall onto the tablecloth. Of forgetting, even for a moment, that you weren't meant to be a person. You were meant to be a display.

The harpsichord entered. Cold, glassy.

The notes clicked like heels on stone—precise, unwavering, with no margin for error.

Stelle knew that rhythm.

The rhythm she'd been forced to live by her entire life. Like a metronome, ticking behind her eyelids for years.

The music swelled. And now, a women's choir joined in—but not like before. Their voices no longer felt warm. They were cold, almost emotionless. The words were indistinct—yet they weren't needed. Their tone alone gave shape to the meaning, and her mind instinctively translated the sounds into phrases she knew by heart:

"Straighten your back."

"Lower your gaze."

"Don't speak unless spoken to."

"That smile is too wide."

The violins soared higher—but it wasn't flight. It was panic, caged and measured. Like the wings of a butterfly trapped behind glass.

And Stelle realized her fingers were trembling. She wasn't crying—but it felt like she had just been slapped. Her heart pounded, her ears filled with the rhythm's echo, her chest unbearably tight. It was as if she were back in that room again, surrounded by the portraits of her ancestors. And every painted gaze condemned her for falling short.

She gripped the armrests without meaning to. The memory hit—how they used to scold her for being five seconds late to class. For every off-key note she sang. For every word she said out of turn.

Behind her—an entire hall, hundreds of eyes. No one was truly looking at her. And yet, in that moment, the girl felt exposed. As if at any second, they would all turn. See how imperfect she really was. And laugh. As if the music had stripped away her dress and every ornament, leaving her alone in the center of the theatre.

Sunday raised both hands high—strings spiraled into chaos, growing louder, faster, more frenzied—and then, with a sharp motion, he cut them off. The music fell like scissors slicing through a taut ribbon.

And then—silence.

Utter.

So sharp that Stelle flinched, as if struck across the back of the head with cold metal. Her jaw locked—she hadn't even noticed how tightly she was clenching it.

The hall stood still. And only then—came the murmurs, soft ripples, slow shifting of bodies. People… were recovering. Someone nodded. Another shook their head. But not a single soul remained unmoved.

It was… deeply uncomfortable. And yet so achingly honest. It struck straight into the heart and shattered it, piece by piece.

The hall hushed again, like a wounded beast that had lost its voice, when the Prince's hands rose once more—hovering in the air.

Then, slicing through the silence, came a single note.

Low. Quiet. Drawn from the pianist's fingers like a groan more than a sound.

And then—pause.

Long.

So long that someone in the front rows shifted awkwardly, unable to bear the stillness. But somehow, that stillness roared louder than any orchestra.

Then—slowly, a cello entered. Holding a single tone, unembellished, unadorned—as if afraid to make a mistake. And Stelle felt a chill crawl beneath her skin.

She sat on the edge of her seat, bracing for another blow. But none came. Only emptiness. A ringing in her ears. Her body frozen.

This piece was quieter than the last—there wasn't a single loud sound in it. The clarinet joined in, soft as breath in an empty room. The music led nowhere. It didn't swell, didn't guide, didn't reach for anything.

It simply was—monotonous, with a faint tremble.

Like melancholy. Like apathy. Like quiet loneliness.

This melody wasn't about the past, nor about childhood. It wasn't memory—it was diagnosis. Not what was, but what is, and lingers still. Each bar rang out like footsteps down a hollow corridor, one that ends in a dead end. Like a day that both begins and ends in silence. The music echoed with empty seats at the family table, solitary cups of tea, chairs gone cold.

She wanted to curl up. Shrink into herself. Run from the music, hide, pretend it wasn't about her. But she stayed. Kept listening. And more and more, her head filled with solitary thoughts—painful realizations.

When was the last time someone held her hand—not for the sake of a ball, not for the gesture, not out of duty or to gain something—but simply to be close? When was the last time she could allow herself to just be a girl, without remembering that duty awaited? And even when there were people around—no one ever truly heard her. The maids, the tutors, the mentors, even her mother—they all looked through her.

And this part of the concert did the same.

But not with indifference—with the precision of a surgeon. It didn't cut to harm—it cut to reveal the organ.

The orchestra grew quieter with every passing minute. The pauses stretched longer again. Like a heart trying to beat, but unable to find the rhythm. So much pain—without a scream. So much sorrow—without theatrics.

Stelle had never imagined that loneliness could be played. That it could have a shape, a texture, a sound. That someone—no, not someone—Sunday could find its notes and bring them to life onstage.

He moved differently now. Not like in the first two pieces. He barely moved at all. His hands drifted through the air, and his fingers didn't point to the music, but to the invisible spaces between the sounds. He conducted silence with as much precision as he did sound. He felt each note—as if he, too, had lived every emotion he was trying to share.

When the music faded—it didn't end. It simply… ceased to exist. Like a person who has said all they can, and quietly falls silent.

And Stelle was left alone—with herself.

The hall remained still. No one clapped. Not because they hadn't liked it—far from it. But because they didn't know if they should. They didn't understand what exactly they had just witnessed. A revelation? A confession? A quiet admission?

The first note of the fourth piece struck like a blow—deep and echoing, like heels clattering on marble. Then came the sharp clash of strings—fast, cold, like a thousand flashes of light exploding across the stage.

The lights did change—brighter now, harsher.

The music turned elegant, dazzling—but deliberately theatrical. Like a waltz not danced for joy, but performed for a score. The rhythm bore precision, polish, even a hint of arrogant choreography—like the entire orchestra had lifted its masks in unison, smiled to the crowd, and froze in a counterfeit bow. The violins sparkled like gemstones, the flutes chimed like champagne in polished crystal, and the brass shimmered with golden luster.

Stelle wondered what event—or chapter of her life—this melody best captured. And soon, the answer came on its own.

A ball. A formal reception. A debut, perhaps? That seemed right. It carried that same feeling: dizzying, blinding, provocatively beautiful—but utterly unwelcoming. Like a smile held too long, until your jaw began to ache.

The oboes shot off like curtseys, the bassoons stretched out in bows, the harp twirled in pirouettes. And in all that glitter, Stelle could see it—really see it: the magnificent Marble Hall, the eyes she wanted to hide from, the dress and corset that made breathing a struggle. How she'd stood before the mirror and didn't even recognize the girl staring back.

The music captured it all, perfectly.

Every sweep of Sunday's hands radiated the confidence of a director. He held the orchestra in the palm of his hand. Shoulders squared, chin lifted just slightly.

The audience stirred. Some in the boxes exchanged glances. Ladies sat straighter. Some nodded in appreciation.

But Stelle sat still and tense. She knew—better than anyone—that this wasn't triumph. It was only the surface. The shine. The very mask she'd had to wear when walking through that hall. It wasn't about her—it was about her reflection.

The music grew louder, richer. And then—trumpets. A fine, theatrical echo of a classic victory march. Light as silk, but with a hidden blade beneath the cloth.

And finally—the ascent.

All the instruments joined. A grand chord, blazing with light and gold and imagined applause. As if the whole room had risen and cried, "There she is!"

Stelle flinched. And couldn't say why. Was it awe? Was it dread? She didn't know. But she knew one thing for certain—this was the finale. The end of the scene. The curtain fall on the spectacle called the ball.

The hall was quiet.

And then—for the first time that evening—applause erupted. Not thunderous, but real. Someone clapped from a private box. Someone else, down below. The hall acknowledged it at last: it had been beautiful. It had been worthy.

It seemed like the perfect moment to end. But even as the applause faded, the orchestra did not leave. The Prince did not bow. He stood motionless, frozen on the threshold of something. The stage itself seemed to hold its breath. The lights in the boxes dimmed. Everyone waited. Something was coming.

And then… the next part began.

It didn't start with an overture or an introduction, but with a memory. The motif from the first piece—the one so reminiscent of sweet childhood moments—returned. But it wasn't quite the same. No longer airy and weightless, it now carried richness. The flute still led the melody, but it was joined by a gentle cello. The tune no longer felt naïve—it had matured. Like a memory weathered by time, but still warm. The flute wasn't playing—it was remembering.

The motif of the second part soon followed. Strings—tight, tense—but now, they didn't crush. They didn't command. They explained. As though Sunday himself was confessing: yes, that cage existed. But inside it, there was survival. Purpose. Struggle. And now, the music wasn't an accusation—it was understanding. A memory finally accepted.

The choir returned—not to chant orders, but something that sounded like comfort. Their voices softened—almost maternal, almost human.

The clarinet played its lonely motif again. But this time, it wasn't alone—violins joined in, weaving an invisible bridge. As if someone, seeing the loneliness in your eyes, came to sit beside you. Said nothing. Promised nothing. Just… stayed.

The hall was silent, as if afraid to breathe.

Stelle no longer looked at the musicians.

She saw only him.

Only Sunday.

How gentle his movements were now. As if he wasn't conducting, but asking. As if the music played itself—and he merely allowed it. His hands no longer commanded, but guided—like someone leading another by the shoulders, carefully, gently, through the dark.

It was time… for a completely new melody. A new theme. It began with the oboe, unexpectedly—like a beam of light breaking through clouds. As if it was what he now saw in the present. In her. In her laughter, her stubbornness, and honesty. In the way she always blushed, unable to hide her emotions… how real she was.

The melody was expansive. Uplifting. As though everything had finally come together in it—the girl, the heiress, the weary loner, the clumsy fool.

In this part, everything merged—the choir, the harp, the flutes, the cellos, the brass. They no longer clashed—they moved in a synchronized dance. And for the first time, it wasn't about her. It was her. Entirely.

And then—came the final chord.

Soft, lingering. Not triumphant. But human.

It resonated, stretched out in vibration. Like a last thought before sleep. Like a gaze you don't want to look away from. It didn't end—it faded, like a warm hand slipping from yours. Not because it was gone. But because you were already standing on your own.

The music vanished. Silence remained.

Only then did Stelle realize she was crying.

Not with a single tear or a sigh—truly crying.

She pressed her hand to her lips, trying to stifle a sob, but her eyes were burning—her whole face aflame.

Maybe it was all an illusion. Something her mind wanted to believe in so badly it convinced itself.

But in that moment, she felt it—Sunday hadn't just played her. He had seen her—completely. And for some reason, he didn't turn away. And that… that was the most terrifying, and the most beautiful thing of all.

The final note still trembled in the air, but the conductor's hands had already lowered. Gently, weightlessly, as if he had just released a bird from his grasp. And the hall held its breath—fragile as glass. No one dared to move. A second. Two. And only then, as though someone had given permission, the hall erupted.

Applause shook the theatre walls. Someone rose to their feet—then another, and another—and soon the entire parterre, the boxes, and the balconies were standing. People clapped as if they wanted to pour every feeling into their palms. They gave thanks not only for the music, but for every breath held and every heart clenched.

And Sunday… stood at the center. Calm. A slight tilt of his head—modest, not theatrical. His face remained almost entirely still, but in his eyes there was a quiet fatigue, and the faintest shadow of contentment. He didn't bask in the ovation—he let it pass through him.

He waited for the hall to settle—unhurried, without forcing it, as if allowing the audience to fully live through what they had just heard. Only when the applause began to wane on its own, the claps fading into a hum of quiet approval, the lights dimming slightly—only then did His Highness step forward.

And he spoke.

Without a microphone—only his voice. But everyone heard him, for the hall held a respectful silence.

"We are gathered here today," he began, "not merely for another concert."

His voice was steady. The tone—almost casual. But there was something else woven into it. As if the audience had just witnessed not a performance, but something personal.

"We are here to celebrate a wonderful young lady. A person whose name was not spoken aloud tonight, and yet—whose presence… resonated from the first note to the last." He paused. "Not just her birthday. But the fact that, despite everything, she keeps moving forward. She lives. She learns. She makes mistakes—and rises again. And somehow, she manages to preserve the purity of her heart."

Though he looked out over the hall, Stelle could feel him beside her. Her heart was beating so fast she feared it might leap out of her chest. She held her breath, eyebrows lifting in disbelief.

"This concert was written for her. After meeting her personally, I saw qualities I wanted to capture in music. There are feelings that no words can properly convey. Pain, loneliness, anxiety—but also light, strength, and…" he exhaled softly, "…a beauty that only music can express."

People exchanged glances. Someone whispered. Someone else sighed under their breath. But he continued:

"There are many here tonight. Noble, intelligent, experienced. She may lack experience for now—but she possesses something I haven't seen in a long time—sincerity."

He gave a slight bow, pausing in silence.

And then, his voice dipped slightly lower:

"And I hope she heard everything I meant to say."

The hall fell still.

And in a single box, a silver-haired girl clutched the edge of her seat. Her shoulders trembled ever so slightly, and her eyes brimmed with tears. Her heart ached—not from pain. She was more moved than she had ever been in her life.

She couldn't believe what she'd just heard. Could this truly be real? Every word he spoke sounded so abstract, as if he were talking about someone else. Someone better. And then—Stelle looked at him with new eyes. She'd thought her opinion of His Highness couldn't rise any higher. But now… now she saw him as someone with a heart so vast, so full of empathy, it nearly made her breath catch.

The hall erupted again—applause, cries of "Bravo!", people standing, bowing, nudging their neighbors. But to Stelle, it all sounded distant—muffled, like through glass.

The words he'd spoken from the stage, so publicly, with no shame—they rang inside her like one final, invisible note. She tried to keep composed, but a soft, lonely sob escaped her chest.

She sat motionless—hands clenched into fists on her lap, eyes swollen and wet. Whimpering quietly, almost like a child. But how could she not cry? For the first time, someone had said it aloud. Someone had seen her—not because of everything, but despite it.

She didn't realize it at first—but… Sunday looked at her.

He had already stepped away from the center of the stage. One of the musicians was handing him the score, someone else gestured that it was time to leave—but suddenly, he paused. Didn't blink. Just looked up.

And something in his expression shifted. He saw the girl's tear-streaked face, her stunned, flushed features, the way her body trembled every few seconds. And it seemed to startle him—not with confusion. But with something else entirely.

His brows lifted. His gaze darkened—not with sternness, but with something deeper. As though he had expected a reaction—but not this one.

Only when he saw how deeply it had touched her did he truly realize—just how much Stelle had been holding back all this time, and just how precisely he'd struck the most vulnerable place in her heart.

He looked away only when one of the assistants addressed him. He nodded, then slowly stepped off the stage.

The hall had not yet emptied—the audience was still murmuring, others rising from their seats—but Stelle no longer heard any of it. She wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand, shot up from her chair without adjusting her gown, and, without a second's thought, rushed out of the box.

She was nearly running—walking as fast as her body would allow without breaking into a full sprint.

First—through the corridor of boxes, narrow and lavishly decorated. The curtains fluttered, the wall sconces flickered like dancers, and guards below turned their heads—but she didn't care.

Then—down the staircase, without touching the railing, lifting only her skirts. The heels bit into her feet with every step—she didn't feel it. Her heart was pounding too hard. The adrenaline, the euphoria, drowned out everything else.

The silver-haired girl had no idea where the Prince could be. No map, no guide, no hint. But she searched anyway and kept moving forward. Downward, toward the side exits, into the hallways behind the curtain—though she wasn't even sure she was allowed to be there.

In that moment, she forgot what she looked like from the outside. That someone might stop her, judge her, forbid her. She was a duchess's daughter, a lady—but the moment someone had truly seen her as just a girl, she allowed herself to be that girl, if only for a breath.

She followed the one who had given her a gift greater than any praise.

She simply could not let herself leave without thanking him properly. This wasn't just a concert. This was the most moving gesture of her life—something she would remember forever, and beyond that.

Stelle wanted to see him. Right now. No—she needed to, like air. She would have fallen to her knees and kissed his feet in gratitude if she could.

But she kept hurrying down the corridor, almost blindly. Her shoulder accidentally knocked into a protruding frame. Her dress caught on the railing—but she yanked it free with a sharp tug.

And then, just around the corner, a man appeared before her. A theatre worker—in a gray vest, with disheveled hair and a mop in hand. He nearly dropped it in surprise, instinctively flinging up an arm as though bracing for a storm.

"Good heavens!" he cried out. "Oh—young lady? Are you lost?"

His expression shifted slowly from shock to concern. He rubbed the back of his neck, clearly unsure of what to make of her. Understandably so: her reddened eyes, tear-streaked cheeks, and unsteady breath—she looked more like someone who'd just escaped a madman than a noblewoman. Her dress said she was a lady. But her face told a different story.

Stelle swallowed hard. Still catching her breath, she rushed out:

"I'm sorry, I need to find His Highness immediately. Do you know where he might be?"

The man froze. Narrowed his eyes suspiciously, as if trying to determine if she was deranged. His gaze darted around.

"My lady, I can't give out that kind of information! If everyone who wanted to see His Highness came barging in like this, there'd be a queue out the door."

Stelle pressed her palms together in a pleading gesture. She gave him the biggest puppy eyes she could muster, fluttering her lashes in the most charming way possible. She stepped closer, lowered her head with exaggerated humility, and sang out sweetly:

"Pretty please? I'm begging you, sir—His Highness arranged this entire concert for me. It's the best day of my life! I'll never forgive myself if I leave without telling him how much it means to me!"

The young man flushed noticeably. Clearing his throat, he dropped his gaze.

"I understand, milady, truly—but please understand me too. I'm really not allowed! I could lose my job or get in serious trouble if I do this!"

What a stubborn one!

Stelle didn't show the slightest trace of irritation. Instead, she tilted her head adorably to the side and took another step toward him. Her smile was soft.

"And I'll ask His Highness not to punish you, all right? We're… friends."

She paused—just a beat—before that last word. Yes, it was a little lie. They hardly knew each other well enough for such a claim, but so what? A harmless fib never hurt anyone, and she really needed this. Besides… maybe one day, they would be friends?

No harm in dreaming, Stelle.

The man hesitated, clearly torn, but she saw it—the moment something in him softened. He still hadn't decided what to do, but she could tell he was wavering. So she leaned in again, her voice like velvet:

"Please?"

And finally, he sighed. Cast a quick glance around. Raised a finger and scratched his temple as if to cover the motion, then leaned in fast and whispered:

"To the right, straight down the corridor, then right again at the split. Second door from the end."

Then immediately pressed a finger to his lips in a meaningful hush:

"You and I never met."

Without waiting for a response, he turned on his heel and walked off briskly, as if he suddenly remembered very important business.

Stelle grinned triumphantly—and bolted, gathering her skirts in her fists. She wasted not a second.

In that moment, she felt no fatigue, no shame—only anticipation and a rush of joy in her blood. Her heart beat far too quickly. She felt more like a child sneaking off to mischief—but for a good cause. Thankfully, her heels barely made a sound against the thick carpet, masking her hurried steps.

The halls dimmed as she went. These were back passages now—lined with dark utility doors and quiet walls, the scent of wood and wigs in the air, the faint clink of coat hangers, and distant murmurs of unseen voices.

Something inside her already knew—he had to be close.

She counted the doors.

All right… second from the end.

None of them were labeled, of course. Probably on purpose. Surely not due to budget cuts.

She didn't need to search long—thank the stars for that cleaner's instructions—she could only hope now he hadn't tricked her. Otherwise, she would find him again…

The door—that door—was slightly ajar. Just a sliver, barely noticeable. The grey-haired girl's heart began to race even faster, her palms damp with nerves, but her resolve held firm.

She knew this wasn't proper. It was far from regulation—he might not like it one bit. He might even scold her. But Stelle wasn't thinking about any of that right now.

The door wasn't fully shut… so surely, it wouldn't be too terrible if someone just peeked in? Every part of her mind was screaming that this was a horrible idea—and it probably was. But since when had she listened to her head?

Before she could think it through, her hand was already on the door, fingertips brushing the edge. She pushed it open a little more—silent, cautious.

And then she blushed, lashes fluttering, the heat rising all the way to the tips of her ears.

This image would be burned into her memory for a long, long time.

The room was small—almost intimate. No luxury. Just a rectangular mirror, a few lamps, an open case for his conductor's baton, a modest couch, and a bookshelf lined with scores and volumes so precisely arranged it looked like someone had used a ruler.

On the back of a chair hung that black tailcoat.

And there he was.

Sunday stood turned half-away from her, in a crisp white shirt, the collar and a few buttons undone—revealing a portion of his collarbone and the upper line of his chest. The same hands that had so recently wielded the baton now moved deftly over the rest of the buttons.

Stelle barely suppressed a squeak. For the first time, she had the honor of seeing His Highness like this—not fully composed in public form. And only now did she truly take in the breadth of his shoulders. The shirt didn't cling completely, but it was tight enough to reveal the shape of his lean, sculpted frame.

He hadn't noticed her yet. He let out a breath—and in that instant, she saw him differently again.

Something clicked.

He wasn't just the Crown Prince. Not just the conductor, or the judge.

He was… a man. Made of flesh and blood, too.

And even in him—there was weariness.

The girl's heart twisted, clenched, curled into a knot. The music, his words from the stage—everything he had done before, at her debut, in front of the theatre doors—all of it rushed back at once. She felt she might burst from the weight of so many emotions if she didn't do something.

She exhaled.

And Sunday… turned his head. Sharply. His shoulders lifted in surprise. His eyes widened. His fingers froze mid-button. It was the first time she had ever seen such vivid emotion from him.

"Lady Stelle?" he said softly, almost in astonishment. He hadn't expected anyone here—especially not her. Not here, not now, not like this.

But she didn't give him time to process, to think, to speak. The sound of his voice—just that—shattered something inside her. She would regret it—she knew it. Would lie awake remembering this moment with burning shame, scolding herself for losing control, for forgetting every lecture and every lesson.

But in that moment… she broke.

At first, just a single step forward—uncertain. Then, a second later, Stelle rushed.

Not gracefully, not with a noble curtsey. Her skirt flared, a bright smile flickered across her face—and before her mind could catch up, her arms were already around his neck. Tight—as if clinging to a lifeline in a stormy sea.

Her cheek pressed against his neck, her chest against his. Her heart was beating so fast he could undoubtedly hear it, feel it through his own skin.

And then Stelle—half cried, half cried out:

"Thank you, thank you, thank you," she repeated, again and again, "Your Highness! I—I don't even know what to say, how to thank you! I never, never dreamed of a gift like this—especially from you! This is the most wonderful gift—no—the best day of my life! I will never, never forget your kindness or what you've done for me!"

And the Prince…

Well.

That shattered him.

Notes:

she's so stupid i love her

Chapter 12: Stelle and the Conductor

Summary:

Gratitude is a virtue. Breaking into the prince’s private quarters to express it? Debatable.

Notes:

sorry for taking a bit longer to post this chapter!! i wasn't feeling well this week... i was asleep 80% of time, but now i'm alright~
the food is delivered, please enjoy (hopefully)

Sunday didn't react right away. As if his body betrayed him for a moment—his arms remained stiff at his sides, his breath caught. For a heartbeat, time itself stilled—he even seemed to stop breathing. In his widened eyes flashed something almost fragile—surprise, raw and unguarded. This time, his calm mask failed to hide it.

And no wonder. Stelle's cheek now rested against his neck, her breath brushing against his skin—shaky, heated. Her body pressed so tightly to his that he swallowed, not only from the shock. Through the thin fabric of his half-unbuttoned shirt, he could feel the warmth of her chest and the frantic rhythm of her heartbeat. She spoke like someone fevered—murmuring words of gratitude as though they were the only ones she knew how to say.

Slowly, cautiously, as though unsure he had the right, the Prince lifted a hand—and settled it at the small of her back. Not tightly. Just enough to hold her, to offer silent support. He felt the soft fabric of her dress yield under his fingers, felt the subtle quiver of her breath against his neck.

Something dark flickered in his half-lowered gaze. Only for a second. Somewhere between her words, he exhaled—softly, almost under his breath, as if only for himself.

"You… never cease to surprise me."

He shook his head ever so slightly—not in reproach, but in wonder. Truly, he was shaken by her boldness—so much so that he could hardly believe this was real.

With unhurried grace, his fingers brushed lightly up her spine, making her shiver, until his hand came to rest on her shoulder. The other joined it, resting gently on the other side. As if silently asking forgiveness for what he was about to do.

The platinum-haired man carefully drew Stelle away—just enough to see her face. To really see it. To be sure she understood what she'd just done.

Their eyes met—and contrary to what one might expect, his gaze held no coldness. No anger.

Only… seriousness.

"This is… a very serious breach," he began. His voice was deep and even, laced with the kind of sternness that belonged to a mentor or an older brother—someone who never needed to raise their voice to be heard.

"Unauthorized entry into a restricted area. Trespassing into a private space belonging to a member of the royal family. And,"—he tilted his head slightly, never once breaking eye contact—"you crossed physical boundaries without warning."

The girl swallowed hard. Her cheeks flared crimson, and her eyes widened in sudden realization, as if someone had snapped her awake.

Comprehension crept in slowly, and it showed on her face—surprise melting seamlessly into horror.

"Oh gods…" she breathed.

What have I done?

It was so foolish, so obviously reckless, that it wasn't even terrifying anymore—just painfully humiliating. She'd let impulse win—again. Making the same mistake over and over.

How awful.

Not long ago, Stelle had cursed herself for always embarrassing herself in front of the Crown Prince… only to then commit the most mortifying act of all.

She wanted to slap a pair of shackles on her own wrists and throw herself into solitary confinement for life—maybe then she'd finally stop causing trouble for Sunday.

With a miserable sigh, she lowered her head, shame coloring every inch of her.

"I'm sorry, Your Highness," she whispered, her fingers twisting nervously in the fabric of her skirt. "I truly am foolish. I allowed emotion to drive me into a terrible breach. I couldn't restrain the impulse, and I know that doesn't excuse me. So… I'll accept whatever punishment you see fit."

Only after those last words did she lift her gaze—hesitantly, like a scolded kitten beside a shattered vase.

Sunday gently removed his hands from her shoulders.

"You are absolutely right. I am obliged to punish you. Each of the three offenses warrants disciplinary action on its own. For all of them combined—the appropriate response would be exclusion from upcoming events or…" he paused for a moment, "a public reprimand."

She listened without objection. Only the way her fingers clutched tightly at her skirt betrayed how much she was bracing herself. Her heart pounded in her chest, her body flushed—not from heat, but from nerves.

A little quieter, His Highness added:

"This is the most reckless thing you've done in my presence."

And that… hit straight in the heart. It was true. Though she'd been foolish around him before—this time, she'd crossed a line. The girl pressed her lips together, holding her breath.

Silence fell.

Heavy. Suffocating. Each second adding more weight to the girl's shoulders, making her want to fall to her knees at his feet and beg for mercy.

So this… this was the true gravity of the Crown Prince—the man who, conveniently enough, also happened to be responsible for order and jurisdiction. Wonderful.

But then… his expression changed. He was still looking at her intently, but the severity in his gaze began to ebb away. He exhaled again—slowly. As if releasing a burden from his chest.

"Nevertheless…" His voice softened, losing its sharp edges. Now it carried something warmer. "I am indeed obligated to punish you, my lady, but…" He paused, and the corners of his lips lifted ever so slightly.

"I will not."

Stelle blinked. She had been prepared for everything—that he'd call the guards, order her barred from this place for eternity, lock her away in some far-off dungeon deep underground. So when she heard his words, she couldn't mask her shock. Her brows climbed upward, her eyes wide as coins.

But he went on without pause:

"Because your intentions were not ill. You didn't come here to steal, or out of lust, or on a whim,"—his eyelids lowered slightly, and his voice dropped by a tone—"You came… to thank me."

A flicker of something passed through his gaze—something she couldn't quite name. Something… human. Almost touched.

With that same gentle note in his voice, he delivered his final verdict:

"I'm willing to attribute this to a state of emotional shock. A moment of overwhelming feeling. And I will limit myself to a warning. That is my final judgment."

He placed a hand lightly over his chest and gave her a small, graceful bow of the head. Softly, with almost tender care, he added, lowering his gaze toward her:

"But even so… next time, do knock. I was about to change clothes, after all."

The words took a moment to reach her.

Her gaze—unintentionally, truly against her will—followed the motion of his hand. And the moment she did, her breath caught in her throat. His shirt hung open just enough to offer a view that stopped time—his throat, the line of his collarbones, those broad, poised shoulders, the faint disarray of his platinum hair. And those deep, half-lidded eyes watching her—

It turned her insides upside down.

Her cheeks ignited, hotter than any flame.

"I—I'm sorry!" she nearly yelped, slapping her hands over her face and stumbling backward. "I didn't mean to! You forgot to close the door! I swear I wasn't peeking!"

But instead of a scolding, what escaped the Prince's lips was a low chuckle. He shook his head, already knowing:

In all his life—so perfectly measured, so coldly constructed—he had never encountered anything like this.

Not a single formal bow. Not a single admiring letter or polished word of thanks had ever touched him the way this reckless girl had… throwing herself into his arms in the middle of his dressing room.

And he said nothing more.

But the glint in his eyes—dangerously close to joy—spoke volumes.

Sunday tilted his head slightly, now looking at her not as a trespasser, but more like a guilty kitten—too endearing to scold. He sighed—not sharply, not with irritation. It felt more like… surrender.

"Since you're already here," he began, calmly adjusting his shirt and slowly redoing the buttons, "we might say the rules have been broken, the verdict delivered, and the punishment…" He squinted just a touch, "…reduced to a simple warning. So, I think one more conversation won't worsen the situation."

He gestured with one hand—not inviting, exactly, but permissive. As though granting her a quiet indulgence to continue her boldness.

"If you don't mind, Lady Stelle," the Prince continued, the corner of his lips twitching into a faint smile, "I propose you stay a few more minutes. Just… to talk."

He indicated a small, dark blue couch against the wall—modest, much like the restrained atmosphere of the dressing room. But it looked soft.

Stelle hesitated—if only for a moment. She wondered whether she still had the right to stay after everything. But… since he had offered it himself… Her mind flashed back to what he'd once said during her debut: if he offered, it meant he'd already weighed every consequence.

So she gave a small, almost relieved nod and settled onto the edge of the couch.

Sunday followed, unhurried, taking the seat beside her. He kept a respectful distance. Sat like a proper heir to the throne—straight-backed, assured. But his shoulders no longer carried the weight of the world.

He exhaled—and with that breath, it was as if the weight slipped off him, too.

There was warmth in his gaze—something dangerously close to vulnerability. It made Stelle's heart tighten. Now it was her turn to be surprised.

Her brows lifted, and she let out a breath of disbelief.

"It can't be…" she shook her head. "You're human, too. I don't understand how you manage to carry so many responsibilities on your shoulders—without losing your mind—and still pay attention to order… even in your own dressing room. It's incredible, but…"

She paused. Her voice wavered. Her brows knit together, and when she continued, her tone turned bitter:

"… isn't it lonely? Exhausting? Always being perfect at everything. Watching every step you take. I'm just the daughter of a duchess, and even I feel the weight of expectations pressing down on me. But what about you?"

The Prince froze again. His lips parted slightly. He stared at her, unblinking, as though she'd just said the most absurd thing he'd ever heard.

But Stelle didn't take it back. She met his gaze steadily—no teasing spark in her eyes this time, only earnest seriousness.

At last, he exhaled—one breath, all at once—and turned away. His perfect posture faltered. He leaned forward slightly, pressing a hand to his face and running his fingers through his hair.

He spoke quietly, as if afraid someone might overhear:

"Perhaps… you're right. More than I'd like to admit."

Stelle held her breath, tilting her head.

Those few simple words were enough. Enough to reveal how deeply this had been weighing on him all along. For the Crown Prince to admit even a passing weakness—it meant the world.

So, gently, she inched closer to him.

He didn't stop her. Didn't move away.

And so, carefully—hesitantly—she rested her hand on his shoulder. Just barely.

She gave him a soft smile and said:

"I can't even imagine how heavy it must be for you. But I still want you to know… I understand. Maybe not entirely, but at least a little."

Her voice grew quieter—tender. "And I want you to know… that I think you're very strong."

Sunday didn't respond. His head remained lowered, platinum strands veiling his face, and so she couldn't tell what he was feeling. But… he hadn't pushed her away. Hadn't moved. Hadn't told her it was too much.

So she continued, doing her best to be gentle:

"You're strong… because you weren't afraid to admit that things are difficult. And I'm really grateful that, even with all the problems I cause you, you still treat me with such kindness… and that you shared something so personal with me." Her voice softened further. "Please know… that I'll always be willing to listen. And if you don't want to talk—we can just sit in silence. It's the least I can do for you, after all your kindness. But not just out of gratitude…"

A faint blush touched her cheeks, her fingers trembling slightly where they still rested on his shoulder. Her voice drifted to a whisper:

"…but because I really, truly want to be your friend. I'm sorry if that sounds shameless or presumptuous. I just… wanted to say it."

The silence that followed felt unbearable.

Stelle's shoulders tensed. Regret flooded her chest like cold water. She wished she could reach back and gather the words before they had fallen from her mouth. Her back felt slick with nervous sweat, and her heart pounded wildly, as if it might break through her ribs.

Maybe it really was too much?

She whispered a small, broken, "I'm sorry," and her hand left his shoulder. It hovered for a second, unsure, before retreating. She had overstepped. Again. Touching him, after only just being reprimanded for a similar transgression. What a fool she was.

But just as her palm was about to rest in her lap—

A larger, gloved hand covered hers.

The touch startled her so deeply that her breath caught in her throat. Her heart raced faster, and a shiver, electric and sharp, raced down her spine.

His grip was steady, yet Stelle still felt the faintest tremor run through it. Slowly, he drew her hand closer to himself. Quietly—barely more than a breath—he murmured:

"…Forgive me. Please… let me stay like this a little longer."

The request was so soft, it almost slipped by unnoticed. Stelle blinked, lashes fluttering, as warmth surged once more into her cheeks. She offered him a shy smile—and gently closed her fingers around his hand in return.

A breath escaped his lips—so faint, it was almost inaudible. But it was there.

And it was clear this—this small gesture—was something he truly needed. If she could offer even that much comfort… then somehow, it made her feel just a little happier.

She didn't say a word. Simply moved a bit closer.

Close enough that their shoulders now touched.

Sunday rested their joined hands on his thigh, and her heart gave a fluttering leap.

Warmth spilled through her belly and lower still, a quiet ache blooming in its wake. Her hands trembled ever so slightly—and she barely managed to keep it hidden.

The silence between them lingered—but it didn't feel heavy. It was warm, like a library on a winter morning, when snow crunches softly beyond the windows, and inside there's only the rustle of pages and the quiet sound of someone breathing nearby.

Sunday's hand remained in hers, his fingers never loosening, and Stelle could feel the tension in his shoulders easing—just a little. Almost imperceptibly. As if it had lived there so long it became a part of him, but now, for once, it allowed itself to retreat.

Blushing, she glanced at him carefully, as though trying to feel out a new path through this fragile moment.

"May I ask you something?" Her voice was softer than before, afraid to shatter the stillness.

The Prince turned to her. His face still held a trace of guarded tension, but his eyes… were willing to listen.

"Is there something that brings you joy?" she asked. "Something you do not out of duty, but simply… for yourself?"

Sunday blinked. A flicker of uncertainty crossed his features. He turned his gaze away, not avoiding her exactly—but looking through her, toward something distant. He was quiet for a few seconds. Perhaps weighing whether he should speak at all.

But in the end, he exhaled.

"Music… isn't just a profession to me. I'm not obligated to do it. For me… music is what remains when everyone else has gone. No matter what's happening around me, I can rely on it. It lets me release what I can't say aloud. Express what words never could."

He shifted slightly where he sat. Not from physical discomfort, but something deeper—something within. Still, having decided to continue, he did.

"I rarely allow myself to play. Just for the sake of playing. To be honest… I've almost stopped entirely." His voice dropped a tone, and something fleeting passed through his eyes—a shadow, quiet and thin. His hand closed just a bit tighter around hers. "Especially the piano. Though I suppose… it's always been my favorite."

Stelle's heart gave a small tremble. The change in Sunday's voice struck something deep—not pain in the usual sense, but the heavy echo of it, buried far in the past.

"Why?" she asked as gently as she could.

Sunday slowly shook his head.

"Sometimes… certain sounds bring things back. Not always the things you want to remember." He looked at her, and the corners of his lips lifted slightly—but the smile never reached his eyes. "Strange, isn't it? How the things we once loved can end up hurting the most."

It seemed like even to him those words had come as a surprise. It was clear the Prince wasn't used to sharing anything personal. And yet—perhaps because of the quiet sincerity in Stelle's curiosity—this time, he allowed himself to be a little open. Even if just for a moment.

Stelle wanted to say something. Maybe offer comfort, warmth, a kind word. But she stopped herself at the last moment. Afraid that no matter how she phrased it, it wouldn't sound true enough.

Another silence settled between them. But again, it wasn't cold. It was warm, like the pleasant aftertaste of something sweet. They both sifted through their thoughts, arranging feelings like puzzle pieces—while quietly sharing warmth through their joined hands and now, the soft contact of their thighs.

The silver-haired girl glanced down at their entwined fingers, then bit her lip lightly.

Then, gathering her courage, she gave a small smile and said:

"It's a little unfair that only you are opening up."

He turned his gaze to her—his expression unchanged, but attentive.

"I mean, I don't have anything as meaningful as music is for you," she went on, trying to keep her tone light, almost teasing. "But… I think I like to read. Especially… well…" She rolled her eyes and let out a quiet huff of laughter. "Those books you usually hide behind encyclopedia covers so no one knows what you're really reading. You know—the romantic kind. Where everything's perfect, and roses float around the characters, and love confessions sound like they swallowed an entire dictionary of pretty words."

Her cheeks were turning a soft shade of pink. But she didn't stop.

"When I was little, I used to hide under a blanket with a lantern and read late into the night. Sometimes…" She glanced away, voice quieter. "I even cried. Or imagined myself in the heroine's place."

The last words were mumbled under her breath, barely audible, and she didn't dare look at Sunday.

Silence—just for a heartbeat.

And then, a quiet, completely unexpected chuckle. Not mocking. More like surprised—almost gentle amusement.

She blinked in surprise, lifting her eyes to find the Prince smiling—just faintly, but for once, the smile felt real.

"What?" she asked, feigning indignation, though a hint of a smile tugged at her lips too. "Don't laugh. I'm baring my soul here, confessing embarrassing secrets!"

"Forgive me," he said softly, still composed, but warm. "It was just… unexpected."

She narrowed her eyes at him, skeptical:

"Unexpected that I can read?"

"Unexpected that you're just… a girl," he replied, his gaze softening. "I've always seen you as a whirlwind. Or a spark come alive. And now here you are—telling me how you used to cry over imaginary princes on white horses."

"So what?" she huffed, crossing her arms. "They're noble, beautiful stories, I'll have you know!"

"I'm sure they are," he said, giving a slight, overly formal bow of his head, as if mocking himself. "Did any of them, by chance, include a chapter where a village girl throws herself into the arms of a half-dressed prince?"

Stelle turned scarlet, practically leaping upright.

"Don't you dare mock me! That was my idea, not something I copied from a book! Don't accuse me of plagiarism!"

He laughed again—slightly louder now, though still with that softness in his eyes.

"Then tell me," he said, not looking away, "what were they like?"

"Well…" Stelle squirmed in place, as if the cozy couch had suddenly turned to hot stone. "All kinds. Some probably weren't… entirely appropriate for girls my age," she muttered the last part under her breath, shrinking slightly in embarrassment and focusing intensely on the folds of her skirt—anything to avoid meeting his gaze.

Sunday raised a brow slightly. He narrowed his eyes with a slow, curious smile.

"Truly?" His tone remained almost perfectly restrained—but there was a flicker of mischief beneath it. "And what sort of compromising literature might that be, Lady Stelle?"

He tilted his head just a little, gazing at her with feigned innocence—as if he truly had no idea what she might mean.

The amber-eyed girl's heart leapt in her chest. She risked a quick glance at him—then looked away again just as fast. Her cheeks burned. It felt as though the Prince himself had somehow discovered that box beneath her bed, the one full of books titled things like Scandal at the Lavender Ball or Holy Sin.

"Well, you know…" she stammered. "The kind where… the heroine meets someone mysterious. He annoys her at first, but then…" She glanced sideways at him—and faltered. "Anyway, there's… a lot of drama. And, um… scenes. Various kinds. Emotional ones."

"Ah, emotional scenes," he echoed thoughtfully, lips curling in a musing hum. "I wasn't aware emotional scenes came with age restrictions these days."

She let out a snort, biting her lip—unsure whether to laugh or die of shame.

"There were scenes I could never read out loud. Not in front of my mother," she said, her voice growing thinner. "Or… for example… in front of you."

She risked another quick glance at him—and caught the subtle twitch of his brow. That faint smile she was learning to recognize appeared again. A touch ironic, but not mocking. More like… intrigued.

"I'm afraid," Sunday said slowly, "that I must request the titles of at least one or two of them. Purely for educational purposes, of course. As an agent of the Crown, I ought to be informed of any potentially… dangerous literature circulating among young ladies."

"Absolutely not!" Stelle blurted at once. "They're not meant for you, Your Highness! Don't steal the last comfort of poor, lonely, unmarried subjects!"

She waved her free hand as if to chase away his deeply amused and far-too-focused gaze.

The platinum-haired man let out a low laugh. It sounded almost carefree.

As carefree as he ever allowed himself to be.

At first, she pouted, pointedly avoiding his gaze. But his hand remained closed gently around hers, and the way he leaned just slightly forward—their hands no longer simply touching but now almost resting fully together—made her feel… safe, somehow.

Comforted.

She tilted her head, a soft smile curving her lips, and shook it slightly—as if she herself couldn't believe what she was about to say. But caught in the quiet gravity of the moment, she finally confessed:

"To be honest… just a little over a week ago, before my debut, I was absolutely terrified at the thought of even meeting your eyes."

She let out a quiet laugh, half in embarrassment. "I'd heard so much about you. And in my head, you became this… untouchable, unreachable ideal. Someone I could never even dream of standing beside. I was afraid of saying the wrong thing, of stepping the wrong way. You're the Crown Prince, after all. And everyone says you see right through people."

Sunday's brow lifted slightly—but he didn't interrupt.

"And now…" she hesitated, her fingers lightly tightening around the fabric of her skirt. "Now, I still respect you. Even more than before, actually. And yes… sometimes, you still intimidate me a little."

She gave a crooked, sheepish smile and lifted her shoulders in a soft shrug.

"But… you're always fair. Your sternness is never cruel—it's never for show. It's because that's who you are."

His gaze studied her closely, as though he were trying to read her the way one might read a score or a code—searching for hidden notes she hadn't written.

"But above all," Stelle went on, voice quiet but steady, "I've come to see that you're not a monument. You're a person. Tired. Reserved. Honorable. Just. And… lonely. Carrying something impossibly heavy."

She paused, searching for the right words. Then added, almost in a whisper:

"And if I even have the right to say this… I think, in some ways, we're a little alike."

Sunday didn't reply at once.

His gaze dropped slightly, contemplative, settling on their clasped hands.

"Alike…" he echoed softly, the word slipping out on a breath. "A curious thought."

Stelle was just beginning to think that perhaps she'd said too much. She opened her mouth, ready to offer some sort of explanation or apology—

But he spoke first.

"I used to think we were from different worlds," he said. "Worlds that could never intersect. But the more I… observe you"—he gave weight to the word—"the more I realize I can't read you at all. I can't predict your next move."

His gaze lingered on her, voice lowering slightly.

"You're… entirely unorthodox. Like chaos itself, disguised as a young lady."

He paused then. And when he continued, it was quieter—as though he feared saying too much aloud:

"But… I don't find it repulsive. I always thought I couldn't bear chaos, couldn't tolerate anything I couldn't control. But I don't feel angry. I feel… intrigued. Curious what else you might be capable of."

He gave a low chuckle and turned slightly toward her, the corners of his lips lifted, his eyes tinged with something gentle.

"I thought nothing could surprise me anymore… and then you came barging into my room. I'll admit, it shook me."

Stelle blinked, lips parting slightly. His words filled her chest with an unexpected—and irrational—amount of warmth. It felt as though someone had wrapped her in a soft blanket beside a fireplace. Her whole heart softened in response.

But the moment he mentioned her intrusion, something seemed to strike her.

She jolted upright slightly, a spark flashing in her eyes. Her voice grew animated:

"Oh—how could I forget!"

Sunday arched a brow at her sudden change in energy.

"I got so caught up in everything, I completely forgot why I even came here in the first place! I mean, I did remember… but now it feels even more important than it did then."

The Prince remained silent, watching her with unveiled curiosity. The smile hadn't left his lips. He inclined his head ever so slightly, inviting her to continue.

"I wanted to…" She cleared her throat gently. "To thank you. Again. For the concert. For everything you did—for everything you said afterward… It touched me, truly. More than I know how to put into words."

Her gaze dropped, a soft smile blooming as her thoughts returned to that moment.

"I didn't expect you to… see me so clearly. It felt like you opened up my soul—and read it like a novel."

She let out a quiet, airy laugh, tracing idle patterns into the folds of her skirt with her fingertips.

"I lived through that music," she said. "From the lightness in the beginning—I could see it, the memory of my mother holding me as a child—to the tension and fear in the second part, the aching loneliness in the third, the strained smile in the fourth, and finally…"

She lifted her gaze to his. In her eyes glowed something tender—a quiet, grateful flame.

"…it felt like I heard myself. As if someone had taken a person and turned them into music." Her voice dropped to a whisper. Her eyes shimmered. "And that's why I…"

She gave a breathless little laugh, almost a scoff at herself.

"That's why I did something so stupid. Started crying like a fool and ran in here like you'd disappear if I didn't see you right that instant."

Her cheeks flushed scarlet at the confession—even she hadn't expected to say it aloud. She looked away, awkwardly adding:

"I'm sorry. It was completely inappropriate. I know that. It doesn't excuse anything, but… I was overwhelmed. I just couldn't hold it in."

Her shoulders trembled slightly, her breath caught for a second—not from shame, but from the sheer difficulty of putting into words what still churned inside her chest.

Sunday's expression shifted. It deepened, softened—touched by something that went beyond words. There was no sternness in his face now. He wasn't just listening—he heard her.

A sound escaped him—not quite a laugh, more like a quiet breath. He dropped his gaze, lips curling into a faint, private smile.

And for a moment, he said nothing.

His hand still rested over hers—warm, assured, even through the glove. Then, slowly, he tightened his hold.

And began to stroke his thumb gently along the back of her hand.

Each motion—measured, quiet—sent flickers beneath her ribs, a delicate shiver to the tips of her fingers.

"Amazing…" he murmured, shaking his head, his voice lower now—softer, velvet-like. "Normally, I wouldn't have forgiven such a breach. Not under any circumstance. And I certainly would have taken action. But now… I'm glad things unfolded the way they did. Because… otherwise, I wouldn't have had the chance to speak with you like this."

Stelle's breath hitched, catching in her throat. Her heart clenched tightly.

And she flushed even deeper when, without warning, the Prince drew her hand even closer—his second hand slipping beneath it. Now, he held her between both palms, enclosing her in his warmth. Her fingers trembled, and so did her knees.

"The truth is…" he continued, "the inspiration struck me suddenly. After the time I spent with you during your debut. It wasn't long, but I realized that everything I'd originally planned… didn't suit what I saw in you at all."

He gave a quiet huff of laughter, gently pressing her hand between his.

"I—of all people—abandoned a plan I'd written and approved long ago. I followed an impulse. I wasn't sure I'd understood you correctly. I didn't know if I could prepare the orchestra in time."

He paused for a moment, his eyes fixed on their joined hands.

"And so," he added more quietly, "hearing that you truly… felt what I was trying to say—I feel relieved. It means it wasn't in vain."

Then his gaze lifted, slowly—and they were suddenly face to face. Closer than usual. The girl's breath, uneven and warm, grazed his cheek. Stelle's lashes fluttered—everything felt so hot. And not just from the closeness, or the fact that his touch broke protocol, but because of his words, his eyes, his soft smile.

All of it merged into an unbearable kind of feeling—one that made her want to laugh, cry, and bury her face in her hands all at once.

She wasn't even sure what was happening between them anymore—it all felt hazy.

But it wasn't the same haze that clouded her mind during her time with Aventurine just weeks ago. No, this was something else entirely. Something softer. Kinder. Safer.

She laughed gently, tilting her head slightly. Her fingers closed in his grasp, answering his touch.

"So maybe," she teased with a playful squint, "my foolishness isn't always such a terrible thing, hmm? Even headaches can have their rare moments of usefulness."

He gave a soft hum in response but didn't interrupt her. His eyelids lowered slightly, just enough to signal his quiet attention.

Stelle shrugged, glancing downward, and added more gently:

"You speak as if I've said something extraordinary. But it's just gratitude. Simple, really. Nothing special. Though honestly…"—she let out a quiet huff of laughter—"your concert deserves more than just a few rushed words. It deserves a monologue. No, a poem. A hundred pages long. With odes. And serenades. Compiled into a tribute cycle to the unparalleled brilliance of His Royal Highness."

She laughed again—this time louder, though still warm. A little embarrassed.

"But..." she sighed dramatically, "I'm only just learning to write. So I hope you'll forgive me that my thanks came out… less than poetic."

"Well then…" His voice dropped a note—less formal now, less guarded. "Luckily for both of us, I no longer have any room in my schedule for a hundred-page ode. Far too exhausting…"

He paused a second, then added, softer now, with a hint of a smile that brought new heat to Stelle's cheeks:

"But your free verse, strange as it is… fits perfectly. Perhaps I should officially add you to my calendar."

Stelle scoffed, feigning great seriousness.

"Best not. When it comes to talent, I'm a walking disaster. One of those rare specimens after which teachers become long-term therapy patients and lose all their hair."

Sunday let out a low chuckle, tilting his head.

"Even in poetry?"

"Oh, that's the least of it," she sighed. "I've studied piano since childhood. And singing, too. All properly—private tutors, academic etudes, my mother's soaring expectations…"

She rolled her eyes with theatrical flair.

"But alas. Still not good enough. My poor teachers…"—she pulled a pitiful face—"they couldn't even quit. Contracts and all that. Lessons with me were like a professional punishment, worse than a thousand prison terms."

The Prince gave an intrigued little hum.

"I'm becoming more and more intrigued. Almost… curious. To hear it."

Stelle's eyes flew open as if he'd slapped her.

She frantically shook her head.

"No-no-no! Absolutely not!" she cried, her voice high and panicked. "Your Highness, with your perfect sense of rhythm, pitch, and musical memory—if you heard me play, your ears would wither. The world is not ready for that kind of loss!"

She clutched her chest and bowed her head, as if the mere idea had physically pained her.

Sunday, now no longer bothering to hide it, chuckled quietly.

"You exaggerate. I'm sure it's not nearly that terrible."

"No, you underestimate my gift," she countered at once. "In the grand ranking of unbearable torture methods, my playing and singing are somewhere right after the outlawed ones used on traitors. If not for my noble blood, I would've been locked away in solitary confinement long ago—as a musical threat to national security. Someone once even compared me…" she pulled a theatrical grimace, "…to the dying howl of a sick wolf."

He lowered his head slightly, shoulders trembling—trying, it seemed, to suppress laughter.

Stelle grumbled in response:

"I warned you. It's not safe for your health."

"I have to hear it for myself to assess how much of a threat you pose to the world of music," he replied. "I promise to remain entirely objective in my judgment and final verdict."

Stelle narrowed her eyes and snorted:

"Well… maybe. Maybe, someday. In a moment of madness, or if there were absolutely no witnesses, I might play. Or even sing. But!" She raised a finger like she was passing sentence. "I formally waive all responsibility for any emotional, physical, or aesthetic damage caused to a member of the Royal Family. Especially to their ears."

Sunday paused. And in the blink of an eye, his expression shifted to one of total seriousness—like he was suddenly standing before the full Court Council.

"In that case," he said with majestic calm, "I accept this as voluntary consent. Witnesses are not required. The promise is recorded."

He mimed writing something in the air with an invisible quill, then added:

"And now you can't back out of the agreement. Refusal would be considered false testimony before a representative of the Crown. And in such a case… you would be held personally accountable. To me."

Stelle sprang upright in mock outrage.

"That sounds dangerously close to an abuse of power and open tyranny! Where's the complaints ledger? Where do I file an appeal against this agreement?"

"I'm terribly sorry, my lady," he replied with perfect composure, "But such appeals must be submitted in written form, in triplicate, through the Royal Chancellery's private office… no later than forty-eight hours before the concert."

He gave that last word particular weight.

Stelle gasped dramatically:

"Aha! So that was the plan all along! Pretend to be kind, humane… and lure me into giving a performance!"

"You have a remarkably astute mind," Sunday said dryly, though his lips twitched, fighting a smile.

She let her shoulders drop with exaggerated defeat, throwing her gaze toward the ceiling.

"It always happens like this… You sit in someone's dressing room, offer heartfelt thanks, have a decent conversation—and before you know it, you've signed an invisible contract filled with vague conditions and fine print… with the conductor."

Sunday tilted his head slightly—and just for a moment, the sides of their heads touched. The smile curling at the corners of his mouth was far too pleased—one she never would have imagined on that perfect, usually solemn face.

"Then," he said slowly, as if dictating the terms of a treaty, "I shall await a formal invitation. Naturally—in written form. Signed and sealed by House Solaris."

He feigned a thoughtful pause, as though trying to recall something.

"If memory serves… that's precisely what I did the last time I invited a certain lady. Took great pains to ensure the letter would arrive quickly, safely—and wouldn't go missing at the most critical moment."

Stelle gasped sharply.

Her eyes widened like someone who had just been poked in a very sore spot. Her cheeks flushed instantly, blooming red.

"Oh, that was a low blow, Your Highness!" she exclaimed, clutching her chest as though wounded. "I had just barely started forgetting that moment of disgrace! And you—so merciless!"

He didn't even pretend to feel sorry. On the contrary, his eyes lit up with amusement, and his voice took on that velvet softness again:

"I cannot allow history's lessons to be forgotten. Especially the illustrative ones. After all, nothing teaches caution quite like… slightly bruised pride."

Stelle rolled her eyes.

"If that's your idea of pedagogy, I fear what methods you use to command an orchestra."

"Discipline, precision, and emotional honesty," he replied without missing a beat.

"Ah. So—tyranny, then."

Suddenly…

The perfect harmony of the moment shattered against reality.

With a single sound.

A soft, polite knock on the door—but it might as well have been a death sentence. Stelle flinched at the suddenness of it—something in her chest locked still, and the silence between them felt as fragile as thin glass.

Then came the voice—neutral, male, polite:

"Your Highness, they're waiting for you in the rehearsal hall. Everyone is expecting a summary of the results."

Sunday stilled.

His shoulders tensed immediately, posture straightening on instinct. His gaze dimmed slightly. He exhaled—slowly, almost resigned—and when he spoke again, his tone was different. Businesslike. Cool. Precise.

"I'll be there in five minutes."

"Understood, Your Highness. I'll inform them," the voice replied. Footsteps receded.

But he still held her hand.

For a moment longer, his fingers remained wrapped around hers.

Then—one final, firmer squeeze. Like a silent farewell. And with visible reluctance, he let go.

"It would seem," he said evenly, "that the time allotted for changing and gathering myself has run out."

A quiet, dry chuckle escaped him as he glanced down.

"And for the first time… it wasn't enough."

He raised a brow, exhaling with a hint of disbelief.

"Incredible. Am I… actually running late?"

Stelle jumped to her feet at once, bowing quickly.

"I'm so sorry! This is all my—"

But he lifted a hand immediately, and her words died mid-sentence.

"I won't allow you to apologize," he said, voice gentler now, his gaze meeting hers directly. "Let me remind you—it was I who invited you to stay and talk."

His eyes warmed. His voice softened.

"Yes, it threw off my schedule. But honestly… it was worth it." He held his breath for a moment before speaking—with soft sincerity: "You helped me regain my strength. So… it's I who should thank you, Lady Stelle."

His smile was real. Not the kind shown in public. A little weary, yes—but warm. Something about it made Stelle's head spin.

Or maybe it was her heart.

But with the same breath, he swept a strand of hair from his face, as though returning to reality.

"However," he said, rising from the couch and adjusting the rumpled collar of his shirt, "I do still… very much need to change."

He inhaled briefly, rolled his shoulders—was already half-turned away when he added, in a voice suddenly lower, slower, and unmistakably deliberate:

"Unless, of course… you intend to stay for the process."

Sunday tilted his head. His gaze from beneath lowered lashes was far too expressive. Far too playful.

And completely, stunningly charming.

The reaction was immediate.

"No! No, no, no!" Stelle yelped, stumbling back and nearly tripping on her own skirt. "I! Am! Leaving!"

Flushed as the evening sky, she nearly forgot to curtsy. Already halfway to the door, she blurted:

"Excuse me!"

And vanished through the doorway before he had the chance to say another word.

The dressing room fell back into silence.

Only the faintest trace of her delicate perfume lingered in the air…

And the quiet, barely audible laughter of the Prince, who shook his head slightly—gazing at the closed door with an expression he hadn't worn in a very, very long time.

The door slammed shut behind Stelle. Immediately, the cooler air of the corridor washed over her, along with silence—broken only by the distant, barely audible sound of a violin.

She stood still for a few seconds in the middle of the hallway, breathing heavily, and then, with a choked sob, pressed both hands to her cheeks.

"Calm down, calm down…" she muttered under her breath. "Did that really happen? I was just sitting with the Crown Prince… talking… holding his hand… That's insane..."

Her head was spinning. She lightly patted her cheeks, as if that might somehow bring her body back under control—or at least convince the blush to fade. Then, she leaned back against the wall—the cold of it brought some slight relief. Her head tilted back, her legs felt like jelly, and her heart pounded like she'd run a marathon.

Her thoughts buzzed, swirled like bees trapped in a jar. No matter how she tried, she couldn't make sense of everything. She had walked out of Prince Sunday's dressing room—on her own. Not in shackles. Not kicked out.

And he'd spoken to her. As though it had pleased him. He'd even joked. Smiled… touched her.

At the mere memory, her stomach clenched and flipped, dropping like a stone. She swallowed hard, pressing a hand to her chest. Her heartbeat still pounded through the layers of fabric. The silver-haired girl drew in a deep breath—and let it out. But it didn't help.

She stood there, in the quiet, pressed to the cold wall. And yet, slowly, she began to calm down. After a few minutes—two, maybe three—she had regained enough control to breathe evenly again.

And then, without warning, the door opened.

Her heart did another somersault.

She stood up straight, as if caught red-handed.

He stepped out almost soundlessly, his stride composed and measured. No longer the relaxed, unbuttoned conductor—but once again, His Highness. And yet… something had shifted. Subtle, but there. Because when he saw her, the corners of his lips lifted ever so slightly.

"I'm glad you didn't leave," he said calmly, his voice touched with warmth. "To be honest, I feared you might. But I wished to see you off personally."

Stelle bit the inside of her lip to stop herself from breaking into a foolish grin. Instead, she muttered, arms crossing in front of her chest:

"I just wanted to say goodbye before leaving. You shouldn't trouble yourself over me—you've already stayed longer than you intended. No need to keep disrupting your schedule—"

"A prince's decision is not up for debate," he cut her off sharply, and the sudden firmness in his tone silenced her at once. Well, no room for argument there.

Sunday stepped closer, lifting his hand—and his palm settled against the small of her back with ease and assurance. Not to hold her, but to guide her forward. As if his fingers simply said: "Come."

"I want to make sure you get there without incident," he added—lightly, almost like a joke. But his gaze was far too serious for it to be one.

Stelle huffed in protest, though more for show than anything.

"You really do treat me like a wayward child."

"Not true," he replied without hesitation. "I don't recall any children willing to interrupt my schedule."

She exhaled quietly. Shook her head and muttered:

"You're going to hold that over me forever, aren't you…"

The Prince merely gave a meaningful hum in response.

They walked on in silence for a while. His hand lingered at her back a little longer… then slipped away.

And oddly, she missed it.

Though no one could ever be allowed to know.

As they walked through the modest backstage corridor—far simpler than the grand halls they'd left behind—they passed staff members along the way. Every person who caught sight of Sunday immediately straightened. Those nearby offered bows. A few even trembled—perhaps new recruits.

But before long, the eyes that landed on the Prince would shift. Toward the girl walking beside him. Lingering. Curious. Confused. Intrigued.

It wasn't surprising—her face wasn't yet among the familiar gallery of the capital's elite. It wasn't every day that the freshly debuted daughter of a duchess was seen under the protection of the Crown Prince himself.

Stelle felt every glance like needles against her skin. It was so strange, so unfamiliar—people bowing in her presence. Not truly to her, of course, but standing beside him, it felt that way. For a moment, she almost believed herself to be more important than she truly was.

"It's so strange," she murmured quietly, just for the Prince's ears. "Everyone's looking at me like they know who I am."

"They may not yet," he replied calmly, without looking at her. "But now… they'll remember."

She nearly stumbled. His tone was so matter-of-fact, as if there had been nothing unusual in what he'd just said. But before she could even think of how to respond, his voice reached her again—softer now, far softer. Almost intimate, brushing the edge of what propriety allowed:

"I'm glad no one saw you running out of my dressing room… cheeks flushed, while I looked more disheveled than usual."

Her breath caught. Her cheeks flared up again instantly.

"In that case," he added after a pause, "we wouldn't have escaped scandal."

She flinched—because he was right. And guilt pierced her heart like a needle. Her lips pressed together as she dropped her gaze to the floor, listening on in silence like a child being gently reprimanded.

"That would've looked rather… ambiguous," he went on, his tone even. "And had I not disciplined you for it, everyone would assume what happened between us was far more than just a conversation."

"I'm sorry," she blurted at once, fingers curling tightly into the hem of her dress. "I'm so ashamed…"

"I know," Sunday cut in, not unkindly, but firmly enough to halt the tide of apologies before it began. His voice was not cold—measured, restrained. "I'm merely stating what the consequences would have been."

The girl gave a slight, silent nod. She exhaled softly, mentally inventing a time machine. But the Prince continued, not letting the moment slip away.

"I'm not concerned with rumors or public opinion. But you must understand—situations like that don't burden me the way they would burden you."

Stelle's brows furrowed, but she didn't interrupt.

"You've only just begun your life in society. And a young woman in your position—her reputation can be shattered with a single careless word. No title, however noble, can protect her from vicious gossip if given fertile ground to grow."

Silence settled between them. She didn't know what to say. He was right—completely right—and that made it worse. It had been obvious from the start. She had known. But it hadn't stopped her. How foolish—how dangerously foolish. She'd almost ruined her name again. Was this becoming a pattern?

In a low, bleak voice, she whispered:

"I try so hard to do everything right. To be a proper Lady." She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, still not lifting her gaze. "But somehow, everything I do… ends in disaster."

Sunday looked at her—and for a moment, his eyes lingered.

"I believe," he said softly, "that is both your greatest flaw… and your greatest charm."

His voice dipped near the end, as if the words were meant more for himself than for her. It grew gentler.

The girl raised her brows in surprise, lashes fluttering. Her heart picked up pace yet again—how many times had it already done so tonight? The words stuck in her throat—what was one supposed to say in a moment like that? Thank him? Apologize?

Luckily, she didn't have to decide, for the corridor ended, and they stepped into the grand foyer, causing her lips to part in quiet awe. It wasn't her first time seeing it, but every time it struck her the same—breathtaking.

She spent her final steps simply looking around, drinking in the view of the theatre like a sponge, trying to memorize it properly. Her eyes shimmered, catching the glow of chandeliers and candlelight like tiny stars.

The great doors of the theatre—majestic, solemn—swung open before them. A liveried footman, his gaze barely lifted, bowed deeply and stepped aside to clear the way. The warmth of the interior was left behind, and the chill of a November night struck them at once, sharp as a slap of wet ribbon across the skin.

Stelle shivered. Her shoulders hunched instinctively, arms pressed to her sides as her body tried to cling to whatever heat it still held. Though her gown was of fine material, it wasn't meant for late-night strolls in this season. And the fur shawl her maids had so thoughtfully prepared? Naturally, forgotten in her haste. In short, just another day in the life of the silver-haired girl.

The carriage, thank the stars, was parked close—just a few steps down the theatre steps—but for some reason, the path felt unbearably long.

Sunday leaned toward her. His voice was gentle, yet that unshakable steel beneath the surface made it impossible not to listen.

"You are, without question, enchanting. But," he narrowed his eyes, "that's hardly an excuse to sacrifice comfort—let alone endanger your health."

"I'm fine," she muttered, straightening as if sheer willpower might chase away the cold. "I just… forgot. It's nothing."

He exhaled—not quite annoyed, more… tired.

"Of course," he said on the sigh. "Nothing…"

Before she could reply, he undid the top clasp of his dark outer cloak—elegant, austere, with a high collar and gold embroidery along the edges—and, holding it by the fabric, stepped closer. In one smooth, deliberate motion, he draped it over her shoulders.

Almost tender. Almost protective.

Her fingers twitched. The cloak was heavy, warm… and unfamiliar. She sank into it completely, like a cocoon—and despite Sunday's outward severity, there was a striking gentleness in his gesture.

She shook her head abruptly, as though trying to shake off not the fabric but the rush of awkwardness that had suddenly overwhelmed her.

"No—no, Your Highness. This is really too much, I can't—"

"You're very fond of arguing," he interrupted, this time more sternly. The tone of someone used to addressing council meetings, not young ladies in the cold. "Especially for a girl who has just received a disciplinary warning."

He carefully adjusted the cloak on her shoulders, as if handling something fragile, and allowed his fingers to linger at the collar a moment longer than necessary.

"I've already decided," he added firmly, leaving no room for further objection. "And if you truly wish to thank me…" —his gaze remained on her, and was calm, even warm, in contrast to the steel of his voice— "then next time, please wear something warm. The season has made its intentions clear."

Stelle's heart skipped a beat. But not from the cold—far from it. The cloak, still warm from his body, enveloped her in comforting heat. But it was that next time… that struck her hardest. He'd mentioned it so casually, as though it were the most natural thing in the world. As though the idea of seeing her again was already a given.

"All right…" she replied softly, a gentle smile blooming. "I promise."

The Prince nodded, clearly satisfied with her obedience.

A footman waited by the carriage. The moment he noticed their approach, he straightened at once, and—without a word—opened the door for her with restrained elegance. His movements were precise and silent, as if his rhythm had been tuned to match the quiet majesty of the man escorting her.

Stelle stopped halfway to the carriage door and turned fully to face the Prince. Something tugged unpleasantly inside her—an ache at the realization that the moment of parting had truly come. But she couldn't just leave. Not like this. Not without saying something.

"Thank you," she breathed, finally meeting his gaze, earnest and open. "For the concert. For your kindness. And for… letting me stay by your side. I'll never forget it. Honestly—it was the most wonderful day. I don't even know how to thank you properly…"

Her lips trembled into a shy smile, and she gently clasped the edges of the cloak to her chest, as if to show him—she meant it. This wasn't just a pleasant evening. It was something important. Something personal.

Sunday lowered his gaze briefly, then the corners of his mouth lifted in a smile—faint, weary perhaps, but warm.

"I'm glad it wasn't for nothing," he said quietly, just for her ears. "That I managed to make an impression. That's more than enough."

Butterflies stirred again, fluttering wildly in her stomach, and her heart beat so hard it felt as if it might leap from her chest. Her cheeks flushed—not from the cold this time.

Neither of them moved. Neither hurried the next step. A hush settled between them—not awkward, but full. Full of everything unsaid, unspoiled. A moment neither of them wanted to end.

They stood there, simply looking into each other's eyes. Two souls from opposite worlds, inexplicably drawn. In that moment, words felt unnecessary.

At last, Stelle lowered her head in a graceful curtsy. Her voice was soft, touched with warmth.

"In that case… good night, Your Highness."

He inclined his head in return—less formal than usual, something gentler in the motion.

And he watched her go, eyes lingering, until the carriage door closed behind her.

The girl settled gently into the carriage, and only when her gown slid carelessly across the velvet upholstery and the door clicked shut behind her did she glance out the window—and couldn't suppress a quiet laugh. Her heart thumped with such joy, almost playfully, as if the entire evening had been a dream—an impossible miracle torn from the pages of a fairytale.

And then came the impulse—pure and spontaneous, just like her.

Before the carriage could lurch into motion, she suddenly leaned closer to the window and waved.

Just like that. As if not to a prince, but to a friend. No titles. No etiquette. No protocol. Her amber eyes sparkled.

Sunday froze, stunned. His cheek twitched faintly, as if he wasn't quite sure what to do. His gaze flicked sideways, quickly scanning the area—checking if anyone was watching. Because a gesture so simple, so earnest, had no place within the rigid script of royal decorum. Crown Princes did not wave goodbye… did they?

And yet, after a pause, he lifted his hand.

Slowly. Hesitantly. His fingers hovered for a moment in the air, uncertain.

And then he waved back. Just once. Awkwardly—but all the more endearing for it. A fleeting, unsure smile touched his lips.

Stelle laughed softly—not out of mockery, but from sheer joy. He'd answered her. He actually answered her. She hadn't even dared to hope.

She leaned her cheek against the cold glass, then sank back into the plush seat, hugging the cloak to her chest. It still carried his scent… Light, understated, and all the more alluring for it.

She kept her gaze fixed on the window for a long time, even as the theatre began to vanish behind the curve of the road.

And then, wrapped in the warmth of another's care, she whispered—softly, with a blush on her cheeks and a breath barely louder than a thought:

"…It really was a dream."

And in her chest, something pulsed. Alive. Real. As if someone had laid bare her soul… and warmed it in their hands.

Notes:

they cute

Chapter 13: Stelle the Politician

Summary:

Stelle steps into a world where words are weapons, men are vultures, and the wine might be poisoned.
Fun!

Notes:

this chapter has a lot of politics and complicated language + a few NPCs to follow through, so i really hope it's not too much :CC

The doors of the manor opened with a soft creak, and stepping inside was not merely the daughter of a Duchess—it was as though a butterfly had fluttered in. Stelle crossed the threshold, clutching the heavy, warm cloak closer around her shoulders, its scent still lingering even after the long carriage ride.

The servants in the foyer froze for a moment upon seeing her. It should have been a simple return from the theater, nothing unusual. And yet… something was off.

First—there was the cloak.

Dark blue, embroidered with gold along the hem. Clearly not made for a woman, nor suited to Stelle's frame or cut. And most certainly not a ducal piece. The emblem on it left no room for doubt—an official crest, one that only members of the Royal Family were permitted to wear. Everyone understood immediately that the cloak belonged to one of them. And that realization sparked a hushed wave of whispers.

A servant holding a tray stood motionless. A maid glanced at Stelle with a mixture of confusion, worry—and admiration.

Second—Stelle herself.

She glowed.

Not figuratively, but in a way that nearly made it seem literal. Her hair was slightly tousled, her cheeks still flushed—not from cold, but from the inner heat and emotion that had yet to settle. Her gaze was hazy, as though she were drifting somewhere high above this world. Her lips curved in an absent-minded smile. She truly radiated from within.

She didn't rush. Not out of affectation—but because she didn't want to disturb the delicate aftertaste, the quiet melody playing beneath her skin, still resonating in the silence of the manor. Her entire body remembered—the touch, the voice, the gaze. His hand… their hands. Pressed together. And the cloak on her shoulders was proof that it had all been real. That it wasn't just another beautiful dream about a romantic prince from a novel.

She wanted to squeal with joy and embarrassment just thinking about it. She nearly tripped over nothing, forgetting she ought to look where she was going.

At the foot of the stairs, she paused, one hand resting on the banister. She wasn't ready to admit the evening had ended. She wanted to linger just a bit longer—bask in the fading traces of happiness on her skin, in her hair, in her clothes. To let it sink in, settle beneath her ribs and stay there. Warm. Hopeful.

Only then, with a quiet sigh, did she begin to ascend.

The second-floor hallway was nearly silent—only the faint creak of the parquet underfoot and the muted rustle of curtains accompanied her steps. Stelle turned, intending to slip away into her room and dissolve into memories.

But a voice stopped her.

"You're returning late, my little star."

Stelle nearly jumped. She hadn't expected anyone to speak, and the words jolted her from her trance. She turned at once toward the source—and there, standing in the doorway, was Kafka. As always—composed, upright, and wrapped in that air of mystery, wearing a faint, almost lazy smile that gave away nothing.

"Mother?" Stelle blinked in surprise, stepping closer. "You… were waiting for me?"

Kafka half-lowered her lids, letting out a soundless chuckle.

"Not every day does my daughter return from a concert arranged especially for her by none other than…" Her gaze slid toward the cloak, and the smile on her lips grew more knowing, as though she'd understood everything without needing to ask. "…His Highness."

The owner of amber eyes flushed instantly. Her heart gave a small, startled squeeze. She looked away, embarrassed, fingers tightening around the edges of the cloak.

"I forgot my shawl at home, like a fool," Stelle began to explain even before her mother could comment. "His Highness was only being polite and chivalrous. He felt obliged to offer his cloak. I'm terribly embarrassed about it…"

Kafka laughed softly—low, elegant, not mocking. It sounded more like understanding.

"Naturally. How gallant. Sunday has always been the picture of propriety," she mused, stepping closer to her daughter. Her gaze softened. "But, my little star, you don't shine like someone who's merely returned from a concert, even one dedicated to her. You look more like someone fresh from an engagement."

Stelle nearly choked. She turned her head away, as if that might hide the deepening flush overtaking her face.

"Mother…"

"What?" the Duchess asked, eyes narrowing ever so slightly with a playful lilt in her voice. "Am I wrong? Your eyes are glowing brighter than the summer sun at noon." She tilted her head, resting her chin on one hand, studying her daughter thoughtfully. "The cloak suits him, of course… but I daresay it looks even better on you. Perhaps you'll wear it all the time?"

The girl pouted in flustered protest, shaking her head.

"Nothing happened… He's just—he's simply too kind, that's all."

For some reason, that earned another quiet laugh from the woman—as though Stelle had said something adorably naïve.

"My dear… You may call His Highness noble, courteous, just—but kindness? No, that's not the word. Do you truly believe he hands out his garments to every young lady who feels a chill?"

Stelle didn't agree. She had seen it today, with her own eyes—a piece of gentleness in him, something quiet and human beneath the solemn façade. No one could change her mind about that.

"Then why do you think His Highness did it?" she asked, curious for her mother's view.

Kafka's gaze softened. Her voice dropped a note lower, warmer, quieter.

"The answer is simple—he's captivated by you."

That made the silver-haired girl practically burst into flames. She covered her face with a hand, staring at her mother as if she'd just spoken madness.

"H-He absolutely is not!"

Kafka let out a thoughtful hum, her gaze drifting somewhere far away—as though looking right through her. For a moment, it seemed she was lost in thought, and Stelle didn't dare interrupt. How could she? But soon, her mother's eyes returned to her.

"If you're not too tired…" her voice was gentle, without pressure, "perhaps you'd keep me company for a late tea?"

Stelle froze.

A lump caught in her throat. Was today some sort of holiday? A national celebration? She couldn't even remember the last time her mother had invited her for tea—especially at this hour.

But her heart… it bloomed with joy, overflowing like a brimming cup. Her eyes lit up, and she nodded with such enthusiasm she almost looked foolish.

"Of course! I'd love to!" she exclaimed far too quickly, far too loudly. Then caught herself and added more quietly, "Oh, forgive me..."

Kafka, without waiting, turned and started forward—her pace calm, assured, nearly silent, like a cat's. Stelle followed at once, still clutching the cloak around her shoulders, feeling a little lighter with every step.

The sitting room was just as it had always been—strict lines, deep colors, the soft, dim light of the lit fireplace, and the scent of a lavender-scented candle trailing faintly through the air. Everything felt as usual, save for one detail—one detail that made Stelle's heart skip.

On the small table stood that teapot. Porcelain, laced with violet marbling, almost translucent. And the scent… She caught it the moment she sat down in the chair across from her mother. Her lashes trembled. Her breath hitched.

"This is…"

Kafka nodded, pouring the steaming tea into the delicate cups.

"Your favorite—rose petal, violet variety. I thought… it's been far too long since we last shared it."

The scent was exactly as she remembered from childhood. Clean, with a faintly spiced sharpness. The warmth clung to her nose, and something stirred deep within her chest—those old, long-buried memories awakening.

There they were, just the two of them, seated in the conservatory, surrounded by shimmering petals, with sunlight pouring through the glass dome. Mother brushing a strand from her face, smoothing it gently.

Stelle couldn't help the smile that curved her lips, tinged with a touch of nostalgia. She lifted the cup, brought it closer, breathing in the soft, enveloping aroma that seemed to warm her very heart.

The taste was perfect—clearly brewed with care, the temperature and proportions followed to the letter. Her mother would never allow it otherwise—not with her precious roses.

For a while, they sat in silence. Only the soft clink of porcelain and the gentle crackle of the fire filled the room. Stelle felt no need to speak—it was a comfortable quiet. Her body still hadn't fully recovered from the evening—from his gaze, his touch, his warmth, that soft, deep voice. But beside her mother, there was simply… peace.

Kafka finally leaned back in her chair. Her fingers held the cup with practiced grace, and through the gentle wisp of steam, she looked at her daughter.

"You know…" she began, almost absentmindedly. "I've known him for a very long time. Sunday. I knew him long before he became the man you know now."

Stelle lifted her head. Her gaze sharpened with attention. Kafka rarely spoke of the past—and rarer still of those close to the Royal Family. Her voice now was different. Neither stern nor mocking. Tinged with a quiet melancholy. But warm.

"He was a wonderful child," she went on, turning her eyes to the fire as she took a careful sip. "Bright. Cheerful. A little shy. He had these eyes…" She closed her own briefly, as if to summon the memory. "Eyes full of dreams. Joy. A fascination with the world. And he could laugh—truly laugh, freely, with that bright, ringing sound. Can you imagine that?"

Stelle nodded after a moment's hesitation—uncertain, disoriented. She… couldn't quite imagine it. So she listened, breath held.

"And then…" Kafka's voice dropped. She paused. "Then Robin's health began to decline. Rapidly. And you know… he was always there. Not like a child. Like a pillar. A little boy who suddenly decided he no longer had the right to be a little boy."

Stelle's heart twisted painfully. Her fingers gripped the teacup tighter.

Kafka exhaled slowly, taking another sip.

"He cared for her in a way many grown men never learn to. Sleepless nights. Medical texts full of words no child should have to read. That constant guilt—believing he should be able to do more, but never knowing how. While others his age were still playing, he was already studying political documents. And after… when she was gone…"

Her voice lowered to a whisper, almost weightless.

Stelle pressed her lips into a thin line, her brows trembling as they drew together.

"…He closed himself off. Completely. He stopped speaking, stopped trusting, turned inward. There was nothing left of the child he'd once been. What remained was discipline. Order. Control. He gave himself wholly to his studies, to the affairs of the realm, took on every duty he could carry. Before he'd even come of age, he was already seated on the councils, making decisions, negotiating terms. Because he felt there was no other way."

The violet-haired woman traced the rim of her cup with a fingertip, her gaze drifting to the side.

"He became the perfect heir. So perfect, in fact, that he began to resemble a machine more than a man," Kafka said quietly. "I saw it with my own eyes—how his warmth slipped away, year after year, with every new duty laid upon him."

Stelle lowered her gaze, staring into the bottom of her teacup through the amber surface of the drink. So this… this was the cost of perfection. She had already sensed that it must've been hard for him—that he must have felt alone. But hearing it now, confirmed in her mother's voice, filled her with a deeper bitterness.

Kafka's eyes turned directly to her daughter. Serious, but not distant.

"So when you walked in tonight wearing his cloak," she continued, her tone quiet, "with that kind of light in your eyes… I couldn't believe it at first. The Sunday I know would never offer his cloak without a serious reason. Especially that one."

"That one?" Stelle echoed in a whisper, instinctively curling tighter into the cloak around her shoulders.

"It's one of the ones he wears often. Personal, you could say. Not ceremonial, not a spare. I've seen him in it many times myself. Which is why I'm certain—this wasn't merely an act of courtesy."

Stelle's head spun. Her heart beat faster, and she could feel the heat rushing to her face once more. Even the thought—the thought—that the Crown Prince might feel anything for her was too bold, too self-indulgent to entertain seriously. And yet…

Kafka's voice softened, carrying a quiet warmth that contrasted with her usual distance.

"I'm not the sentimental sort, you know that. But when you were born… I hoped. I hoped that if you two ever met, if fate allowed it… that you might be able to warm even a small part of what he lost. That's why I made certain choices in raising you. Why I refused to let you become just another pampered palace doll. All of it… so you might be strong enough to offer him a little comfort."

Stelle listened, breath caught in her chest. Her fingers trembled slightly around the teacup, and her eyes shimmered, stinging suddenly. She didn't even know why she wanted to cry—whether from the sorrow she felt for Sunday's fate… or something else entirely.

"Thank you," she whispered. "I'm glad… that things turned out this way."

Kafka exhaled softly, eyes drifting shut as she took another sip. The corners of her lips curved faintly in a calm, knowing smile.

The silence that fell between them was perfectly timed—just enough for Stelle to collect herself and let everything settle. The cloak now felt heavier on her shoulders… and infinitely more precious. Because now she understood just how much this gesture had truly meant.

She almost felt as though it were the Prince himself embracing her, wrapping her in his warmth. And the thought of it stirred a ticklish flutter in her stomach, pulling a smile to her lips she couldn't quite contain.

Her fingers played absentmindedly with the edge of the thick, fine fabric.

Then—Kafka's question caught her off guard. She hadn't even noticed when her mother had turned her way with that knowing smile.

"Do you like him?"

The question came lightly. Almost casually. As though it were the most natural thing in the world.

Stelle blinked, as if waking from a dream. Her gaze slipped away at once, falling to her teacup as if it suddenly required urgent attention. She tilted her head, her eyes growing distant, her lips curving in the faintest, dreamy smile.

"Well… he's a good person. Truly…" she began cautiously, a trace of awe in her voice. "He's clever. Kind—I still believe that. Composed, fair. Even when he's strict, he's still… understanding. With him, you always feel safe."

Kafka listened in silence until she was done. Then let out a quiet laugh.

"My little star… that's not what I meant."

Stelle froze. Her lashes quivered as she lifted her gaze—startled, almost caught. Kafka didn't blink. Her gaze held firm.

"I don't need a list of his virtues. I know what kind of man he is. I'm asking you: do you like him as a man?"

The silence that followed was heavier. No longer warm, but taut—not with tension, but with honesty.

Stelle swallowed, and her face was instantly flooded with embarrassment. She glanced away, down, back to the cup—as though everything in the world had suddenly become more interesting than the question before her.

Her heart raced. That question… it caught her unprepared. She hadn't even dared ask it of herself—and now she had to answer it aloud, to her mother…

"I…" Her voice faltered. "I don't know… I'm very grateful to him, and he's so good, but I—"

"Stelle," the Duchess interrupted gently, her tone softer now. "I've been at court longer than you've been alive. I know the difference between a girl's gratitude and a girl's captivation. You're glowing in a way I've never seen. This is not just gratitude."

Stelle groaned and covered her burning cheeks with both hands.

"Mother…"

"This isn't an interrogation," Kafka continued calmly. "I only want you to answer yourself. Because… if you do begin to fall for him, you must understand—it will never be simple. It cannot be simple. He is not a boy from the street. He is the future. The throne. Responsibility. There is very little room in his world for fantasies and tenderness. And yet…" she paused, her brow tightening slightly, "he is still letting you closer than he does anyone else."

Kafka leaned in slightly, her voice quieting.

"So I ask you—not for schemes, not for court gossip, not even for plans. I ask only for you. Do you want to be closer to him—not as a subject, but as a woman?"

Stelle didn't answer right away. Her chest rose and fell with shallow, uneven breaths, and a lump lodged tight in her throat. Slowly, hesitantly, she lowered her hands from her face—revealing the deep blush that burned across her cheeks.

"I don't know if what I feel can be called anything yet," she said quietly. "It's probably too soon to say I like him, but… when he's near, I just feel… at ease. Even though he's a Prince. I enjoy being around him. And I'd… like to talk to him again. Spend more time with him."

Kafka watched her intently, absorbing each word. Then she fell silent, thoughtful. Finally, she exhaled—a long, heavy breath—and gave a slow nod, as if coming to terms with something she'd already known.

"Take care of yourself, sweetheart. Because forming an attachment to someone like him… it's dangerous. You have no idea how many people will try to trip you up—me as well—if you grow too close to him. They'll fear our influence. From this point on, you'll have to be even more careful."

The silver-haired girl nodded slowly. It was true—caught up in the warmth of emotion, she had let herself forget. But His Highness… he had warned her too, back in that corridor. If someone saw them together in a compromising moment, it could spark a scandal. One that wouldn't just tarnish her—it could destroy the reputation of her entire House.

She exhaled shakily, her gaze dropping again, fingers unconsciously clutching at the hem of the cloak.

Why did everything have to be so complicated? Why couldn't she just be friends with someone? Just spend time together? Why did she always have to think about what the nobles would say, or the servants, or anyone? The court was so merciless.

"Stelle."

The soft call snapped her out of her thoughts. She flinched slightly and looked up at once—only to find her mother no longer watching her. Kafka's gaze had drifted slightly to the side, the softness gone from her expression. A shadow passed over her eyes, and something tense crept into her posture.

Before Stelle could ask what was wrong, her mother spoke again. This time, her voice had changed—lower, quieter.

"There's something else you should know. Because if you're drawing closer to the Crown Prince… then you're also drawing closer to everything that surrounds him."

Stelle stiffened.

She felt it at once—how the warmth in the room subtly ebbed away, how the air between them suddenly turned colder.

Kafka set her teacup down on its saucer and leaned forward slightly.

"I'm warning you—beware of Aventurine. The Second Prince."

His name fell like a stone into still water. A soft ripple, and then—something in the air froze.

Stelle frowned.

"We haven't spoken. Not really. Only when he offered his congratulations at the debut…"

It was a lie—but it was the version of the truth Stelle preferred. Even in the privacy of her own mind, she no longer wanted to remember that there had once been anything more between them. The memory of his eyes, his voice, his touch no longer stirred warmth or trembling anticipation—only bitterness.

"For now," Kafka said, shaking her head. "Sooner or later, he may set his sights on you, too."

Stelle's heart plummeted. She swallowed instinctively.

If only her mother knew—that time had already come and gone.

Kafka paused for a moment, as if deciding whether to go on. Then, almost too softly to hear:

"He used to be different, too. A wonderful child… gentle, sweet, always smiling. Radiant. So affectionate. I remember it myself—I held him in my arms when he was still just a baby. Sunday was always worried he'd fall down the stairs. I remember him chasing after him with a pillow, just in case…"

Kafka smiled faintly, lost for a moment in the memory. But the warmth vanished as quickly as it came. She lowered her gaze and exhaled—this time with a sharp, unflinching clarity.

"But then something happened. Something no one talks about. A matter sealed under state secrecy—I don't even know what it was. But I saw the aftermath."

Her gaze shifted to her daughter. And in her eyes—just beneath the polished calm—lay something taut. Unease, veiled but unmistakable.

"I only know this—what he endured, even Sunday could never imagine. And Sunday has seen his share of pain. But Aventurine… is broken. And I fear beyond repair."

Stelle clutched the cloak so tightly her knuckles turned white. The blood in her veins felt cold.

Something had happened… something Sunday himself couldn't fathom?

She couldn't even begin to imagine what that might have been.

But the very idea terrified her.

"There is no kindness in him—not in the way we understand it," Kafka said flatly. "What might seem like softness… is a trick. He's learned to imitate it. He lives by it. But inside, he is empty. Cold."

Kafka rose slowly, pacing across the room with unhurried steps. She stopped by the fireplace, her back still turned, and added in a low voice:

"He enjoys playing with girls like you. He'll be gentle. He'll do everything he can to make you believe you understand him. That you're special. That you touched something inside him."

Then she turned, and her voice sharpened.

"Don't fall for it. Not a single bit of it. Don't trust him—even if he starts complimenting you. Even if he looks at you like you matter. He devours girls like you by the dozen. Finds their weaknesses, plays with their emotions, and leaves once he's had his fill."

Stelle didn't move. Her shoulders trembled, but thank the stars the cloak hid it.

Every word struck her heart like another arrow. And now—after she had already made that mistake—it felt so strange to hear it spoken aloud. Because she'd known all of this. She'd known it even before she chose to sleep with him.

Because to her… he'd been just a game too.

She never intended anything more.

In that sense, maybe they were even.

"He can break you," her mother added. "Not like Sunday—by accident, through discipline. But deliberately. For pleasure. Just to soothe his ego again."

She stepped closer, gently took her daughter's face in her hands, and Stelle flinched. Her eyes flew wide open as Kafka leaned in.

"Yes, he's handsome, intelligent, utterly charming. But if you ever find yourself thinking it…"—her voice softened, barely shaking, yet Stelle felt every tremor—"no, you will not be the one to fix him."

Kafka's voice wavered at the end—just barely—but Stelle noticed. And that, more than anything, made her chest tighten. Her mother was rarely shaken. Even in severity, she kept a faint smile, a calm detachment. But now, she looked genuinely concerned.

Which meant—it must be true.

And it only confirmed the decision Stelle had already made: to avoid Aventurine as much as possible from now on. If even her mother thought he was beyond saving, then it had to be true.

… Didn't it?

And yet, the doubts stirred again.

Because she remembered those brief flickers of something real.

The little girl at the festival—the one no one noticed, whose pumpkin figures were ignored by everyone else. He gave her money. He gave her advice.

She remembered the way he held her after she bid farewells with March and Dan Heng, how he wiped her tears. Gave her the spider lollipop. Her favorite.

He hadn't wanted to sleep with her. Hadn't he refused, again and again? He tried to walk her home. Even in the hotel—he said they'd only talk. He almost kicked her out, despite how insistent she'd been.

Was all of that a lie? Every last piece of it?

No. She couldn't believe that. There had to be something good left in him. She knew it.

But it didn't matter.

Whatever truth might have been hidden between them—it was over. Completely. And the last thing Stelle wanted was for anyone—anyone—to suspect there had ever been anything between them at all.

Soon, her mother's hands withdrew from her face, and Kafka sank back into her chair with a weary sigh. It seemed the conversation had drained her just as much as it had drained Stelle. She was quiet for a moment, as if weighing something deeply.

When she spoke again, her voice had changed—drier now, returning to the familiar tone Stelle knew well. Businesslike. Stripped of the tenderness it had held just minutes before.

"All of this matters. But some things matter more. Because you can no longer simply be Stelle—sweet, sincere, naïve. And not just my daughter."

Stelle tensed. A flicker of unease rippled down her shoulders. There was no need to ask—she could already feel where this was going. A conversation about her progress. About duty.

"It's time to become something greater. To enter a room not as decoration—but as a partner."

Her tone wasn't harsh, nor condescending. But it left no room for refusal.

"A month from now, there will be a meeting. And I will not be in attendance. Let's say I won't be feeling well enough. And in my place… you will go."

Stelle's eyes widened. She half-rose from her chair, struggling to comprehend what she'd just heard.

"Me? But… I'm not—"

"Old enough," Kafka interrupted calmly. "Smart enough. And you have potential. That's what matters most. This is not a formality. The people you'll meet—smiling, polite, offering drinks and conversation—are wolves. Predators. Accustomed to tearing out throats for profit and power. And you, my little star… will sit at the table with them."

Stelle didn't know what to say. Panic was already creeping in, spreading through her limbs to the very tips of her fingers. Of course, she knew this would come eventually—but like this? So soon? Just a month?

Her thoughts swirled, chaotic and loud.

Kafka turned toward her, brow slightly furrowed.

"I won't send you in alone. I'll prepare you. I'll tell you who's who—what to listen for, what to say, and what never—ever—to do. I'll teach you how to answer, when to stay silent, and how to read what isn't said. But even then…" Her gaze held. Steady. Measured. "You still won't be ready for everything."

Stelle nodded in silence, though goosebumps crawled down her spine.

"Is it dangerous?"

"Yes," Kafka answered immediately, without softening the truth. "It always is. And the younger you look, the more they'll want to taste you. As a woman. As a weakness. But you'll manage. Because it's better we do this now—while I'm still close, while you're still learning—than later, when they send you into the slaughter with no armor at all."

She leaned forward and placed a hand on her daughter's shoulder.

"But if you present yourself—not just as a pretty debutante, not as the Duchess's daughter—but as a clever, observant, dangerous partner, then you'll begin to build power of your own."

Kafka didn't smile. But in her gaze, there was something that resembled belief.

"You can do this. It's time to decide—whether you want to be just another doll in someone else's play… or a person who writes her own part. Only if you become powerful enough will you ever mean something to His Highness."

Stelle couldn't answer right away. There was too much. Her thoughts were tangled in the weight of it all—so much responsibility and expectation, pressing down on her chest like a sudden avalanche. She gave a slight nod of understanding, but inside… she wasn't ready.

The heaviness of duty settled on her shoulders again, unbearably familiar. Truthfully, she had relaxed too much after the warmth of tonight—forgotten, just for a moment, that she couldn't afford to.

But maybe… if she tried hard enough—truly hard—then one day, she could repay His Highness's kindness. Maybe even become something closer to equal. If that were possible… it would be reason enough to endure anything.

***

When the doors to her room shut behind her, she didn't move forward. She just stood there, still, head bowed—as if all the emotions from the day had only now caught up to her.

The echoes of Kafka's words still rang in her mind, like a distant chorus.

"Predators."

"Danger."

"A seat at the table."

"Influence."

A deep breath. Then an exhale. Her shoulders slowly lowered.

She raised her hand… and touched the cloak around her shoulders.

Heavy. Soft. Still warm.

It draped over her like armor—not cold, but alive. It carried a subtle scent—something woody, like oak, laced with dry ink and paper… and something else. Something barely there, but unmistakable. Something that could only be called Sunday.

The warmth of hands that had wrapped it around her shoulders.

The gaze that lingered a moment too long.

The voice—low, careful, brushing the edge of what was allowed.

Stelle ran her fingers lightly over the fabric, as though afraid to crease it. Her hands trembled. And with them, the girl she'd been earlier awakened again. The girl who had sat beside him in the dressing room, holding his hand, laughing, blushing, listening as he said she surprised him.

Something fluttered in her chest. Slow. Gentle. Like a butterfly finally breaking free of its cocoon.

"I… don't want to take it off," she whispered to herself, pressing the cloak tighter against her chest.

But her expression quickly darkened. Something flashed through her mind—sharp, sudden, like the snap of a wire.

The letter.

Her eyes flew wide, and Stelle spun around as if it might be lying right behind her. Her heart skipped and then pounded faster.

"The letter…" she said aloud, raising her voice slightly, as if calling for it.

The letter.

The one he had written.

By hand. With warm words, with the seal, with a tone that carried something important—something real. It had been her invitation… her relic. And her shame—because she had forgotten it, and that was why she'd found herself flustered and disoriented at the very entrance.

And now—now she couldn't find it at all.

"Where is it…" she murmured, beginning to search the room.

Under pillows, between books. In the jewelry box. On the vanity. Beneath the blanket. She even flipped through her journals, checking if it had slipped into the pages.

But it was nowhere.

With every passing second, her movements grew sharper. Her hand yanked the cover off the chair, rifled through her small purse, and rummaged through the hidden drawers of the dressing table. Her lips pressed into a line; her breath quickened.

"Please… please…"

And then—a knock at the door. Precise, restrained.

Two maids entered, identical in their stiff white aprons and tightly pinned hair.

Ah, those two—the ones who had replaced Lizzy and Elia… Stelle still hadn't come to terms with it. Every time she saw their stiff expressions, she had to fight the urge to sigh.

"Lady Stelle," spoke the elder of the two, standing perfectly straight, her eyes as cold as porcelain, "it is time to prepare for bed. Your bath is ready."

"We'll assist you with undressing," added the other.

Stelle flinched. Her hands instinctively pulled the cloak tighter around her—as if to hide it. Or protect it from unfamiliar hands.

"It's fine. I'll manage myself—" Her voice cracked, and she had to start again. "Tell me instead—have you… have you seen a letter? It was folded into a white envelope, sealed with the royal crest. Maybe it was in the study? Or on the writing desk? Or near it somewhere? I… I truly don't remember where I put it."

The maids exchanged a glance.

"I'm afraid not, my lady," the elder replied smoothly. "We cleaned the rooms thoroughly this morning. There was no letter anywhere to be found."

Stelle's heart dropped like a stone.

It was as if the final thread she had been holding onto snapped.

"I see…" she breathed out, her voice low, hoarse. She nodded, though her chin was trembling with the effort not to let it show.

So… it hadn't just been forgotten.

It was gone.

Truly lost.

Something inside her clenched—tight, sharp, painful. Like a piece of a precious memory had been torn out. That letter… it had meant so much.

The maids approached and began to unfasten the cloak's clasps with practiced hands. Stelle let them—reluctantly, as though they were not removing a garment, but stealing the last traces of comfort and warmth from her skin. She didn't protest. She only lowered her gaze and said nothing more.

They hung the cloak neatly on the hook by the door.

It no longer touched her body—and suddenly, the air grew cold.

So cold it made her ache, even though the room was perfectly warm.

The women escorted her step by step, each movement as silent as the last. They never looked at her face. If they had, they might have noticed the tension held back in every line, the tightly reined-in emotion. But then again, it wasn't likely they would have cared.

Only when she stepped into the bathroom—alone, if only for a moment—did the tears rise, unbidden.

She clenched her hands into fists and exhaled, her voice catching:

"Idiot. You're such an idiot…"

To lose his letter.

To forget it.

To let herself believe too much… only to ruin everything again, in the most foolish way possible.

She barely held herself together, fighting the rising tide of emotion. She couldn't cry—not here, not now, not with the servants still near. But inside… something was shaking.

Like glass, thin and fragile, beginning to crack.

***

The carriage glided smoothly through the evening city. The wheels rolled over the cobblestone pavement, each knock like the tolling of seconds until execution. The lamplight etched outlines of streets, danced across the gilded patterns on the door, glimmered faintly in the glass. Inside—silence.

Stelle sat with a straight back, her hands neatly folded in her lap. Her fingers were pale with tension. Her breath—steady, yet deeper than usual. Too many thoughts now raced through her head in flashes and fragments.

A month had passed.

An entire month of preparation. Endless lessons from her mother—Stelle took comfort, at least, in the fact that Kafka had finally begun making time for her. They used to see each other far less often. But there was no space in these meetings for anything personal—only advice and strategy. Each morning began with a review of political news. In the afternoon—practical exercises: detecting manipulation, rhetoric, the skill of a polite refusal. Evenings brought stacks of cards: names, crests, histories, bloodlines.

All of it—strict, measured, and yet… not unkind. Kafka seemed to look at her differently now—not just as a daughter, but as someone she might one day call a partner.

And Stelle truly had begun to change.

She no longer smiled so carelessly. Worked to rid her speech of "perhaps," replacing it with "yes" or "no." Less of a bowed head—more direct eye contact. She had to learn to hold silences, too. Not to fill them nervously, but to let others sink into them instead.

Not everything came easily. Far from it. But she was genuinely trying.

Her outfit had been selected accordingly. No ball gowns and casual dresses this time—replaced by a form-fitting, plum-colored dress of heavy, expensive fabric. It hugged her waist and shoulders, elegant and sharp. The sleeves—long and narrow. Lace—kept to a bare minimum. The neckline—bold enough to remind them she was no longer a child. A fur shawl completed the look—thick and warm, for December had come. Dark tights wrapped her legs, and in her hand she held a small bag with carefully prepared documents that might prove quite useful.

Her hair was styled simply. No towering structure. Gathered into a low bun, with a few strands left free to frame her face. A touch of rouge, a defined gaze—and no meaningless smiles.

In short, they had done everything to make her look like a young aristocrat who knew her worth and had something to show for it. At least on the surface, that was the impression she gave—while inside, she was shaking with fear, aching to flee. No matter how much she tried, she didn't feel ready. Everything was happening too fast...

Between the documents, the preparations for the meeting, and the lessons that filled every spare moment, she hadn't had a chance to truly reflect on her own personal matters. Though in truth, thoughts and memories involving Sunday still surfaced now and then… and sometimes, Aventurine, too.

But she had no time to let herself drift fully into daydreams.

Besides, they hadn't crossed paths at all in the past weeks. Not once. Still, a small part of her kept hoping for some kind of invitation—or at least a letter… But really, it wasn't surprising. His Highness likely had neither the time nor the reason to write someone without official cause.

Suddenly, the carriage began to slow. Her heart jolted in her chest like porcelain chiming in a draft.

Through the window, Stelle caught sight of the manor. It stood like a predator waiting in silence. The antique façade with its columns and ornate balconies didn't hide its opulence—yet didn't shout about it either. The light glowing from within was soft, even warm, creating an illusion of comfort. If only she didn't know who lived inside…

Gregory Mayner's estate.

A playing field. A cage. Or—a battlefield. Depending on how one chose to enter.

The carriage came to a full stop.

Stelle took a breath. Then another.

When the door opened, she stepped out without hesitation. Her heels struck the stone sharply, and the cold wind made her shiver despite the outerwear she had on this time. It wasn't enough, of course.

So she hurried toward the entrance. And there, just past the doorway, a butler greeted her.

"Good evening, my lady," he said with a smile. "And you must be…?"

"Stelle of House Solaris. I've come in Her Grace's stead—she's been taken unwell."

The servant nodded, his polite smile seeming almost stamped into his face, unwavering.

"Yes, I've been informed of the change. In that case, allow me to escort you to the reception hall—they are expecting you."

The girl gave only a nod. The butler helped her remove her shawl, and she moved forward without waiting for him to point the way. It was intentional—one must never appear lost in Mayner's house.

The corridors stretched on like tunnels in a labyrinth. Lavish—yes. Gilded, velvet, marble. But all of it felt… tasteless. As if someone had purchased the most expensive things possible without a thought for how they fit together. As if trying to scream with every detail: Look at me—I'm important. I belong to the highest circle.

The butler's footsteps were nearly soundless. As they walked, Stelle did her best to appear confident, never glancing back.

Soon, they reached the double doors. Laughter could already be heard from the other side—deep, male, with a note of deliberate amusement. And the thick scent of cigars. They were already waiting. Perhaps only for her.

The servant gave a nod, opened the door—and stepped aside.

Stelle took one final breath, then another, deeper.

And stepped inside.

The room struck her all at once with its intensity—scents, voices, stares. The air was stifling—too warm for an early winter evening, heavy with the aroma of expensive cigars, the bitter undertone of brandy, and something else… subtle, like silk hidden beneath velvet. The scent of power. Or vanity.

Around a round table sat four men. Each one like an actor in a play she hadn't read. One, seated at the center—with a red face, bloated build, a heavy jaw, and a laugh loud enough to be heard two rooms away. That was Duke Gregory Mainer—lord of the house, self-satisfied and syrupy, like an over-sweetened pie.

Next—thin as parchment, with perfectly slicked-back greying hair and a perpetual expression of disdain, as if everything before him were inherently beneath him. Baron Arthur Tal. A nobleman through and through—and, rumor had it, still bitter toward House Solaris ever since Kafka rejected his marriage proposal.

Third—Count Albert Stahlberg. The calmest of them all, but his calm held something unsettling. Intelligent, analytical, the type who rarely spoke—but when he did, it was always with purpose. His eyes seemed to read not documents, but people.

And the fourth, furthest from the rest—a quiet young aide. Barely noticeable, too timid to play any role at all. Simply scribbling notes. Stelle almost overlooked him entirely.

The moment she stepped in, all conversation ceased—as if on cue. A few glances swept over her, appraising, curious, and… lightly mocking. The way men glance at antiques at an auction.

"Ah…" Mainer was the first to speak, his smile stretching far too wide. "And here is our young guest at last. A fresh face in our modest circle."

"Regrettably," Stelle replied calmly, stepping forward, "Her Grace is unwell. I've come in her stead to represent the family's interests."

She spoke evenly. Her tone—respectful, but not submissive. Rule one: remain composed and courteous.

"Then do extend our best wishes for her recovery," said the Duke, making a vague gesture with his hand, as if that alone should suffice to prove his goodwill. "Lady Stelle, is it…? First time I've seen you outside a ball."

Tal gave a low hum, eyes fixed on her.

"A charming dress. A daring neckline," he noted with a lazy half-smile. "And an equally bold choice—to send someone so young and unseasoned into such… company. Or is this now House Solaris's idea of negotiation?"

"We strive to keep pace with the times," Stelle replied smoothly, lowering herself into the offered chair. "Though we tend to place our bets on intellect, rather than age or gender. I had thought such values were respected among esteemed gentlemen."

Her tone was soft, but the words carried a subtle sting. And it didn't go unnoticed. Stahlberg's lips twitched—like a man suppressing a smile.

Tal, on the other hand, raised a brow.

"Intellect? These days, that word gets thrown around for anything—even cunning."

"Or strategic thinking," Mainer added, pouring himself a glass of brandy. "Though… it depends what game the lady is playing. Whether she's a pawn or a queen isn't always obvious from the first move."

He offered her a glass. The wine was a deep ruby shade. The surface slightly cloudy, as if shadows swirled within it. And on the glass—tiny, almost invisible bubbles. This wasn't just wine.

Her mother had warned her: it's all too easy for someone to slip something into a drink. For all sorts of reasons—but mainly, to cloud her thoughts, loosen her tongue, and strip her of advantage.

She had been taught how to recognize tainted drinks—shown in detail the various signs, the things to watch for.

Wine was never meant to look like this, regardless of its age or blend.

Stelle showed nothing. She accepted the glass—but didn't drink.

"I prefer to assess the board before moving any pieces," she replied, her expression unchanged.

"Do you now?" Tal drawled, eyes narrowing slightly. "Then assess this: you are in a room where each of us is prepared to stake more than some Houses earn in a year. Doesn't it frighten you, being the only woman here?"

"I'm not here as a woman, Baron Tal. I'm here as the representative of a House with its own assets, its own legacy, and its own resources. And gender has no bearing on numbers."

Silence followed. The words hung suspended in the air.

"Well said," Stahlberg finally remarked.

"Let's begin, then—with a toast," Mainer suggested, raising his glass. "To the new generation. To young blood in ancient Houses."

The others lifted their glasses. So did Stelle. But she didn't drink. She only let the rim brush her lips—just enough to make it seem like she had.

"Well then," Mainer began again, setting his glass back on the table. "Since we've started off with such vigor, allow me to pose a question—off the record. Just your opinion. Hypothetical."

He crossed his arms and leaned forward slightly.

"Let's say a House proposes a major investment in developing port infrastructure. However, in return, they demand exclusive rights to the warehouses and control over shipping logistics. You, as a representative of the House that holds jurisdiction over the port—do you accept?"

Stelle didn't blink. She paused only a moment—clearly, this was a test. He wanted to gauge her thinking. Fortunately, she was prepared.

"No," she said firmly. "That creates a precedent for unilateral control and opens the door to circumventing tax agreements. Accepting such terms is tantamount to handing the port over to private hands under the guise of investment. A better offer would be shared participation, limited to a three-year term—with an option to buy back the stake."

A pause.

Stahlberg gave a slow, appraising nod.

Tal let out a dry chuckle before she could even catch her breath.

"Excellent. A textbook answer. But tell me, Lady Stelle... In reality, that means turning down thirty percent of the investment. Who, do you suppose, would put their money into a project without guaranteed leverage?"

"Someone who sees long-term partnership as a benefit, not predatory acquisition," she replied calmly. "A House invested in stability, not in momentary profit."

"Oh, stability…" Mainer drawled, eyes slipping shut. "Such a lovely word—especially when spoken in evening gloves over a cup of tea. The trouble is, stability doesn't sell. You can't put a number on it. And investors—they count. They need guarantees."

"Then perhaps one should not attract investors who view public assets as private toys," Stelle parried, allowing herself the faintest trace of a smile.

Tal scoffed.

"So you suggest choosing investors based on their morals?"

"No. On their strategy. Those who seek control are not allies. They are temporary partners who will leave the moment it suits them. And such relationships end in buyouts... followed by war."

Mainer raised a brow. Tal frowned briefly, narrowing his eyes.

But even when she answered rationally, appropriately—it didn't earn her respect. That much was clear. They weren't here to be convinced. They were probing, waiting for her to trip. For some slip to pounce on and tear apart.

"Forgive me," Tal said suddenly, fixing her with an uncomfortably direct gaze. "How old are you?"

"Eighteen."

"Splendid." He leaned back in his chair, took a sip of brandy, and lazily swirled the glass in his hand. "At your age, I didn't know which side of a contract to sign. And here you are—speaking like a seasoned treasurer. It's... suspicious."

"Don't you think it's a strange form of criticism—to accuse someone of competence?" Her tone remained soft, but there was a faint needle hidden beneath the velvet.

"I think," he cut in, eyes peering at her over the rim of his glass, "you're speaking with someone else's voice. You've been trained too well. I can hear the echoes behind your phrasing."

"We all listen to someone, Baron Tal. The only question is whose counsel we choose to follow."

Another pause.

Mainer exhaled a puff of smoke, his gaze drifting into the distance. Tal refilled his glass. And Stahlberg… Stahlberg alone continued watching her.

It seemed, at least for a moment, she had managed to silence them.

Beneath the table, Stelle's fingers kept twisting into the fabric of her dress, nervously tugging at it. Her knees trembled with anxiety, and her body swung between waves of heat and cold. Her heart was pounding so violently she feared the others might somehow hear it.

And this was only the beginning, yet she already felt exhausted. Her mother had been right when she spoke of predators.

Her brief moment of reprieve didn't last.

Mainer tapped ash into the tray, exhaled a stream of smoke, and gave a low chuckle.

"Let me pose another dilemma. Say the southern districts are suffering from crop failure. You have a grain reserve—but it's limited. If you send it to them, you'll save some of the peasants. But it'll create a shortage in your own lands. Would you send it?"

Another question with no right answer. Every path came with consequences. Whichever option she chose, they'd find something to latch onto.

She took a pause, weighed the risks, then finally replied:

"I would send it. On the condition of repayment. Simultaneously, I'd initiate negotiations with industrial partners to secure a credit line for the following season. We lose now, but gain… people. And people are the land. Without them, the fields won't be plowed."

"You're risking famine in your own domain," Stahlberg noted. "People don't take kindly to sacrifice in the name of abstract solidarity."

"But they'll remember they weren't abandoned. Which means they'll believe they won't be abandoned next time either. It's an investment in loyalty."

Tal chuckled again, shaking his head.

"Or in rebellion. Bread equity is the surest way to enrage both sides."

"But at least it's honest," she shrugged.

"And honesty…" Mainer murmured, turning his glass between his fingers, "…has never been a particularly marketable trait… Ah, but speaking of which—"

He tilted his head slightly. His eyes flicked toward the glass in front of Stelle.

"I offered you the finest wine. Delicate. Complex. From Duchess Blanche's old cellar. A secret vintage. Far too rare to waste…"

A pause.

"You've yet to taste it, Lady Stelle."

His tone—almost gentle. As if he meant to sound caring.

The girl kept her expression unchanged, though inside, she wanted to start killing.

Tal exchanged a glance with Stahlberg.

"Surely… you don't distrust us?"

All eyes in the room narrowed. The full weight of their attention now rested on her glass.

Without flinching, Stelle spoke:

"I simply prefer not to let the flavor of wine cloud my thoughts. Especially when such valuable propositions are being discussed."

She brought the glass to her lips—but didn't drink. She tilted it, let the liquid touch her lips, even mimicked the motion of a swallow. At a glance, it would've been hard to tell it wasn't a real sip.

"Truly… an exceptional wine."

She set the glass back on the table. And she didn't miss the brief, sharp exchange of glances between Tal and Mainer—an exchange that held nothing good.

What loathsome hypocrites. Stelle felt sick sitting here, forced to feign politeness. But she had to endure…

Then suddenly—a knock at the door. Polite. Exactly two taps.

All heads turned.

The door creaked open slightly, and the butler appeared—back perfectly straight, eyes respectfully lowered.

"Forgive the delay. The final guest has arrived," he announced.

Such simple words, yet the effect they had was like a nail dragged across glass—inaudible, but felt.

Mainer instantly straightened. Stahlberg's fingers tightened slightly around his glass. And Tal… Tal smirked, casting a quick glance in Stelle's direction.

"At last," he drawled. "The evening wouldn't have been complete without him. I've no idea how they convinced him to come."

"Seems the stakes are rising," Mainer muttered, folding his hands.

Stelle tensed, though she tried not to show it. Her gaze flicked toward the door. Her mother had mentioned nothing about anyone else attending. Had she not known? Or… had she deliberately kept it from her?

Her heart tightened. Her eyes narrowed ever so slightly, and her breath caught.

The click of a lock. The doors opened wider.

And then—he entered.

He wore a long dark coat, trimmed with fur and lined in gold along the collar and sharp seams. On his chest, the light caught the fine embroidery—an intricate golden crest unmistakably royal.

He unfastened the coat as he walked, casually, as if shedding something beneath him, tossing it toward the waiting butler without a glance—the man barely managed to catch it. Beneath it: a dark green shirt tucked into a matte waistcoat with a deep, velvety sheen.

A long earring with a gem gleamed in one ear. Dark gloves adorned his hands, rings glinting from above the leather. A golden watch on his wrist.

Hair—pale gold, like the morning sun.

And those eyes… unmistakable.

He entered slowly, deliberately. As if the room itself belonged to him, and everyone else inside it was just temporary decor. One hand rested in the pocket of his immaculately pressed trousers.

And in that moment…

Their eyes met.

And the room—thick with smoke, brandy, and mockery—vanished.

Only the two of them remained.

He froze for a second. Just a fraction. His eyes widened slightly—barely perceptible, but enough to tell he was just as surprised to see Stelle as she was to see him. The girl, too, instinctively let her eyes open wider than etiquette allowed.

But then he looked away. Simply, deliberately. Stelle did the same in the exact same moment—it was hard to say who broke first.

"Your Grace," he addressed Mainer, no longer sparing her a glance. His voice was dry, though laced with that familiar trace of sweet venom. "Since when do we bring our mistresses to these meetings? You could've warned me—I might've brought someone too."

The word mistresses rolled lazily off his tongue, as if he couldn't be bothered to commit to the insult—but it was there, unmistakably bitter. Then he added, with mock curiosity:

"Or did the girl simply lose her way?"

A heavy silence draped over the room. Someone let out a breath—perhaps Mainer, perhaps Tal.

Stelle… did not move. Her expression didn't shift.

Inside—only emptiness. And a flicker of bitterness.

He had done exactly what, truthfully, she had hoped for. Acted as though they had never met. Never spoken. Never touched.

And for a moment—it was a relief.

The silver-haired girl straightened. Slowly rose from her chair, as protocol demanded upon the arrival of a member of the Royal Family, and inclined her head with perfect poise.

"Your Highness," she said evenly. "A pleasure to see you. Allow me to introduce myself—Stelle Solaris, representing my House today due to Her Grace's illness."

Aventurine didn't even glance at her. Not even out of the corner of his eye. He simply walked past, as if greeting her was beneath him entirely.

"And now we are complete," Stahlberg murmured. "Shall we move on to matters of substance?"

The Prince lowered himself into the empty seat. Casually, as she remembered. One arm draped over the backrest, his posture dismissive of every rule of decorum. Only after settling in did he look at her again.

Appraisingly.

As if staring through her at an empty chair.

She had expected something to tighten inside her. For her heart to stutter. For the old heat to rise again. But the truth was—the gaze that once made her tremble, that once sent fire racing through her blood, now stirred only a quiet bitterness. A soft coldness.

There was no fear anymore. She no longer feared his eyes. Nor did she hate them.

Could it be that… she simply didn't care?

The temporary silence in the room was broken only by the faint clinking of glasses when Aventurine was offered a drink—he merely gave a small nod, not refusing. The atmosphere had shifted—like the air before a storm. There were fewer jests now, but more veiled tension. And buried aggression.

Aventurine's arrival had made one thing clear: the games were over.

"I suggest we proceed to the main agenda," Stahlberg said quietly, pushing his glass aside. "That's what we all came here for, after all."

"Naturally," Mainer nodded. "So… discussion of the new investment mechanism."

He spread a few papers before him, gesturing for his aide to distribute copies. The young man immediately set about passing the documents around the table. When it was Stelle's turn, she accepted her copy with a polite nod, doing her best not to betray the anxiety crawling under her skin. Her fingers remained folded, her gaze focused.

"Our proposal," Mainer began, "is the creation of a Regional Restoration Fund. A fine initiative, especially now, when the agricultural districts are in need of support. House Solaris, as the new proprietor of the southern port and supply routes, holds a uniquely favorable position to…"

"…to profit," Tal interrupted lazily. "Pardon me—I was just trimming the prologue. We're not here for a poetry contest."

"Thank you for your brevity," Mainer chuckled. "In any case, we propose joint management of the fund—with authority divided between the industrial coalition, two noble Houses, and the Crown's financial department."

"And what's the initial share allocation?" Stelle asked, without lifting her eyes from the page. "Equal investment—or are you proposing someone be given an advantage from the outset?"

"Well, of course, unequal," Mainer replied with a shrug.

Tal chuckled. Stahlberg said nothing. Aventurine didn't move.

"In that case," Stelle continued, lifting her gaze slightly, "the fund becomes a tool of influence for the one who contributes more—not what it's meant to be: a mechanism to restore balance between regions. House Solaris will not approve a project whose structure places it at a disadvantage from the start."

A pause.

Mainer laced his fingers and leaned back.

"An interesting perspective. Aggressive."

"Logical," Stelle corrected him. "We're not saying no. We're saying not yet—pending revision of the terms."

And then—for the first time—the Second Prince spoke.

"Objection noted," he said, in a bored tone, without properly looking at anyone. "But in the context of Crown priorities, let us recall: restoring the agricultural sector is a strategic issue. No monopoly, not even a historic one, can serve as justification if it hinders national development."

Stelle slowly turned her head toward him.

His face was calm. Too calm. He spoke as though delivering a university lecture—polite, precise, and cold enough to chill the blood. He didn't look at her. He addressed the air.

But everyone understood who his words were meant for.

"Then allow me to clarify, Your Highness," she replied slowly, "does the Crown truly consider it reasonable to revisit previously granted sovereign rights?"

At last, he looked at her.

"The Crown believes that if such rights are being used as a shield against common interest, they must be adapted to fit the current political reality."

Mainer's lips twitched upward. Tal let out a small hum of amusement.

Stelle gave a quiet nod.

"Thank you for the clarification," she said evenly. "Then I must request a pause for consultation. After all, the correct adaptation of historical rights requires time and legal review."

"We're not in court," Tal remarked with a narrowed gaze. "We're simply talking. Or do you already need to run to mommy?"

The sneer in his voice crawled down her back like ice—but not from fear. From fury.

Don't react. Don't rise to it.

"Don't worry, Baron," she answered gently. "I know how to speak for myself."

And then—with no pretense—Aventurine cut in again.

"Then speak," he said. "Is your House withdrawing from the fund, or requesting renegotiation of terms?"

Amber eyes stared in his direction. She looked at him not as the man who had once held her, but as a cold instrument of foreign interests. He hadn't come to support her. He had come to cut down weakness.

"House Solaris demands full disclosure of all documents and clauses," she said clearly. "Especially those pertaining to the regions with copper deposits."

A pause. Heavy.

Copper was precisely what no one was meant to mention until the agreement was signed—when it would be too late to protest.

Mainer raised a brow. Stahlberg looked at her with new interest. Tal… fell briefly silent, then drawled in a syrupy tone:

"I see the little doll did her homework. How curious."

Stelle's face didn't change. But she shot back:

"Dolls don't speak. And as you can see—I speak quite well."

Again—silence.

Not because she'd won.

But because her words still hung in the air, like a signal. A warning. She would not play by their rules. And that, here, was grounds for punishment.

"Lady Stelle," Mainer finally said. His tone remained courteous, but his eyes narrowed slightly. "I don't believe such sharp remarks will help you defend your House's interests. We are trying to build dialogue here, are we not?"

"Of course. I simply prefer dialogue in clear terms. Without metaphors or personal remarks."

"But personality is what makes one a valuable party," Stahlberg nearly sang, gazing at her over folded fingers. "Not merely numbers on a page."

Aventurine let out a soft but audible exhale.

"The problem isn't numbers," he said at last, "nor the page. The problem is the attempt to bypass procedure."

This time, his gaze didn't just glance over her.

It struck.

"Most curious," Aventurine continued, lowering his voice. "A representative of the younger generation, attending such a meeting for the first time, and already in possession of confidential details from undisclosed sections of the proposal."

Tal jumped in at once:

"So—a leak?"

Stahlberg gave a soft huff but said nothing. His brows did rise, though.

Stelle didn't respond immediately. She calmly placed her hands on the table and straightened her back.

"It isn't a leak," she said, shaking her head. "It's reading between the lines. The fund, presented as a tool for regional recovery, is supposedly aimed at agrarian districts. But judging by the scale of proposed investments and the geography of projected profit distribution, it's clear the real interest lies in the southern mining zones."

"And that means…?" the Duke asked mockingly.

"That means," she continued, without looking away, "someone here is attempting to sneak through a copper privatization under the guise of a 'noble initiative.'"

"Historic copper," Stahlberg clarified. "To which your House holds symbolic claims. Symbolic—but not legally secured at this stage."

Stelle pressed her lips together. She didn't reply. Her gaze shifted to Aventurine.

No one would be better placed to dispute this than him. After all, it was the Crown that had once recognized Solaris's claim to those copper veins—years ago. Surely, he'd mention it?

Confirm that without formal review and royal decree, this was all a manipulation?

But he didn't move. He only sighed—almost lazily—and, leaning forward slightly onto his elbows, said:

"State interests cannot be built on symbolism. If House Solaris wishes to protect its claims, let it present legal grounds. Until then—it's hearsay."

And that was it. Another cold, calculated blow.

Like a knife, deliberately thrust into the space where there should have been protection.

Her heart didn't ache from personal offense—but from the injustice.

He had done it on purpose. Wanted it to sound that way. And only for her.

The others, sensing an opening, wasted no time diving in.

"Very sensible," Mainer nodded like a pleased parrot. "We don't deny your historic claims, Lady Stelle. We simply suggest formalizing them in the new structure—after the terms are agreed upon."

"And in the meantime," Tal added, "we'd prefer to continue the discussion without premature pressure. We'd hate for the presence of such a charming, yet not entirely competent participant to hinder progress."

He wasn't smiling. He was pressing her. Without shame.

Stelle clenched her hand beneath the table. The fabric of her dress stretched tight under her grip. Her jaw locked.

Oh, how deeply, wildly she longed in that moment to smash something into each one of their smug faces—hard enough that they'd never forget it. The fury boiled inside her so fiercely she was surprised it wasn't already steaming out of her ears.

It took every ounce of her will to maintain composure. Her voice remained calm as she said:

"I am fully competent enough to understand this: if you propose a deal where terms are withheld until the final moment—that isn't partnership. That's a trap."

Mainer smiled too sweetly, tapping the table lightly in the direction of Stelle's untouched glass of wine.

"Then drink. To honesty. To candor. To playing with open cards."

Stelle didn't move.

Damn them all.

She had known it would be hard—but not this hard. Her nerves were strung tight, barely holding. And with each passing second, the urge to cry and run grew stronger. But she couldn't. She had to keep control…

"I don't drink on an empty stomach," she replied with a soft smile. "Especially when my appetite's been thoroughly ruined by questionable proposals."

Mainer let out a quiet scoff. Tal straightened, placing his elbows on the table, narrowing his eyes.

"Your Highness," he said to the room at large, "perhaps you'd care to intervene? Maybe advise the young lady that it would be more appropriate to conduct herself with… a little more humility?"

Aventurine's gaze lingered on the wineglass. The silence stretched—one second. Two. Three. As though he were carefully deciding which needle to hurl first. His fingers traced the rim in slow circles, as if everything unfolding around him was merely an idle amusement. But it was a lie—not relaxation, but the pause before a strike.

"Humility," he said at last, voice even and quiet, "is a virtue for nuns. Not for negotiators. I doubt Lady Stelle joined our circle in search of meekness."

At last, his eyes met hers. And for just an instant—barely perceptible—something in that gaze flickered.

But then it was gone. Mask back in place.

"Then again," he continued in the same cold tone, "perhaps the Crown Prince gave you different instructions? After all, from what I've heard, your acquaintance runs deeper than what one would usually call… decorous."

A thud. Her heart fell.

She looked directly at him. As though his words hadn't been a deliberate provocation, but merely a passing remark. Something that deserved only a neutral reply.

But in the room… silence fell once more—thick, suffocating, and dense.

"Well then," Tal drawled. "Indeed. Not every debut ends with a waltz with His Highness. Especially when, as they say… His Highness does not dance."

"And not every evening ends in a private audience," Stahlberg added, taking a sip of wine. "Let alone an instance where the heir to the throne escorts a young lady from the ballroom and disappears with her for exactly twenty-eight minutes."

Mainer slapped his knee, shaking his head with theatrical astonishment.

"I honestly thought it was a joke at first. But then… the rumors, the glances, that—cloak. Oh yes, she returned in his cloak, didn't she?"

"Very domestic," Tal smirked. "A warm, cozy gesture. Almost touching."

Stelle's eyes widened just slightly. Her heart skipped a beat.

They know about even that?

Of course they did. Too many servants had seen her in it, and he'd done it in the square—even if it had looked empty at the time. Not one second of privacy, damn it.

Every word pricked like a needle beneath her skin. But Stelle sat motionless. Inside, she was shaking. She wanted to rise, to shout, to say: "You know nothing. Don't you dare speak of him like that."

But she didn't.

Because the truth meant nothing here. They didn't want to understand. They wanted to wound.

"We wouldn't dream of interfering in His Highness's personal life," Stahlberg went on, "but if such a… close connection is forming between House Solaris and the Crown, how can we consider today's meeting as equal? As fair?"

There it was—the trap. The moment she'd known would come eventually. They wouldn't strike her head-on. They'd accuse her of bias. Of using privilege. Of speaking not from reason, but because of whom she had charmed.

And then—like a blade from above—Aventurine's voice:

"As a representative of the financial department, I must agree. A conflict of interest is a serious risk. Especially when its source holds no formal status."

He didn't blink. Didn't flinch.

But for the first time—there was something foreign in his tone. Something even she couldn't quite recognize.

Stelle held his gaze. And then said softly:

"Allow me to clarify. His Highness did indeed grant me his attention at the ball—and showed exceptional courtesy, for which I am grateful. But neither then nor now have I received the slightest hint of personal interest from him beyond respect. Every action was public. Every one—within protocol."

"A private dance falls under protocol?" Tal scoffed.

"Lack of evidence doesn't mean lack of consequences," Stahlberg tossed in.

"The only question is," Mainer murmured slowly, "why the Crown Prince suddenly chose to dance with a lady whose name had never appeared in any report. Not once in any session. And now she sits at the table of the elder Houses, negotiating as though it were her profession. When, at present, she is merely the daughter of Duchess Solaris."

And there it was—clean, precise, a strike straight to the mark.

Aventurine, who had until then sat with perfect posture, slowly leaned forward. Fingers laced, elbows on the table.

"And I agree," he said quietly. "Responsibility isn't about speaking well. It's about not becoming a liability."

Stelle tilted her head slightly.

"You believe I'm a liability?"

He didn't answer at once.

"I believe that any feeling one can't deny…" his voice dipped lower, "becomes a weakness."

And then he looked away. Turned his gaze aside. And did not look at her again.

Silence fell. One of those silences that thickens the air, as if even the cigar smoke grew heavier, losing its ease—because, for the first time, something personal had entered the room. Masked as politics, but unmistakable.

It was Stahlberg who broke the pause. He folded his hands neatly before him and spoke again, his voice dry, almost academic:

"Let us return, if we may, to matters unrelated to dancing. Based on preliminary projections, should the fund be established under the current structure, we would be able to direct up to eighty-five percent of investments into developing the southern sector."

"Southern sector?" Stelle asked, her brow lightly furrowing. "You mean—the very regions where the mines are concentrated?"

"Predominantly," Mainer confirmed without hesitation. "I see no reason to conceal it. We're all adults here—no need to be shy about our true priorities. Infrastructure is merely the road. The goal is resources."

"But you propose to build that road through a fund in which the controlling stake belongs to the investors," she noted, flipping to another page in the documents. "That's no longer infrastructure. That's a transfer of rights."

Tal shrugged.

"Rights belong to those who can make something from nothing. Not to those whose name was once mentioned in a dusty chronicle."

"Then why not hold open tenders?" Stelle countered, calm and direct. "A transparent, competitive system for distributing licenses. Or… are you afraid that in such a scenario, House Solaris might offer better terms?"

"We are proposing dialogue," Mainer replied smoothly, but with pressure behind the words. "Tenders are filth. A marketplace. This is different. We're trying to build a space of trust. A partnership circle—of those who share a philosophy of development."

"Development or profit?" she asked softly.

Stahlberg smirked but said nothing. He simply raised his glass to his lips, as if toasting her: Go on, girl. Let's see how long you last with no allies.

Aventurine still said nothing. His gaze—deliberately averted from her—wandered over the documents, the glass, the patterns on the tablecloth. He didn't interfere. But his silence burned more than any words could have. Because even silence can take sides.

"In any case," Mainer continued, snuffing out his cigar, "within the framework of the fund, we propose allocating shares to each participant in proportion to their contribution. The Crown's financial department—twenty percent. The industrial consortium—forty. House Tal—fifteen. House Stahlberg—fifteen. And… should House Solaris choose to join, they would receive the remaining ten."

Stelle froze.

Her eyes dropped slowly to the documents. The numbers blurred slightly, but the message was already clear: ten percent was not a stake. It was a token. You're not needed—but we'll tolerate you.

"Ten?" she repeated. "Given that House Solaris controls the logistical hub without which none of the proposed routes can function… you consider that fair?"

"No," Mainer said with dead-serious calm. "We consider it… a gesture of respect."

"And generosity," Tal added. "Under other circumstances, we might have bypassed you altogether."

And then Aventurine raised his eyes to Mainer.

"No. You couldn't."

The words hung in the air like a blade at the throat. Even Tal leaned back slightly. Stahlberg paused mid-sip.

"The southern port is the only legally recognized gateway to the Arctir Strait," Aventurine continued. His voice was quiet—sharp as a dagger's edge. "Without it, the raw material remains… theoretical. So," he turned slowly to face Stelle, "ten percent isn't a gesture. It's a provocation."

She hadn't expected it. Not the tone. Not the meaning.

Was that… support?

No. No. This wasn't support. This was the Crown defending its own interests. The strait's infrastructure meant more than any one House. He was speaking as a statesman. But still—those words struck something deep inside, just faintly. Because for the first time since the meeting began, his voice had fallen like a shield.

"Then…" Mainer began, a strained smile tugging at his lips, "in that case, let House Solaris speak for itself. Are you with us… or not?"

And again—all eyes turned to Stelle. As if beneath a magnifying glass. Every word now wasn't just a sentence. It would be a decision. The final move in this game.

Mainer's question still echoed in the air, but to Stelle, it sounded muffled—like it had been asked through thick glass. The room dissolved. Only her thoughts remained.

Her throat was dry. A metallic tang filled her mouth. Her fingers trembled lightly on her knees—she quickly laced them tighter together, as if sheer will could still her hands.

If I say yes—they'll take what they want. Strip the copper, pass through the port, seize control. Through me. They'll make me the lever they'll use to gut the House. And throw me away once I'm spent.

If I say no—they'll unite against us. Declare war. On paper. Through connections. Through rumors. Through Aventurine… through Sunday?

The name flashed through her mind like a spark. He was somewhere far from this world, surely. Busy. And he couldn't possibly know what was unfolding here and now. And even if he did… he wouldn't act. That wasn't his way. He trusted the system.

And Aventurine…

She didn't know why she thought of him in that moment. Maybe because his gaze—through all of this—had been present. Heavy. Watching her. He had said nothing more—and that silence now frightened her more than any words could have. He had already spoken.

But he had said something about the ten percent. Called it what it was. A provocation.

Maybe not for her. Maybe not because of her. But still—he had cleared the path. Pushed the knife back a little. Given her… one breath of space.

Or the illusion of it.

And she—without even realizing when—turned her head slightly toward him. Not fully. Just her eyes. Gently, as if through a veil. But still—she looked.

And then—even more unexpectedly—allowed her brows to draw together ever so slightly. A barely perceptible crease. Invisible to the rest, but enough to crack the mask.

She said nothing. Asked for nothing. Demanded nothing.

She simply… was.

On her face—her first unmeasured gesture of the evening.

And something—something—seemed to flicker in Aventurine's expression. His eyelids shifted, not from fatigue, not from a blink, but… as if he noticed.

But his gaze dimmed again. He looked away.

Enough, she told herself. Don't think about him. He's not your shield. He's not your choice. He's not your truth.

Then Stelle drew a slow breath. Squared her shoulders. Placed her hands on the table—lightly, as if she were merely bracing herself. But in truth, it was a declaration of presence, of weight.

She let her eyes drift across each face at the table—Tal, Stahlberg, Mainer, even the assistant—almost as if checking that they were all prepared to listen. Only then did she speak. Calmly. Precisely. Quietly. But each word rang like a silver hammer striking crystal:

"House Solaris thanks you for the invitation to participate. However, in its current form, the proposal cannot be accepted. None of the parties have presented sufficient grounds for trust, transparency, or parity."

She leaned in slightly.

"We are not opposed to the fund. But we are opposed to privatization disguised as altruism. We will not surrender what was built three generations ago just because someone believes themselves cleverer."

A faint smile crossed her lips. Almost warm—but without warmth.

"Therefore—no. Not yet. But should you wish to discuss a true partnership model, we are open to renegotiation. Otherwise… we prefer to remain apart."

Silence. Absolute.

Tal slowly leaned back in his chair, his fingers tapping the table. The smile was gone.

Stahlberg stared darkly at the documents—and only the extra beat he gave one line betrayed the fact that he was still calculating.

Mainer exhaled. Slowly. Lips pressed together. Then he turned to Aventurine.

"Your Highness… would you care to comment?"

And once again—everything returned to him. His voice. His verdict.

All eyes shifted back to him.

But Stelle—this time—didn't look.

Aventurine didn't answer right away. He seemed not to hear the question. Or perhaps chose not to.

His gaze was locked on the empty space beyond the windows—where the lamplight faded, and the city breathed, unaware of the traps being laid inside this marble-walled room. His face was perfectly still. Utterly indifferent. Almost lifeless.

As if something within him was unfolding, silently. Something he had no intention of confessing—to anyone. Not even himself.

But to those who knew him well—however few of them sat in that room—it was clear: this was not comfort. This was hesitation. Unsummoned. Unspoken. Something in the careful machinery of his thoughts… had faltered.

He remembered the way she had looked at him.

Not with accusation. Not with pleading. Not even with a question.

But with the shadow of something far more complicated. Something he hated in himself above all else: doubt. Humanity.

And so he raised his eyes. Carefully. Slowly. Without sudden movement—like an executioner who would rather not meet the condemned's gaze. But must. Because protocol demanded it.

"House Solaris," he began at last—and his voice was even, cold-blooded, like a blade sliding across glass, "bases its refusal on a strategy that might merit respect—if it came with a willingness to negotiate. What we're seeing now is not a desire for dialogue, but an attempt to delay the inevitable."

He placed his elbows on the table, laced his fingers. His expression remained perfectly neutral, but now a new note crept into his voice—like something twitching beneath the skin. Anger barely held. Or pain.

"This isn't about copper. And it isn't about the fund. This is about whether House Solaris is capable of acting as a mature political body—or merely as a child, wounded that the world is not shaped around its sense of justice."

Stelle clenched her jaw. But she did not look away. Though the knuckles of her hands, curled into fists beneath the table, had gone white.

Tal gave a low, satisfied scoff.

"Well said," he concluded. "Shall we move on? Or are we going to spend the entire evening weeping about feelings?"

"I'd remind you," Stahlberg added dryly, "that the next item concerns winter-season logistical allotments. Which directly involves the southern port."

And again—blows. One after another.

Mainer turned to her with a cold smile.

"I assume you've prepared an answer for that point as well? Or would you prefer to… pause again?"

Stelle inhaled—through her nose. Slowly. Swallowed the pulse that thudded against her throat. And nodded.

"The answer is ready," she said. "We can guarantee full operation of the port under maximum load—provided the Crown formally upholds House Solaris's right to regulate shipments in the southern zone. Otherwise, responsibility for any delays will fall to the new management."

Mainer laced his fingers—clearly resisting the urge to clench them into fists.

"You're blackmailing us?"

"I'm issuing a warning," Stelle replied. "The difference lies in intent."

"You sound like a woman who's been allowed far too much," Tal hissed.

And in that moment—suddenly—Aventurine set down his glass.

Sharply. The sound cracked through the air, sharp enough to freeze everyone in place.

"Enough."

His tone was absolute. Not threatening. Final.

"We are not here to discuss Lady Stelle's manner. We are here to discuss the parameters of the fund. Personal jabs are not on the agenda."

Stelle's brows lifted slightly.

Was that… something like protection?

To what end?

Surely not regret—it's probably long dead.

So Stelle didn't let herself relax.

This wasn't sympathy. This wasn't about her. It was about preserving the form. The order. His world.

Mainer and Tal exchanged a glance. At last, Stahlberg spoke again:

"Very well. Then—to figures. Your Highness, you insisted the financial department remain neutral. However, without your final assessment, no formula can be approved."

Aventurine nodded slowly.

"In that case—I'll deliver the preliminary statement. Without emotion."

Without looking at anyone, he opened a folder bearing the royal crest. The paper inside gave a faint crackle as he unfolded it.

"Item one," Aventurine began, eyes still on the document, "share distribution is to be determined by initial investment—but may not exceed sixty percent cumulative control in the hands of a single party or their affiliated entities."

Stelle tilted her head slightly. That was unexpected. A limitation—curbing the influence of the strongest party. Was he deliberately undercutting their leverage? Or was it only dressed to look like balance?

"Item two," he continued, "all fund decisions must be approved by a tri-sector consensus: industrial, aristocratic, and royal. In the absence of unanimity, the issue passes to review by the chief council under the treasury."

A move toward the Crown, she understood. It meant that the final instance—was him. On paper: neutrality. In practice: control.

That was why they'd called him. He was their guarantee—their sword with a signature. The only one the Crown itself couldn't accuse of bias. Or so they believed.

Stahlberg leaned over his documents, marking something with his quill. Tal, judging by the tightening of his mouth, was already recalculating percentages. Only Mainer kept looking at Stelle—as if expecting her to crack at any moment.

"Item three," Aventurine said—hesitating slightly this time—"logistical facilities deemed critical to the fund's operation shall remain under the current owners' management for Phase I, not exceeding twelve months."

And there it was—a barely perceptible shift in Mainer's expression.

He's leaving the port with Solaris? But why?

"With a clause," Aventurine added at once, lifting his gaze. "If during this period, no verified reporting is submitted and production benchmarks are unmet, control may be temporarily transferred to fiduciary management until performance is restored."

Silence. A very delicate phrasing.

He was leaving the port in their hands—but on probation, Stelle understood. This wasn't generosity. It was a leash.

But… it wasn't a blow either. Not betrayal. He was giving her a chance.

She sat a little straighter and spoke aloud:

"House Solaris accepts this clause. On the condition that, in the event of activation, fiduciary management is transferred to a neutral party, not an industrial participant."

Aventurine gave a slight nod.

"Acceptable."

Only then did she notice the shift—almost a tangible wave rippling through the room. A sense of… unexpected equilibrium. The whole evening had hung on the edge of collapse, and now—somehow—they had crossed through it.

Tal still stared through her. Mainer had lost his smile. Stahlberg, for the first time, scribbled something longer than a line.

Aventurine returned to his papers, as if nothing had happened. Only the way his fingers traced the folder's edge betrayed that he was still not emptied inside.

And in that moment—for the first time that evening—Stelle allowed herself to breathe freely.

Not in relief. But truly.

She hadn't won. It would be foolish to think so. But she hadn't lost.

And while the others continued discussing secondary project details, she leaned back in her chair—not with arrogance, but with just a little more ease. No longer performing. Just… gripping herself a little less tightly.

And in some quiet second—she caught it.

He was watching her again. Not directly. Sideways. But watching.

And she… didn't look away immediately.

"In that case," Stahlberg was the first to break the silence, stacking his papers into a neat pile, "I suggest we consider the agenda concluded. We've gathered enough for a preliminary assessment."

"Further revisions—by letter," Mainer added. His voice remained smooth, but frustration flickered behind his eyes. "The council will reconvene in extended form in three weeks. Should House Solaris wish to submit addenda, they may do so in writing."

Stelle nodded.

"Certainly. Thank you for the discussion."

"A rather productive conversation," Tal said slowly, eyes fixed on Stelle. This time—no smirk. Not quite support, but not outright hostility either. Just a statement of fact.

One by one, they began to rise, lifting their glasses, straightening collars. The atmosphere shifted again—cold marble drawing the curtain of formality back over itself. The ritual of closure had begun.

Aventurine said nothing. He straightened, ran a hand over the coat handed to him. His movements were precise, almost meditative. Tonight, he was strikingly serious—nothing like the version of himself he wore as Ace.

When Stelle, gathering her documents, finally stood to give her parting bow—that was the moment his gaze slid toward her.

Just for a moment.

It ended quickly, as she turned her head toward Stahlberg, who had approached her.

"Lady Solaris," he said, inclining his head slightly. "I trust our future cooperation will prove fruitful."

She gave a gracious nod.

"Your presence added interest to the meeting," came Mainer's formal gesture. "I hope your stances remain just as… confident in the future."

Tal said nothing. He simply walked past her as if she didn't exist.

Stelle inclined her head slightly as the butler draped her shawl over her shoulders with practiced courtesy.

"Thank you for the evening. And for the opportunity to speak."

And that was it.

They left one by one. Some with aides in tow, some in silence. The space emptied, leaving behind only the scent of spent cigars and the wet ash in the trays. Stelle stood, her chin raised slightly, as if even she didn't quite know how she'd managed to endure until the very end.

She took a step toward the door. And just when she thought it was over—she heard footsteps behind her.

Aventurine.

He didn't rush. Didn't approach. He simply stopped a few meters away—hands in his pockets. His face remained still. Only his eyes moved—not looking directly at her, but somewhere nearby.

"You still don't know how to ask for help," he said quietly, almost in a whisper.

Stelle turned just slightly, not looking at him directly either.

"I didn't intend to."

"Yes," he exhaled, tilting his head faintly. "That's exactly why you're so damn infuriating."

And he walked forward, not turning back.

Leaving Stelle alone with his words. Or rather—quietly seething, imagining the day she'd bury his coffin with a satisfied smile.

Notes:

i hope it wasn't too much TwT

Chapter 14: Stelle's Date?

Summary:

It’s not a date, it’s a musical evening. That’s what Stelle keeps telling herself. The butterflies in her stomach have other opinions.

Notes:

hewo ;ззз
sorry for the delay, this chapter was a challenge for me hehe

warning: A LOT of letters but this is a one-time thing i promise😭

also, there's some Stelle singing involved here, and i picked songs sang by Yui Ishikawa (Stelle's seiyuu) for convenience haha, so if someone wondered how she sounds during the scene, here are the songs:
first part
second part
third part

The study was so silent that even the relentless ticking of the wall clock could be heard. The lilac lamps glowed dimly, casting deep shadows in the corners; the candlelight reflected on the polished black wood of the desk. The scent—wax seal, bergamot tea, ink on paper—hung in the air.

Stelle thought her heels sounded far too loud. Her own heartbeat—louder still. She stopped a few steps from the desk and lowered her gaze slightly. She didn't know how to begin. Then came a calm voice, touched with steel:

"So? How did it go?"

Kafka was seated, leaning back slightly in her chair, an elegant hand resting beneath a tarantula—large, heavy, its dark velvet legs moving slowly and deliberately, as if it understood there was no need to rush. Its glossy black eyes caught the lamp's reflection like tiny drops of onyx. The spider didn't seem like a pet—but rather a silent advisor, fiercely loyal to its mistress.

Stelle hadn't seen him outside the terrarium in quite some time. She longed to pet him—but sensed this was not the moment. She had to be serious.

She hesitated a little longer, glancing around. Then, inhaling more deeply, she began. She told everything, from beginning to end—omitting only the part about Aventurine. No need for Mother to know he'd called her someone's irritating "mistress." How else was she to avoid suspicion when she finally snapped and strangled him?

Her hands started to tremble as she reached the topic of the restrictions ultimately placed on the port.

Kafka said nothing, stroking the spider, who soon climbed from her palm to her forearm and settled there comfortably, like at home. Even after Stelle finished, the silence persisted. And that only made it harder for the silver-haired girl to bear.

Silence was worse than any scolding. Her shoulders tensed. Her lips pressed into a thin line. She could feel a chill creep down her spine.

At last, her mother took pity.

"Well then," the violet-haired woman said unhurriedly, as if trying each word on her tongue before letting it out. "Of all possible outcomes—this is not the best. But it is not the worst either."

Stelle blinked. Would the scolding come later? Or… not at all?

"You returned," her mother looked at her with an unreadable expression. "Not in chains. Whole. And with a clear mind. Of course, in the end, the matter of the Fund remains unresolved—only postponed—and you've returned with added restrictions. And yet…" she tilted her head, and for the briefest second, a flicker of warmth passed through her eyes, "I was preparing for them to cut us off entirely from the harbor. To seize all copper reserves—and more. I had drafts of concession letters ready in my 'just in case' folder. But you returned unharmed. And everything remains under our control. The port may come with conditions—but it is still ours."

She gently extended her hand to the terrarium, and the spider, with the same grace as its mistress, stepped onto the warm stone inside.

"This will be your responsibility now. The affairs of our House concern more than just me. Which means you will have to prove to the interim treasury curator that you are worthy of full rights. It's in your hands."

Stelle immediately nodded, resolve flashing in her eyes. This was her first real responsibility. She had to see the Fund issue through to the end—so Mother would know she could be trusted with other projects too.

I can't give up. Not now.

***

Two more weeks had passed. Mornings were spent with port ledgers and financial statements; afternoons were dedicated to parsing precedents from royal registries and reviewing the duties of the estate managers; evenings brought lessons with tutors—those hadn't been canceled either—and nights were for revisions and neatly written notes.

Stelle had combed through every family archive—because according to her mother, somewhere in there had to be a document proving that the copper mines in the south belonged to them not only by history, but by law. Every time she felt like giving up after yet another shelf yielded nothing, she imagined Aventurine's face when she finally put him in his place. And just like that, her strength returned. And at last—it worked. Turned out the damn paper had been buried inside a folder of decade-old income reports. She nearly screamed when she found it and couldn't stop grinning smugly for hours afterward.

Let's see who's laughing now, Your Peacock Highness.

Her office had become her primary residence. Even her bedroom felt like a guest chamber—a place she briefly visited before returning to where she truly belonged: her work. The lilac-shaded lamp was almost always on, casting warm shadows across the corners of the room. A raccoon had settled on the windowsill. Still the same one—slightly crooked, its nose bent from when it had been thrown onto the vendor's counter. It sat beside the teapot, staring forward—Stelle liked to believe he understood everything and never judged. Yes, loneliness and overwork did lead to psychosis—this was now a proven fact.

And then—like a reward for her perseverance—a package arrived from Mainer.

Thick grey paper. A green wax seal, slightly smudged, as if it had been pressed in haste. Inside—everything they had tried to impose during that infamous meeting: the draft of the Foundation's charter, regulations, technical appendices, and of course—the "confidential addendum," thinner than the rest, folded separately, as though placed inside reluctantly.

The first pages were full of pretty words. "Development," "revitalization," "for the benefit of the regions." Then came the numbers. The clauses. The mechanisms. What had been called "partnership" during the meeting now bore different names: "coordination," "optimization," "delegation of rights."

And the further she read, the more margin notes appeared: "vague," "no," "dangerous," "unacceptable." At one point, she reread the same paragraph three times before realizing that the word "infrastructure" was being used to disguise an attempt to bring the copper shipping routes under collective control.

And then—she found it.

An appendix, tucked near the end. Just a few lines: "coordination of flows"… "shipment priorities"… "determined by the committee."

And everything became clear.

She set the papers aside. Took a sip of tea. Then rose to retrieve that cursed decree that had stolen precious hours of her youth. Yellowed pages, neatly recorded dates, the royal seal. One document—over a century old. The other—re-signed by the current King. Both of them clearly, undeniably confirmed the copper rights. Granted to the Solaris family personally. With no right of transfer, no right of delegation.

Smiling triumphantly, she returned to her desk. Organized everything into piles. She already had an idea—one she'd been struggling to shape for an entire week. And now, she began to write.

First—a letter addressed to Duke Mainer, with copies sent to Baron Tal, Count Stahlberg, and the Head of the Treasury Office. As much as she would have loved to pepper it with colorful phrases describing how deeply she'd love to strike each of them in the face, unfortunately, professionalism and formality had to prevail.

 

Your Excellency,

Thank you for the proposed founding documents of the Regional Revival Fund and for the opportunity to engage in a substantive discussion regarding House Solaris's participation.

I greatly value the initiative—to direct private capital toward roads, aqueducts, electrification, and schools. House Solaris shares this goal and is ready to contribute. However, several provisions in the current draft are not acceptable, as they would compromise the public obligations entrusted to us by the Crown.

Below is a brief note of the conflicting clauses and details, along with proposed resolutions. Supporting documents are enclosed with this letter.

1) Regalia and Public Rights – Not Subject to the Fund.

The rights to copper exports and port duties cannot be included as contributions, collateral, or subject to "coordination" by the RRF. Instead, we propose:

1. Establishing an open-access protocol to the "Copper Corridor" at the Southern Port, administered directly by House Solaris as the holder of the regalia;
2. Stating clearly in the RRF charter that any decisions made by the Investment Committee do not apply to regalia or the published port tariffs.

2) Governance and Conflict of Interest Protection.

1. Investment Committee: 5 votes—one each for Mainer, Tal, the Stahlberg group, the Crown (Treasury), and House Solaris (represented directly, not via "operator");
2. Veto rights (for the Crown and Solaris): tariff changes, pledges of public income, transactions with related parties, issues concerning copper and ore, arbitration clauses;
3. Chairperson – an independent representative of the Crown Chancellery, holding the deciding vote in case of a tie.

3) Transparency.

1. Quarterly reporting to the Treasury; annual audits; public registry of related parties and beneficiaries.

4) Arbitration and Enforcement.

1. Forum – Royal Arbitration Chamber under the Chancellery; enforcement – only by judicial order; exclude any "interim management" of assets without a judge's ruling.

5) Contribution from House Solaris.

1. Financial – 10,000 gold.
2. In-kind – dock access time slots (as a service), without transfer of rights;
3. Organizational – publication of the Copper Corridor Access Protocol and coordination with the Miners' Guild.

I am convinced that such a structure would provide true benefit to the regions, protect public interests, ensure competitive procurement—and, therefore, protect the reputation of the project, which matters more than any profit margin.

I am prepared to finalize the wording line-by-line via correspondence within the next ten days, or to receive duly authorized representatives at the Solaris estate.

Respectfully,

Stelle Solaris

on behalf of House Solaris

 

Having finally finished, Stelle shook out her hand, trying to ease the ache from all the strain. Those complicated legal formulations had given her a splitting headache—and she had to watch her handwriting the entire time.

Still, she felt no relief. Quite the opposite, in fact. Now came the hardest part.

Now… she had to write a letter to the Head of the Chancellery. How convenient that it happened to be none other than the Second Prince Aventurine. Perfect. Wasting time and effort on a letter for him was the last thing she wanted, but she had to pull herself together.

She wasn't some naïve girl anymore, the one who had once slept with a stranger named Ace—who, as it turned out, was a prince. No. Now, she had to remain professional. Composed.

She sat for a while, chin resting on one hand, fingers tapping an odd rhythm against the desk, trying to shape the letter in her mind—one that would make him take her seriously.

Because knowing him, he might now go out of his way to sabotage it all out of spite. She needed arguments so compelling that if he refused her terms, he would be seen as the unreasonable one.

She prepared a fresh sheet, took the pen in hand… and stared at it blankly for several minutes. Her fingers pressed against her temple, trying to calm the pulsing migraine.

At last, with a defeated sigh, she began:

 

To His Highness, Prince Aventurine Wood

in his capacity as the independent representative of the Crown's financial department

 

Your Highness,

Allow me to express my appreciation for your presence at the recent discussion concerning the RRF initiative, and for the restraint you displayed—helping to keep the negotiations within the bounds of reason.

In fulfillment of the obligations entrusted to House Solaris, I hereby bring the following to your attention.

The appendix to the RRF draft agreement includes provisions for "exclusive coordination of copper export flows" and "associated regalia." I see in this phrasing a risk of contradiction with royal statutes that define both the legal nature and inalienability of the rights in question.

To support this, I enclose certified copies of the following:

1. Royal Patent No. 212, issued 104 years ago, which grants House Solaris the exclusive right to conduct foreign trade in copper extracted within the southern wedge—listing the mines explicitly, and forbidding partial or full alienation of this right without new sanction from the Crown;
2. Confirmation Act, signed five years ago by His Majesty Gopher Wood, affirming that the aforementioned Patent remains "unaltered in scope and nature of the right." Both documents bear the Chancellery's seal, registry markings, and renewed certification from the current date by the Registrar's Chamber.

You will also receive a copy of my letter to Duke Mainer, outlining proposed amendments.

As the appointed guardian of fiscal order on behalf of the Crown, I respectfully ask that you weigh all sides with fairness and, if possible, support the inclusion of the safeguards I have proposed in the final draft of the agreement.

I trust that your decision will remain impartial and ensure a proper balance between the interests of the Crown, the regions, and private investors.

Should you require any additional references—including archival inventories or a comparative legal analysis—I shall see to it that they are delivered without delay.

With respect,

Stelle Solaris

on behalf of House Solaris

 

Once she was finally done, Stelle reread the contents at least five times—just to make sure she hadn't accidentally slipped in a confession of love or a column of colorful three-story insults. Only after that did she attach the necessary documents and seal everything inside a larger envelope, pressing the Solaris seal into the wax. Her heart still fluttered—it felt so thrilling to have a seal of her own. For the first time, she truly felt like an adult.

Although… whether that was a good thing or not, she wasn't entirely sure.

Still, all these letters, all these seals… reminded her of something else. And that thought made her chest tighten.

She looked at the envelopes ready for delivery—but her gaze wasn't really there.

She had never found Sunday's letter.

She hadn't given up—had searched this entire time, still believing it would turn up somehow. But it was as if it had vanished into thin air. And she hadn't seen or heard from the Prince since the night of the concert…

Even knowing it was selfish and naïve, she couldn't help but admit it—she missed him. She wanted to speak with him again. To look into his eyes again. But she understood perfectly well that the Crown Prince was someone far above reach.

Even so, just the thought of him brought a soft flush to her cheeks, made her heart beat a little faster.

But hadn't she seen it in him? That beneath all the masks and duties, there was a man, too—a man who could grow tired, who had his own weaknesses? Maybe… maybe he, too, would like a brief distraction. Surely he didn't have time for such foolish things, but still…

He had said it himself, hadn't he? Back in the dressing room—that he wanted to hear her sing and play piano, despite the warnings. He'd said he was waiting for a written invitation. Maybe he'd only meant it as a jest… but what if he truly was waiting for her to take that step?

And even if he wasn't… maybe she should try anyway?

Stelle glanced at the little raccoon.

"What do you think? Is it a good idea?" she asked, as if genuinely expecting an answer.

And somehow—it felt like she heard one.

"No, I get it. He's probably busy, and he definitely doesn't have time for silly things like this…" she murmured. "But still… what if he says yes? He was the one who brought it up, wasn't he?"

After a short pause, she nodded to herself.

"You're right. I think so too," she said with a determined little smile. "But first… I need to ask Mother. I've never had a guest before. And I don't even know if she'll approve."

***

Stelle stood before her mother's office door as if it were the site of her execution. Her heart pounded—she had no idea how to begin this conversation without sounding either foolish or reckless.

She hesitated, wondering if this truly was a good idea… But before her doubts could fully take over, she raised her hand.

A single, quiet knock.

"Come in," came Kafka's voice immediately. She had, without a doubt, recognized her daughter's footsteps.

Stelle carefully opened the door. Inside, as always, a gentle twilight reigned. Folders were spread neatly across the desk, a single fountain pen rested on a stack of papers. Kafka sat, perfectly composed as ever: her violet hair pulled into a low chignon, her gaze lowered toward the documents—but already laced with a touch of expectation.

"Sit down, little star," she said without looking up. "You have the expression of someone about to ask permission to get married."

The silver-haired girl gave a nervous little laugh, glancing off to the side as if the spiderweb patterns on the walls had suddenly become fascinating.

"Well… almost," murmured the amber-eyed girl as she approached and settled on the edge of a chair. "I mean, no! I just wanted to discuss an idea…"

Kafka looked up. Her eyes narrowed, a glint of interest sparking in them, while the corners of her lips began to curl upward.

"Mmm? An idea?"

Stelle hesitated again, falling silent for a few moments. She was still trying to figure out how to frame it so it wouldn't sound completely ridiculous.

"So… after the concert, His Highness and I spoke for a little while. And at one point, the conversation turned to the fact that I've also been learning piano and singing. And he mentioned… that he would like to hear me perform. He seemed rather sincere about it. He even asked for a written invitation."

She looked down at her hands, studying her palms as she continued, more softly now:

"So I thought that… maybe I could invite His Highness over for a cup of tea. Or, well… an evening of music. Informally."

Kafka let out a melodic hum, her smile taking on a distinctly foxlike shape. Her fingers traced the rim of her coffee cup with deliberate elegance.

"So… you think he's waiting for you to make the next move?"

Stelle shrugged faintly.

"I don't know. But I don't want it to seem improper or childish. It just seemed to me that, if it's held at home, with dignity and no overfamiliarity, then maybe it could be…"

"Politically appropriate," her mother finished smoothly, tilting her head just slightly.

Stelle blinked.

"That's… not what I meant—"

"But I do," Kafka continued calmly. "Darling, if you're looking for a decision, allow me to remind you: His Highness defended your honor at your debut, in full view of the entire court. And then, he held a concert in your honor, composed specifically for you."

She paused, leaning back into her chair, crossing her legs with deliberate grace.

"And then… his personal cloak. That cloak you brought home draped over your gown like something out of a romantic novel. And after that, you're asking me whether you may invite him over for tea?"

Stelle lowered her gaze, fidgeting with her fingers to calm her racing heart and the flood of embarrassment.

"So… what do you think?" she asked quietly. "I don't want to act rashly. If you say 'no,' I won't write the invitation."

Kafka remained silent for a long moment. Then, slowly, she reached for her cup, took a measured sip—and finally said:

"I think… it's a brilliant idea."

Stelle's head snapped up as if struck by lightning. Her brows shot upward at once.

"Really?" she exclaimed—louder than she meant to.

"Really," Kafka replied with a soft smile and a nod. "But only under two conditions. First, you'll arrange everything so that it doesn't look like 'tea with a prince'—but a cultured evening befitting your House's new position. The invitation must be perfectly composed—not too personal, but not hollow either. Understand this: you're not inviting some boy you happen to like. You're inviting a political figure—one whose every step sends ripples through the kingdom."

"I understand," Stelle nodded eagerly, her joy radiating in every fiber of her being, unmistakable in the beaming smile spreading across her face. "I'll think through everything! Every single detail!"

"Second…" Kafka chuckled, setting her cup aside. "Don't try to convince yourself this is only about the music. If you want to see him—don't be afraid to admit that. At least to yourself. It's not a crime."

Stelle flushed deeper, her lashes fluttering as she avoided her mother's piercing gaze—a gaze that always seemed to see right through her. In truth, she needed her mother's approval far more than she'd realized.

"Go on," Kafka added. "Write the letter. But do it like a grown woman. And if you want…"—her voice softened—"write it so that between the lines, he senses that you're not inviting him for politics. You're inviting him."

The candlelight flickered. In the corner, the spider carefully climbed out onto a branch and froze there, as if attentively watching the scene unfold.

Stelle rose from the chair, a shy smile on her lips, her voice quieter now:

"Thank you, Mama."

"No need to thank me. I'm simply giving you what you're already ready for." Kafka's gaze remained firm, but there was unmistakable tenderness in it. "Oh—and one more thing… Don't forget to choose a nice outfit. He's already seen you in full stage attire and in formal dress. Now let him see you in something simpler—something almost homely. No excessive gold, no frills. Just something that makes you feel comfortable. Trust me… men notice that."

All Stelle could do was nod again and again. Her heart felt tickled by soft little feathers. That sweet tingle of joyful anticipation gave her all the strength she needed to move forward.

***

Stelle wasted no time. Short of sprinting down the hall, she practically flew into her study. She flopped into the chair with such force the teacup jumped—thankfully, it was empty.

She made sure the paper she'd chosen was perfectly smooth and pristine. Then shook out her hands, as if that would help her strike the right tone—or at least steady her penmanship. Her heart thundered with nervous anticipation.

She sat up straight. Took a deep breath. And, gripping the pen a little tighter, began to write each letter with more care than she had ever given anything in her life, following every rule of proper calligraphy.

 

To His Highness, Crown Prince Sunday Wood

Keeper of Order and Regent of the Department of Culture

 

Your Highness,

In fulfillment of the verbal agreement made in the dressing room of the Grand Theatre on the evening of the concert (witnesses: two; proof: only my word), I hereby invite you to a chamber music evening, to be held at the Solaris estate.

The event is scheduled for the nearest date Your Highness deems possible—for House Solaris values both Your Time and Your eardrums. The evening shall include light tea, a performance of piano pieces in three parts (varying in quality, but equally sincere), as well as unauthorized vocals without orchestral backing.

By this letter, House Solaris disclaims responsibility for any moral, physical, or aesthetic harm caused by the musical performance of its aforementioned representative. It also refuses to cover expenses related to hearing damage, emergency evacuation from the music hall, or sudden loss of faith in academic harmony.

Nevertheless, I do believe the evening may prove not only culturally safe, but—given a measure of luck—even… pleasant. Or at the very least, tolerable. I, for my part, vow to keep the notes in key, the teacups upright, and the conversation within reasonable bounds.

I would be most grateful for confirmation of Your Highness's attendance, in whichever form is most convenient—personal letter, courier, carrier pigeon, or threatening note slipped beneath the door. All formats are welcome.

With respect and trepidation,

Stelle Solaris

by oversight: representative of House Solaris,

by conviction: grateful listener,

and, as of today—likely,

the cause of Your future headache.

Stelle set down her pen. Went still. Squinted slightly as she reread the letter.

"All right. Formal—check. Lighthearted—check. Catastrophe warning—included. Perfect."

She folded the letter carefully, slipped it into a House-embossed envelope, and after a moment's pause, pressed her seal to the wax.

Exhaling, she leaned back in her chair and looked up at the ceiling. Her heart was pounding.

"Well then, Smart Paws," she whispered, "if he doesn't flee to the mountains after this… maybe we have a chance."

The raccoon, as always, said nothing.

She called for a servant, handing over the letters as if they were precious gems, and asked that they be delivered with the utmost care and urgency. And though His Highness had not yet confirmed anything, her heart beat with joy, and her smile refused to fade. He might decline—but even so, there was a quiet warmth within her.

All that remained now was to wait—with bated breath.

***

Light in Aventurine's study fell in lazy streaks—just a few slivers slipped through the heavy drapes, enough to keep him from falling fully asleep at the desk. A sluggish fire crackled in the hearth, holding back the morning chill. As always, the desk was buried under a sea of letters.

Some hadn't even been opened: a few bore the royal insignia, others the personal seals of noble Houses—either too desperate or too arrogant for their own good. But all equally dull.

The Prince's expression mirrored his feelings toward this routine perfectly—vacant, cheek resting against a fist, slouched over the desk, his entire posture radiating boredom.

"Well then…" he drawled, leaning back in his chair. "What have you brought me today, dear subjects, to keep me entertained?"

The first letter: a proposal for a new transit tax on lumber. Into the wastebasket. The second: a petition to fund a theatre—sickeningly perfumed with incense. That one was for Sunday; and thus, also headed for the bin. The third—a love letter from some marquise. Sloppy handwriting, the phrase "sleepless nights" appeared three times. He didn't even finish half of it. Gone.

He flipped the next batch of envelopes—and suddenly, his hand stilled. A heavy, properly made envelope. Thick parchment. A seal marked with a delicate spiderweb.

House Solaris.

"Of course," he murmured, eyes narrowing as a flicker of interest finally lit them. "The little spiders can write, too."

The blond Prince slit the edge of the envelope slowly. Not like the others. Almost… with anticipation.

The handwriting was straight, meticulous. Not a single blot. Not perfect, like Sunday's—there was a subtle trace of disorder in the slight variations between letters, in the tilt of the lines. Just like Stelle herself—trying to be flawless, but a keen eye would still spot the cracks.

But the contents… landed like a slap. Polished. Diplomatic. Cold.

No emotion. No hints. Not a single word that might even suggest anything had ever passed between them.

He read slowly. Every line. Every turn of phrase. And with each paragraph, something in him began to burn—somewhere between irritation, bitterness, and that dangerous heat he'd been trying to smother for so long.

"In fulfillment of the obligations entrusted to House Solaris, I hereby bring the following to your attention…"

Obligations, hm? So that's why she's writing—to fulfill a duty?

"I respectfully ask that you weigh all sides with fairness…"

How delicate. How composed.

As if he were just another official. Just one name on her list of recipients. As if her lips had never whispered flushed words into his ear, as if she hadn't trembled under his hand, hadn't moaned, hadn't—

Aventurine's fingers tightened around the letter, crumpling it slightly. He froze.

Exhaled, sharply. Then tossed the letter onto the desk and leaned back, staring up at the ceiling.

How he despised this side of her. That carefully-constructed indifference. That calculated distance.

It had to be a game. To get his attention. Right…?

There was no way she'd just forgotten and moved on while he… remained stuck with thoughts of her even after two whole months. That wasn't how this was supposed to work. It was supposed to be the other way around.

Damn it, everything was supposed to be different.

Clicking his tongue, the blond Prince stood up sharply and walked to the window, pausing to stare into the pale morning sky.

How pathetic. She'd managed to get under his skin so effortlessly. And not even with screaming or accusations—but with formality. She hadn't written to him like an enemy. Not even like someone she once knew. Just… like another official. Just a man she'd never really seen, who happened, incidentally, to control the treasury.

He didn't notice how tightly his fingers gripped the windowsill's edge.

His blood boiled, and his heart was pounding faster.

"What a little…" he hissed to no one. "Witch…"

Aventurine was ashamed to admit it, even to himself—but the desire hadn't gone away. It had gotten worse. Deeper. It had become a gnawing hunger, made only stronger by her indifference. He wanted so badly to shatter that self-assured composure.

And hell, he didn't even know what he wanted more—to push her out of politics completely… or to bend her over right here, face-down on his desk, right on top of the royal patent copy she'd so proudly enclosed. Just so she'd stop daring to look at him with that detached politeness.

He shut his eyes and ran a hand over his face. Idiot. He'd sworn never to return to anyone already on his list. And now? Was he really this bitter just because someone did to him what he'd always done to others?

He couldn't help but remember—it was she who left first. She declined his escort. Walked away without even a glance, saying only a curt "goodbye." She was the one who rejected his kiss—just like that, so shamelessly.

Everything about her infuriated him. Provoked him. Aroused him.

"I trust that your decision will remain impartial…"

Oh, little girl. You have no idea just how far from impartial it could be. Ruining her day would be easy—one or two "accidental" leaks, a few delays in the right offices, a single misinterpreted clause, and she'd have a migraine for the next several months.

He glanced at the letter again. His fingers twitched, tempted to tear it—yet he didn't.

No, he would play along. Let the little girl who thought herself too grown-up try to outmaneuver him from her high horse.

Soon, Aventurine was back at his desk. The nib of his pen tapped lazily against the wood as he stared off at nothing in particular, elbow propped on the surface. In front of him lay a crumpled draft—crossed out almost entirely.

Responding to Stelle's letter wasn't just work. It felt more like a duel.

He read her letter again, slowly bringing his now-cold coffee to his lips. A low chuckle escaped him.

"So pristine—not a single opening to strike. What a good girl."

And then, he began to write.

The ink settled in clean lines. His handwriting was the same as always—his formal, classic script, betraying no haste, no irritation, and no hint of emotion.

To Lady Stelle Solaris

Representative of House Solaris

Within the framework of the Regional Revival Fund initiative

My Lady,

Thank you for your timely and thoroughly prepared letter, as well as for the attached documents—presented with exceptional care and commendable precision. Such diligence fully aligns with the high standards expected from the representatives of so old and influential a House. Your attention to the language of the RRF agreement commands respect.

As for the regalia and copper routes: your concerns have been duly noted. The enclosed copies of the patents confirm the legal basis of your claim, and I will attach them to the following package of documents to be submitted for Chancellery review. I appreciate the legal discipline you've demonstrated.

The matter of incorporating your proposed safeguards into the Fund's regulations will be presented for discussion at the next committee meeting. As you are, of course, aware, the final decision depends on the consolidated judgment of the Investment Committee, not solely on the Crown's position. Nevertheless, your contribution will be duly acknowledged.

Allow me to extend a personal note of appreciation for the grace and composure with which you've conducted this correspondence—especially given our… prior history of engagement. Not everyone is capable of maintaining such a steady, diplomatic tone after such an emotional beginning. It is… impressive.

I am confident that if you continue to display the same level of discipline and dedication to the cause, House Solaris stands to achieve considerable success.

And who knows—perhaps even avoid catastrophe.

With best regards,

Aventurine Wood

On behalf of the Crown

In his capacity as independent representative of the Treasury

He set the letter aside. Didn't smile. Didn't blink. Just stared at the signature.

The letter was almost offensively polite. Every word—a bullet with a silencer.

With practiced precision, he slid the page into an envelope, sealed it with the Chancellery emblem, and summoned his secretary, issuing instructions for immediate delivery.

That could've been the end of it. Should've been.

But he remained seated for a long time after, staring at the candle as its wax dripped slowly into the holder—his thoughts circling back to those infuriating amber eyes that once burned with fire when they looked at him… and the way she had lit up at the sight of a simple spider-shaped candy.

Now, he could only daydream that she might ever smile like that again—at him.

But what maddened him most… was that he still cared.

And that—that—was the worst part.

"…I hate you, Stelle."

***

The morning had begun lazily, as if the sun itself was in no rush to rise above the rooftop of the estate. Dawn came so late now that the sky still looked too dim to justify getting out of bed at all.

Stelle sat at her desk, stifling a tired yawn behind her hand. She was slowly, sleepily sorting through the previous day's reports, each one marked with brightly colored tabs. When suddenly—there was a knock at the door.

"Come in."

A maid entered, holding a tray with two envelopes—each one completely different in character. One was heavy, cream-colored, bearing the seal of the Royal Chancellery and the deep impression of its insignia. The other—midnight blue, sealed in gold.

"These letters were delivered separately from the rest of the mail, Lady Stelle," the maid said calmly, bowing.

The silver-haired girl was instantly wide awake. She straightened, eyes sharp with sudden clarity. She murmured a quick thank-you and accepted the letters with hands that trembled ever so slightly. Her gaze lingered on the blue envelope—and her heart skipped a beat. She couldn't believe it…

Sunday had replied.

And so quickly, too! It was unbelievable—she could hardly wait to read it.

As soon as the maid left, she turned to her most trusted therapist:

"Do you see this?! He replied! He actually replied!" she squeaked, holding the letter up to the raccoon's little face, her eyes glowing with delight.

She didn't want to open it yet. Not just yet...

Her gaze shifted to the other envelope—and her smile faltered a little. She sighed heavily.

"Ah… and then there's him... Fine. Bad news first, dessert after."

So, with careful hands, she set the Crown Prince's letter back down—like something fragile—and instead reached for the other one.

Aventurine's reply.

She broke the seal quickly and unfolded the paper.

It was the first time she'd seen his handwriting—and it was beautiful, annoyingly so. Clean, precise, textbook-perfect calligraphy. Almost mechanical. Then again, not far off from its owner.

She read at a calm pace, without any real emotion. Her only concern was whether he had tried to sabotage her somehow, or—miracle of miracles—had chosen to be fair for once.

"Your concerns have been noted…" — dry, measured.

"The enclosed copies confirm… will be included in the packet for Chancellery review…"

Her eyes skimmed line after line, focusing on meaning rather than tone. He didn't dispute the documents. Didn't challenge the legal validity of the Patent. More than that—he explicitly stated he would include the copies in the main file for the Investment Committee.

That meant—for now—he wasn't planning to publicly contest her claim to the copper rights.

Stelle tilted her head, narrowing her eyes.

Suspicious compliance. Had he finally grown a brain?

Then came the formalities. A polite acknowledgment that her proposed safeguards would be submitted for discussion, paired with a subtle reminder that the committee's decision—not his alone—would determine the outcome. A clean, careful phrasing: a gesture of support, but also of distance.

Then came the paragraph that made her brows draw together:

"Allow me to express personal appreciation for the grace and composure with which you've handled this correspondence—especially considering our prior interactions."

Stelle's lips twitched into a wry smile. So much for hoping the past wouldn't be mentioned.

"Are those supposed to be compliments, or is he mocking me?" she muttered to her one and only confidant.

She flipped the letter back to the first page, tapping the edge with her nail as she held it between her fingers. Altogether, the message was clear: he wouldn't block her proposals on formal grounds. But he wasn't going to champion them with his influence either.

If they passed—it would be due to circumstance, not his endorsement.

She set the letter aside on the edge of the desk, placing it atop a stack of other documents.

"Well then, looks like the peacock finally found his sense," she sang out, shrugging with exaggerated nonchalance. "Didn't expect him to be that polite. I do hope he cried while writing the part where he had to admit I was right."

The amber-eyed girl broke into a sly grin, nose tilting proudly toward the ceiling.

"Yes, yes, thank you—praise me, Smart Paws. I know I'm a political genius."

There was no anger in her chest. No thrill. To her, the letter was just another line item in her professional dossier—important, yes, but not personal. Even the mention of their past didn't deliver the jab he might've intended. Quite the opposite—her thoughts had already moved on to how she could use this letter.

She pulled out a clean sheet and quickly jotted a few notes:

"Patent copies in final packet,"

"Will raise safeguards at committee—clarify voting procedure,"

"Speak with Tal separately re: position."

Only once the ink dried and the sheet was safely tucked into its folder did Stelle's gaze drift back to the blue envelope.

Finally.

Everything else in the room seemed to blur into nothing but that.

It lay before her like something alive. The paper looked soft to the touch, slightly matte, with a delicate texture—like expensive fabric. The golden seal of the Royal Emblem shimmered faintly in the morning light, as if it held a sliver of dawn locked within it.

Stelle realized her palms were damp with nervous sweat.

Her fingers touched the edge—then recoiled, as though the letter might burn her. She drew in a deep breath, then exhaled slowly—but her heart only pounded harder. Everything she'd just read in Aventurine's letter faded into the background—because right here, right now, there was only this.

The very fact that Sunday had replied so quickly... her mind was already spinning.

That meant he read it right away. He didn't set it aside among a hundred other letters for "later." That had to mean something, didn't it?

"Okay… easy… breathe…" she whispered, though her voice trembled.

She steadied her breathing, but her fingers still quivered. Carefully, she lifted the edge of the seal with a letter knife, taking care not to damage the imprint. Every motion felt too slow. It was as if the ink, the pen, his handwriting, was already alive in her hands—and one hasty move might break the spell.

At last, the envelope gave way. The paper unfurled with a soft rustle—and her heart skipped again.

Her eyes swept across the first few lines, but the meaning didn't sink in immediately. She was searching, ravenous, for that part—for where he would mention her invitation. Whether he would accept… or call her presumptuous.

She caught herself smiling—just at the sight of his handwriting. Calm, steady, flawless—by far the most beautiful script she had ever seen.

The silver-haired girl froze, holding the letter with both hands, and for the first time that morning, the ticking clock faded into silence. There was only him—in these lines, in the turns of phrase, in the way he addressed her.

Her chest tightened with joy… and something else—an ache of anticipation. As if she already knew the answer in this letter would change not just her day… but everything that followed.

She sank back into her chair, hugging the letter a little closer to her, allowing herself just one moment… to sit with it in her hands, without rushing, trying to calm the flutter in her chest. But her heartbeat only grew louder—thudding in her ears, crashing against her ribcage.

"All right…" she exhaled softly. "Here goes nothing…"

 

Lady Stelle,

Your letter reached me with such swiftness that I dare say fate itself took measures to ensure I would not delay in my reply. With a hand on my heart, I confess—I did not expect, but I hoped you would fulfill the promise you made, and would not presume I had spoken in jest.

First and foremost, allow me to thank you for the invitation—and for the rather intriguing phrasing you chose for a letter addressed to a member of the Royal Family. In truth, your words brought a smile to my face, which, I admit, surprised even me.

As for the matter itself—I accept your invitation. With pleasure, but also with the attentiveness befitting any event hosted by a House of such standing.

If you do not object, I propose that we meet this coming Wednesday, at four o'clock; my stay would not last longer than two hours. My schedule allows for it, and I trust the hour shall not interfere with yours.

In return, I shall take the liberty of bringing a small gift—merely as a personal token of gratitude for your courage and effort. Please do not regard it as a gesture that binds you to anything; it is simply a sign of appreciation for your efforts—and, I dare say, your talent.

Until that day… allow me the right to feel a touch of anticipation.

With respect and gratitude,

Sunday Wood

Crown Prince

Keeper of Order and Regent of the Department of Culture

P.S. I promise to keep your letter safe and guard it from any sudden disappearances.

Stelle hadn't known what exactly to expect. She had hoped—yes. Dreamed—even more so. But had she truly believed he would respond so quickly, and so… personally? No. She hadn't dared.

Her fingers gripped the letter as she read, word by word, holding her breath in the dangerous parts. Her eyes flew over the lines—and in each one, she heard his voice. Calm. Deep. Slightly amused. As if he were sitting beside her, reading it aloud.

"…fate itself took measures…" — and her heart began to race.

"…brought a smile to my face…" — and a nearly foolish smile spread across her own lips.

But what struck her most was how he wrote "with pleasure." Not "I am obliged to accept" or "I acknowledge receipt"—but pleasure. A simple word. And yet warmer than any fireplace.

And then—"a touch of anticipation." So casual. So unrequired. So unroyal. And yet it sent a storm rising in her stomach, as if someone had stirred her insides with a silver spoon.

Only his last words made her pout slightly.

"Oh come on… I didn't mean for it to disappear!" she wailed, lifting the letter overhead in protest.

Her heart pounded so hard and fast her cheeks were burning. She was practically trembling from joy. She read it again. And again. And again. If paper could tear from over-reading, this one would've disintegrated by now.

Every sentence was refined and restrained—but there was warmth flowing between the lines. And that warmth lit up everything inside her.

At last—like something inside had finally caught up with the moment—she gave a little squeal of joy and hugged the letter tight to her chest.

"He accepted! Did you hear that? He's coming—Sunday himself! Do you understand?!"

She wanted to laugh and cry at the same time.

And then—it hit her.

She shot to her feet. Instantly, as if on command. Papers rustled, the chair tipped slightly.

"Oh no—!" she spun toward the raccoon. "We only have three days!"

The raccoon on the windowsill stared at her with its eternal expression of mute approval.

"What do I wear? What do I play? Where should he sit? Tea—what kind of tea does he like?" She was already pacing in circles around the study. "Will our music room do? Is it too plain for him? And guests—I'll need to invite someone, or it'll be too obvious! Or—or maybe not…?"

She stopped, pressing a hand to her forehead. Exhaled. Nearly laughed.

"I've gone mad. It's just a musical evening. Informal. Homey…"

A pause. A breath. And then—almost as a confession:

"…and still… he's coming."

And how was she supposed to stay calm now? Every second from now on, she would think only of that.

***

The following days flew by in a fever.

To Stelle, it felt like she would never polish her skills enough to present them to Sunday himself without shame—though, truth be told, she wasn't sure a lifetime would be enough to fix that.

But still, she gave it her all.

First and foremost came the rehearsals. She discussed the repertoire with Master Brinolf and Madame Freya—her mentors for years, and the two people who knew better than anyone else what she was truly capable of. In the end, they chose three pieces Stelle had known for quite some time. All that remained was to refresh them and rehearse thoroughly.

The silver-haired girl temporarily set aside her other duties—on her mother's initiative, as an exception, since the reason was considered sufficiently important. She lost count of how many hours she spent in the music hall, playing the melodies over and over again—first the accompaniment alone, then the vocals, then together, then all over again.

Madame Freya patiently corrected her hand positions. Master Brinolf occasionally stopped her mid-song to fine-tune her breath control and diction.

"Don't rush, Lady Stelle," he reminded her, one brow lifting, his mustache twitching comically along with his lips. "If His Highness is going to flee your 'concert,' he'll do so long before you reach this passage."

By the end of the third day, she was finally able to play and sing well enough to avoid despair in the eyes of her teachers—so that was a victory.

But music was only half the battle.

Now Stelle stood in the dressing room, sifting through every gown she owned. For a brief moment, she felt like an actress preparing for the final, most important act of the play. The dress had to be special—but not ceremonial. Almost home-like—but polished enough to appear before the Crown Prince without looking shabby or strange.

As always, Kafka appeared at the most decisive moment.

"All right," she murmured, her gaze sweeping across rows of fabrics. "Gold and lace—out. You're not trying to blind him to tears, are you?"

"I think… something soft?" Stelle ventured carefully, running her hand along a bolt of pale cream silk.

"Soft, yes. But with neckline," Kafka countered, pulling out a dress of fine matte fabric in a shade of gold that beautifully set off her daughter's eyes. The bodice was gently off-shoulder, the sleeves light and semi-transparent, the skirt loose and flowing, catching the light with a gentle shimmer that whispered rather than screamed.

"This," she said.

Stelle nodded at once, eyes sparkling as she imagined how His Highness might react when he saw her…

They chose shoes she could easily use with the piano pedals—soft, with a graceful low heel. Jewelry: minimal. A fine chain with a small star-shaped pendant, and her favorite star-shaped earrings.

Stelle would never admit it to anyone, but that evening—standing in front of the mirror—she rehearsed.

A gentle tilt of the head for her greeting. That one particular smile: warm, but not too personal. She even practiced what to say—rehearsing both tone and expression, over and over, searching for just the right way to welcome him.

***

The winter sky was bound by leaden clouds, and the air rang with frost—fine, clear, like the chime of glass. The horses moved evenly, the carriage wheels creaked across the packed snow as if reluctant to disturb the white silence.

The carriage drew to a halt before the carved gates of House Solaris's estate. The Prince slowly lifted his gaze from the folder on his lap—he had stopped reading it long ago. His thoughts refused to settle on work this morning, a rare occurrence. Beside him rested a small box—rectangular, wrapped in velvet the color of midnight. A slender golden ribbon was tied around it, making it resemble the case for a precious gem.

Sunday didn't know whether she would like the gift. He didn't know how she would receive the gesture. But he hoped for the best. After all, there was something in this gift that went far beyond mere formality.

The carriage slowed.

Sunday straightened gradually and looked out the window. The wrought-iron fence stood adorned in frost. The lanterns cast a muted glow beneath a veil of rime. The Solaris residence—gothic, austere, proud. Not ostentatious, but imposing, much like Kafka herself. Yet it wasn't the mansion that caught his eye—it was the figure waiting by the gate.

She was there. Against the white snow-covered landscape, she looked like sunlight piercing through a cloudy sky.

And in that moment, all the cold in the world retreated.

Snow crunched beneath his boots as he stepped down from the carriage. His cloak rustled faintly, and the air was so crisp it felt like it could carve words into it. But he said nothing. He only watched.

Stelle stood, wrapped in his cloak—that same dark blue, embroidered with gold along the hem. He recognized it instantly. On her, it looked slightly too large, but that only made the sight more tender, almost painfully so.

But it wasn't just the cloak.

Her hair.

For the first time, he saw it unbound. Until now, they had always met in formal settings, where noble ladies kept their hair pinned high. But today, it framed her blushing face—perhaps from the cold, or perhaps from something else—and cascaded over her shoulders and back like a soft mist, with a few strands curling slightly from the damp. It lent her an unfamiliar softness.

A gust of wind stirred a lock of hair, and Sunday's breath caught, so subtly it might have gone unnoticed.

She looked… different. Not for the eyes of court society, not dressed to impress a hall of nobles. She looked comfortable. And that alone gave her a certain glow. She hadn't tried to impress—yet that made her all the more striking.

Sunday stood still, unwittingly held in place.

He wore a light-colored frock coat with delicate gold embroidery along the sleeves, a dark blue waistcoat, and a long formal jacket, trimmed with symbols and bearing the royal crest on the back. As always, flawless. One look at him made it clear: this was no ordinary man.

But when he looked at her—none of that mattered.

Stelle's eyes widened, and her breath formed a cloud of frost in the cold air. She bowed, as though she still didn't quite believe he had truly come.

"Your Highness!" she exclaimed, her voice a breathless chime.

He inclined his head in reply, the corners of his lips lifting ever so slightly.

"Lady Stelle," he greeted, voice low and soft. "You must be freezing. You shouldn't have waited out here for me. I'm glad to see the cloak still serves you well."

The girl laughed awkwardly.

"I just didn't want you stepping out to be greeted by a mere footman or, worse, by no one at all… and I thought it might be nice to show you that I don't lose all of your things. Ah—and please don't worry, I'm not cold at all."

Naturally, it was in that very moment that her body betrayed her—she sneezed quietly into her hand, letting out a faint, surprised squeak and offering a sheepish smile.

The Prince only shook his head gently. Like a true gentleman, he didn't tease her for it.

"Then, if you'll allow me…" he said, extending his hand. "It would be my pleasure to accompany you."

She accepted the gesture with a bashful nod. For some reason, each time she touched him, her body responded more intensely than the last. It wasn't the first time they'd walked side by side like this—yet today, it unsettled her more deeply. She still couldn't quite believe any of this was real.

The Prince looked around with composed interest, letting the girl lead the way—he had never been inside the Solaris estate before, and his intrigue was genuine. The manicured shrubs were dusted with snow, though the paths they followed were so perfectly cleared, it was as if snow had never touched them at all.

Nearby guards exchanged wide-eyed glances and whispered to one another, clearly wondering if they were experiencing some kind of group hallucination. Sunday didn't seem to notice their stares—or more likely, had long since grown accustomed to them.

The doors were opened before them, and only when warmth wrapped around her did Stelle finally exhale softly.

"…All right, I'll admit it—I was a little cold," she confessed, her voice trembling slightly, her nose and cheeks flushed a comical shade of pink.

A quiet chuckle sounded from the Prince. He released her hand soon after—which Stelle found herself oddly reluctant to let go of—but then she noticed the small velvet box. She had been so focused on his eyes earlier that she'd forgotten everything else entirely. Her lashes fluttered as she tilted her head, curiosity lighting her features.

Sunday spoke first.

"A small token of appreciation. For the invitation."

Her gaze darted from the box to his face, lips parting in surprise. Her heart gave a little leap—giddy, breathless—and she barely stopped herself from squealing aloud. She took the box gently, as though it were made of porcelain.

Their fingers brushed as it passed between them—and even through gloves, the contact sent a ripple through her entire body.

"You really didn't have to," she said, smiling with anticipation as she turned the box carefully in her hands. It wasn't heavy, but substantial enough to stir curiosity. "Thank you, truly! I should be the one thanking you for finding time to come. Honestly, I didn't think you would actually say yes… And I don't even have anything to offer you in return, I feel awful—"

The Prince's lashes lowered slightly, as if preparing to speak. But just then, a loud crash broke the moment—a tray clattered to the floor.

Stelle jumped.

Both of them turned toward the source of the sound at once.

It was a maid—young, possibly new—her face red to the tips of her ears as she openly gawked at the Prince. And she wasn't the only one. Servants and guards seemed to appear from nowhere, gathering like an impromptu audience.

The maid scrambled to pick up the tray, stammered out an apology, and vanished behind a corner in a blur of shame.

Stelle sighed.

"I apologize, Your Highness. They… don't exactly see Crown Princes every day."

But he didn't seem offended. In fact, Sunday hardly spared the staff more than a passing glance. It was clear—he was far more interested in Stelle herself.

"Don't trouble yourself. I've grown used to attention."

She, however, was quietly dying of embarrassment. The moment he stepped inside, he was greeted by the utter unprofessionalism of her household staff—splendid. She quickly averted her gaze, took a small step aside, and clutched the box to her chest like it contained her very heart.

"I can hardly wait to open it," she confessed, as if speaking more to the box than to him, "but I thought it best to delay that pleasure… until after my performance."

Her voice was bright, but beneath it lingered a tremor of anxious anticipation. She lifted her gaze and added, almost repentantly:

"In case, well… you change your mind and decide to reclaim it as compensation for emotional damage. Or possibly… as grounds for legal action."

Her smile was guilty, self-deprecating.

The Prince tilted his head slightly, and for a moment, he looked almost wounded by the idea.

"Do I truly strike you as the sort of man who would take back a gift?" he asked softly—quietly—but something in that voice was tangible. A warmth that sank beneath the skin.

Stelle froze for a breath. Then turned away again, adjusting the cloak around her shoulders, and answered in a different tone—playful, almost wistful.

"I think… you're capable of anything. Especially when it concerns the defense of harmony and musical taste."

He exhaled faintly, a soft huff of amusement, but the smile didn't quite reach his lips—only the corners of his eyes gave him away, crinkling ever so slightly.

"In any case, Your Highness," Stelle continued, her eyes lighting up, "how would you feel about a little tour? Do you remember how you showed me the gallery and the conservatory during my debut? We have one as well—and I'd like to return the favor, in kind."

His answer came without hesitation. A gentle nod.

"With pleasure, my lady."

But first, she summoned one of the more experienced maids, handing her the velvet box as though it were a divine relic. Her expression turned deadly serious as she warned the woman that if it so much as creased before reaching the music room, there would be consequences. Terrifying ones.

The cloak followed, and the threats were not far behind.

Then, as if nothing had happened at all, Stelle turned back to Sunday with a sweet, innocent smile—if this were a painting, flowers and sparkles would have danced around her.

"You're full of surprises," the platinum-haired Prince murmured, offering her his hand once more. "Are you sure that little box and cloak are worth human lives?"

Stelle met his gaze seriously, her voice flat as stone.

"But of course."

She lowered her hand to the crook of his arm, guiding him toward the conservatory through the corridor tucked discreetly behind the stairs. His arm tensed slightly beneath her warm palm.

"I'd serve my sentence," she added, "but at least I'd walk into prison with a secure sense of justice."

"Careful," he warned, a thread of amusement threading through his voice. "I could take that as a sworn testimony."

She gasped dramatically.

"Oh? And what about the presumption of innocence, Your Honor? I protest!"

"You've already earned a sentence for threatening bodily harm, my lady. What say you in your defense?" His eyes narrowed slightly, a gleam of interest behind them.

Stelle pressed a hand to her chest with mock solemnity.

"I regret nothing. All for the sake of this mysterious, precious gift. Even if there's nothing inside—I don't care!"

"I'll have a hundred more made for you," he replied, "if it will prevent further bloodshed."

And now that they were alone, Stelle recognized that smile once again.

It made her heart ache. Her own lips curled into a soft, involuntary smile—her cheeks blooming with warmth.

For some reason, it seemed to her that he grew even more handsome with every meeting. Especially when he smiled.

Soon, they reached a set of carved, snow-white doors with frosted glass insets—so starkly contrasting the rest of the Solaris estate's somber interior. Stelle smirked and announced in a mysterious tone:

"Behold—the inner sanctum. The true treasure vault of House Solaris. Are you certain you're ready for this?"

"Enlighten me, my lady," the Prince replied smoothly.

With theatrical care, she reached for the handle and began to open the doors as though unveiling an entirely different world.

And in truth—it was.

The Solaris conservatory wasn't nearly as vast as the palace's, but it possessed a magic all its own: long and narrow, bathed in soft light filtered through its matte glass windows, framed by wrought-iron arches thick with coiling vines. The air was warm and fragrant—laced with the earthy scent of soil, citrus leaves, and something faintly spicy, almost elusive.

The warmth enveloped them at once. It felt less like they had entered another wing of the estate and more like they had stepped straight into late spring. From beneath the snow—into a living hush filled with the breath of greenery.

Stelle led the way, her shoulders lifting in a subtle, pleased little shimmy.

"Ah, I haven't been here in ages," she beamed, turning her head this way and that. "But every time feels like the first. It's always warm, always so peaceful here."

The Prince looked around with visible interest, though he didn't interrupt.

"We've got our own little climate in here. And even a shadow library, tucked behind the citrus grove. Oh, and over there—" she pointed to the far corner, "—a frog no one's been able to catch for the past two years."

"You have a fugitive frog living here?"

"Very likely two at this point," she nodded thoughtfully, as if this warranted serious consideration. "We don't interfere—frogs deserve a bit of privacy, too. As long as the place doesn't suddenly overflow with little froglets, we've made our peace."

Sunday let out a quiet huff—almost a laugh. Just enough for her to catch the faint movement in his cheek.

They strolled along a path of fine stone pebbles, winding gently between flowerbeds and low trees.

Here, foggy moss shimmered silver in the light.

There, slender yellow blooms hung like drops of honey from arching branches.

In one nook, soft ferns fluffed like velvet.

Elsewhere—glass terrariums filled with tiny, poisonous berries.

A flowering bush to their right shifted from pale white to rich violet as they passed.

"This one's indivia nocturna," Stelle explained. "Night-dependent. Reacts to body heat. Very temperamental."

"Beauty often comes at a price," the Prince murmured—and yet, he wasn't looking at the flower at all.

He was looking at her.

But Stelle didn't seem to catch the layered meaning. Smiling, she continued walking with him, blissfully unaware.

"Maintaining a conservatory like this must be no less demanding than the palace's," Sunday observed mildly.

Stelle shrugged.

"We have one head gardener—Lavrenty. He's a bit of a magician, honestly. Keeps everything in order. Though he does have the habit of talking to the plants. Sometimes arguing with them."

"And who usually wins?" Sunday leaned a little closer, and the glint of cold amber in his eyes made Stelle's heart stutter in its rhythm.

She blushed just slightly and turned her gaze aside.

"…I don't know. But he has a lot of scars."

The Prince huffed again—so quietly it was barely audible. But the corner of his mouth twitched upward, unmistakably.

She guided him further, with ease—but never with insistence. She didn't try to impress him. She simply shared.

Telling him where each flower bed began, which varieties were used for the spring ball, which blooms had been woven into a crown for her when she turned nine. There was something disarmingly simple in the way she told these things—as if she wasn't trying to be heard, only understood.

Eventually, she faltered. Glanced over her shoulder. Then confessed softly:

"To be honest… I didn't think you'd actually come with me here."

"Why not?"

"Well… because this is so… informal. And you…" she hesitated, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. "You're someone who lives by protocol. As if even your footsteps are choreographed."

He didn't answer right away. He simply stood still, looking at her—and the look in his eyes was unreadable.

"Was I wrong?" she asked gently, her brows drawing together.

"On the contrary," Sunday replied at last, his voice low and quiet, more breath than sound. "You're absolutely right."

She blinked, unsure how to interpret that.

"But…" he continued, and his arm tightened gently at the crook where hers rested, just enough to make her swallow nervously, "every time I'm with you, protocol fades to the background. That alone is… unsettling."

Her heart twisted in a tight knot. Her stomach turned over in a dizzying pirouette.

"Don't be afraid, Your Highness," she said, putting on a dramatic tone to soften the moment. "I won't tell a soul that—oh heavens—the Crown Prince is, in fact, a human being! Scandal! Alert the presses!"

She placed the back of her hand to her forehead in mock horror. "No one must ever know you're not a machine programmed to carry out royal obligations."

But the joke didn't land the way she'd hoped.

Instead of laughing, or even smiling, Sunday froze.

His brow furrowed slightly, and his eyes widened—not by much, but enough. Whether in surprise or in offense, she couldn't tell. And the longer he remained silent, the more her muscles began to tense.

Stelle recoiled a step, her voice quieter now, almost meek.

"…Forgive me. I crossed a line."

A breath. Sharp and uneven.

Then, without warning, he smiled—and it silenced her completely. It was restrained, as always, but in it was a warmth so real, so steady, it could have melted the frost from her fingers.

"You are… an extraordinary girl," he murmured on a quiet exhale, and his hand slid to gently take hers—not just resting at his arm now, but held.

Her breath hitched. Color bloomed on her cheeks, a deep crimson.

Stelle looked away in a flustered rush, heart pounding so hard it echoed in her ears. She didn't know where to place her gaze—what to do with her hands, or with herself. And yet, despite the nervous fluttering in her chest, she instinctively curled her fingers around his, warm and trusting.

It wasn't the first time they'd held hands. They had sat side by side for long minutes after the concert. And still—it stirred something deeper now. If anything, it affected her even more.

She cleared her throat quickly, desperate to ground herself, and exclaimed—perhaps a touch too brightly—that the most exciting part still lay ahead. Something he absolutely had to see. She didn't look at him when she said it. But she could feel his gaze—steady, unwavering—resting on her like the sun.

They reached an archway that led to a raised, circular platform enclosed beneath a glass half-dome. Within it bloomed a single, carefully maintained bed—edged with white marble. There weren't many flowers growing there. But each one was the same.

And each one was violet.

Roses.

Great, smooth, luxurious blooms—deep amethyst in hue, with delicate veins running through the petals like brushstrokes from the finest hand. The petals looked like velvet, faintly damp with dew. Every flower curved differently, held its own proud stance. But not a single one had withered. Not one felt out of place.

"And here is the star of the conservatory," Stelle said with a smile, her voice taking on a nearly ceremonial tone. "Our precious violet roses."

His gaze slipped from her briefly, drawn to the roses—and returned not long after. But she didn't notice. She was too focused on the flowers, too determined not to meet his eyes.

"They were bred especially for my mother," she continued. "Many years ago. She told me the botanists insisted it was impossible—to preserve this hue through perennial blooming. But she insisted. And, surprisingly, she didn't pay them in gold… but in rare botanical records from our archive."

Her expression softened as she gently ran her finger along one of the petals.

"She adores them. But sometimes… she'd let us collect the petals to make my favorite tea."

Sunday's hand tightened slightly around hers—and with it, her heart threatened to burst entirely.

"I'm beginning to suspect," he said, glancing at the blooms, "that you were a honeybee in a past life."

Stelle lifted her chin with exaggerated dignity.

"If so, I hope I was at least a Queen bee."

The Prince shook his head slowly.

"They don't lead very enviable lives, I'm afraid. A lifetime spent as an incubator doesn't quite live up to the romantic ideal."

She sighed with theatrical depth.

"You've completely ruined my regal daydream. How could you?"

He hummed thoughtfully. His eyes flashed with something clever—but he said nothing more. Somehow, that silence made her even more flustered.

Stelle gave a slight shake of her head, trying to return herself to the present. If they didn't move on soon, they'd spend the entire day lost in this moment.

"Fun fact," she added, her voice brighter, "they don't have thorns. Mother doesn't like flowers that can hurt her. Even the beautiful ones."

The Prince glanced down, inspecting the stems. Sure enough—not a single thorn.

"Defenseless?"

"No," she said softly, with a quiet pride. "They simply don't need protecting."

Their eyes met, and silence settled again—not awkward, but full, like a held breath.

His thumb brushed lightly across her palm, and goosebumps flared down her spine.

She blushed, deeply, and gently slipped her hand from his. But before he could think she was pulling away from him, she circled the flower bed and knelt, carefully selecting a single rose—still mostly a bud, with a short, delicate stem. The rose made no sound as it left the bush.

Returning to Sunday, she smiled, shy and quiet, and held it out to him.

"This wasn't part of the official tour," she said, a touch bashfully. "But… I wanted to give you something. You brought me a gift, and I didn't bring anything at all."

Her hand, soft and unadorned, lay open before him—and in it rested the exquisite flower.

Sunday paused for only a second—but he accepted it. Unhurried. For a while, he simply studied the rose, his gaze thoughtful, almost like a connoisseur assessing a rare treasure. Then he nodded, looked at Stelle, and stepped closer.

She instinctively held her breath.

His hand lifted—slowly, gently—reaching toward her ear. With practiced grace, he slid the rose into her hair. And then he smiled.

Her knees nearly gave out beneath her.

"There's no place more fitting for a rose," he murmured. "You're beautiful."

His hand lingered at her temple for just a moment longer, the warmth of his touch seeping through the fabric, igniting her skin.

And she wished—foolishly—that it might last longer. But eventually, his hand drew back, leaving a quiet longing in its absence. His eyes stirred something in her, overturned everything inside. She turned away before he could see just how much he affected her.

Stelle stepped to the side, heart pounding too loudly to endure the silence.

"L-let's go," she said—and cursed herself at once for stammering. "The way to the music room… leads through a very special place."

The Prince gave no commentary. He only nodded, and once again extended his hand to her.

This time, her fingers settled into the crook of his arm as if they belonged there. As if the place had been waiting. The nerves hadn't gone, but the desire to be near him burned stronger than her fear.

They left the dome of roses behind. And though the conservatory faded behind them like a springtime dream, something else now waited ahead.

A space spun from shadows and reflections.

"The servants call this the Corridor of Doom," she whispered conspiratorially, her tone dipped in theatrical mystery.

Sunday arched a brow.

"Oh?"

"Because every time you walk through it… you forget where you were going," she said, nodding solemnly. "Or why. Or even who you are. You pass from one state into another—and everything else blurs. Like walking between worlds."

And truly, there was something strangely enchanting about it.

The lamps here were different—frosted, dimmed, as though dusted by the breath of centuries. The walls were lined with deep maroon velvet, and mirrors in gilded frames hung at steady intervals. But the reflections were softer than usual. Muted. As if the glass remembered the past more clearly than the present.

Between the mirrors—portraits.

Some proud, imposing. Others dark and grave, their eyes frozen in silent reproach. The ancestors of House Solaris. Their shadows. Their stares. Their traditions.

In between stood marble busts and statues—white, immaculate. Their carved eyes almost lifelike. Almost watching.

"This is the closest thing we have to your ancestral gallery," Stelle murmured, as though afraid to raise her voice. "But ours is less about grandeur. More about remembrance."

The Prince, with a quiet, almost conspiratorial tone—as if not to disturb the portraits—asked:

"What is it they remind you of?"

She let out a thoughtful hum, searching for the right words.

"That every decision—of every generation—for centuries… led to me, walking here beside the Crown Prince… on my way to a public execution. By way of song."

That earned a breath from him—suspiciously close to a chuckle.

She went on:

"It's easy to imagine you're speaking to them. Or that they're watching you. Judging."

They walked slowly. Neither in a hurry. As if the corridor itself set the pace—not only of their steps, but of their breath, of their thoughts.

Stelle stopped in front of one of the portraits—a woman in black and gold, with eyes that looked as though they'd been carved from steel. Her lips were thin, firmly pressed. Her face, all sharp lines. Everything about her resembled a blade—her stare, her posture, even the slight turn of her wrist. Her whole figure looked ready for war.

Or like she'd just returned from one.

"That's my great-grandmother," Stelle said quietly, lowering her head slightly. "She commanded armies while the men on the council debated which new tax to invent next. They say her voice struck like a gunshot. And her pen was deadlier than any sword."

The Prince said nothing, but his gaze sharpened, studying the portrait with care.

"She's the one who ordered all the chandeliers shaped like spiders," the girl added. "She believed spiders symbolized order, strategy, and silence. The things that make a woman more dangerous than she appears."

Silence.

"…Truthfully, I don't want to become like her," Stelle said after a pause, her voice quieter now, laced with melancholy. "But with every year… I feel like I see more of her in myself."

Sunday stared at the portrait, trying to decipher what Stelle saw in it. After a moment, he spoke.

"To me, you couldn't be more different. She inspires fear. You inspire hope."

Stelle froze, startled, eyes slowly turning toward him—like she was trying to determine whether he truly meant it. That someone so untouchable, so respected by all… understood her?

It sounded almost absurd.

But Sunday's tone remained steady, unshaken:

"Power can take many forms. You can build authority by instilling fear… or by commanding respect with strength of character and openness. I'd hate to see you believe that you have to harden yourself to succeed."

His voice was calm, measured—yet it struck louder than any blow.

She couldn't speak for a moment. His words unraveled some tangled knot inside her, tore apart an old, misfit puzzle she'd spent years trying to force into shape.

A breath escaped her lips—shaky, but freeing. As if all the pressure built from years of comparison had finally cracked.

"You're right," she said. "It sounds so simple, yet… I don't think I ever truly grasped it until you said it aloud."

The Prince offered her a faint smile, nodding in quiet support. And together, they resumed their path down the corridor.

A few minutes later, something else caught Stelle's eye.

A portrait of a man with unruly chestnut curls, dressed in an old-fashioned doublet, a quill tucked into his sleeve. His eyes held both weariness and longing. He seemed out of place here—too alive, somehow.

"That's our 'poet,' Illarion Solaris," she said with a small smile. "He wrote an entire cycle of poetry for his cousin… and then married someone else."

She gave a light shrug. "And spent the rest of his life writing love poems for various other women."

Sunday gave a soft hum of amusement.

"His portrait hangs here because the poems were good?"

"No," she giggled. "Most of them were obscene or just plain awful. Only a few would actually be safe to read aloud in polite company. I never read them myself—Mother said it would traumatize me."

Something flickered in Sunday's amber eyes—sharp, knowing. He narrowed them ever so slightly.

"I suspect she doesn't realize you've already familiarized yourself with the, ah… details she tried to spare you from. Through a different genre of literature."

Stelle flushed bright red, nearly jumping in place.

"Hey! That's a low blow, Your Highness!"

"Have you heard the phrase, 'Anything you say can and will be used against you in court'?" he asked with an exquisitely polite smile.

"Well, there goes my freedom," she sighed dramatically. "Imprisoned for being a curious, lonely, innocent girl. Is this the world we live in? Is this justice?"

She pressed her hand to her chest, eyes wide and mournful. "Wait, I must say goodbye to my entire family first!"

Then she began naming all the ancestors in the hallway, one by one, bidding farewell to each with tearful, over-the-top goodbyes—phantom tears included. She was so caught up in the performance that she failed to notice the gentle, fond look Sunday gave her as he walked behind her.

They moved on, step by step. And around the final bend, the corridor began to brighten. The dim sconces gave way to a warm, steady light. Even the air shifted—no longer weighed down by memory and shadows.

Now, it breathed with something livelier. Something new.

"Just a little further," Stelle whispered, her voice barely audible—tension rising again with the realization. "We're almost there…"

The final archway opened, and before them lay a small music room.

It welcomed them with the gentle glow of lamps shaded in lavender. There was no grand stage, no audience gallery—everything felt intimate. Private. The narrow windows were draped in thick curtains. Bookshelves lined the walls. The ceiling bore delicate plasterwork shaped like a spiderweb. The air was warm, infused with the soft scents of polished wood, lavender, and old paper.

At the center stood a piano. Black. Gleaming like still water beneath moonlight. Its lid was slightly raised—like a door cracked open to another, echoing world.

Stelle paused on the threshold. The quiet in the room was almost ceremonial.

But then her eyes caught on something—the box. The gift. Sitting safe and sound on a nearby side table. She let out a breath of relief.

"It survived," she murmured with a small smile, her eyes crinkling. "But I stand by my words. Until the performance is over, it stays locked away—as collateral for your patience."

The Prince, standing by a wall where a violet-gray abstract painting hung, inclined his head slightly.

"Worry not," he said. "I didn't come here to judge—only to listen. If it helps, think of me as part of the decor."

He chose a seat not directly in front of her, but slightly off to the side—angled so he could see her profile, her shoulders, her hands on the keys. He sat upright, then removed his frock coat and draped it over the back of the chair. The vest beneath was impeccably cut—each line crisp—yet something in his presence felt less formal now. Less official. More present.

Stelle's heart clenched in her chest.

She knew he wouldn't judge her—he was far too gracious for that—but somehow that only made it harder. And with each second of silence, of rising anticipation, the tension in her body crept higher. A chill rolled through her, then gave way to heat. The air itself felt heavy, pressing on her lungs like weight.

She wasn't ready. Not really. This wasn't just a performance. It was now. Right now. She was about to sing—for him. For Sunday. And that thought struck her with a dull, stunning thud to the ribs. Her hands were trembling.

Swallowing, she sat on the piano stool and slowly pulled off her gloves, placing them neatly on the lid. Only then did she realize how damp they'd become. Her fingers were stiff, numb. She curled and uncurled them a few times, trying to shake off the sluggishness. She could feel her pulse—loud in her ears, at the tips of her fingers, even in her breath.

The silence in the room was too thick. Too alive.

Holding her breath, she lifted her hands and hovered them above the keys—

And froze. As if her arms had turned to stone. As if something had poured cold water through her veins and left her suspended, trembling, somewhere between action and retreat.

She lowered her hands again. Inhaled. Exhaled.

Tried again. Still no use.

Every time she moved to begin, the fear surged—cold and gripping. All she could see was judgment. All she could remember was the caliber of musicians Sunday worked with—every one of them flawless. And she? She'd only rehearsed for three days. With skills that were barely mediocre to begin with.

The piano suddenly felt enormous. Hostile. Like a creature ready to bite the moment she touched it.

She could still hear the voices of her teachers. Master Brynolf telling her she was hopeless. That by now, others would be at a far more advanced level. That she was still stuck singing like a child. Or Madame Freya's strained smile—so gentle—when she'd say they should stop for the day… even though the lesson had barely begun.

She didn't know how long she sat like that. Time had blurred, and she was deep in it—drowning in a sea of doubt and fear, her gaze unfocused, lost somewhere far from the room.

Suddenly, larger hands—gloved—settled gently over her own. The touch wasn't commanding. It was soft. Enveloping. As if drawing the tension from her bones with nothing but warmth.

Only then did she jolt from the hypnotic spiral she'd fallen into, blinking sharply. She turned her head slightly—and found herself mere inches from Sunday's profile. He was so close she could feel the heat radiating from him.

His arms framed her on either side—each point of contact burning now with something more than just fear.

Her breath stuttered.

He gave her hands a gentle squeeze—steady, grounding—and slowly lowered them toward the keys. Then, with the same careful grace, he began guiding her fingers to move. To touch the surface she'd been so terrified of moments before. Cool, smooth ivory.

He led her through a simple melody—one she recognized instantly. One she'd learned long ago, in the very beginning. It was easy. Childlike. A tune that clung to memory like a rhyme.

At first, it was Sunday playing, through her hands—carrying her, note by note. But before she realized it, she had begun to take control, little by little. His hands stopped guiding. They only brushed against hers now, lingering but no longer leading.

The song had words, repetitive and straightforward—like a nursery rhyme. And there were moments where she felt she should join with her voice. But when she tried, her throat seized. The tight knot refused to loosen.

And then, just by her ear, came a voice.

His voice.

Low and resonant, barely a whisper—but because he was so close, every note, every shift in his tone sent tremors through her skin. From the curve of her ear to the tips of her fingers. A vibration of warmth and sound.

At some point, it felt like the pounding of her heart might drown out the music altogether. His voice was velvet-dark, mesmerizing—something she could fall into and never return from.

She became acutely aware of everything: the brush of his breath, the occasional tickle of his hair against her flushed ear. It was dizzying. Overwhelming. And yet—safe.

Bit by bit, her own voice stirred.

Tentative at first. A quiet, shaky thread. She had to clear her throat slightly, forcing out the scratch of nerves—and then, finally, she began to sing along. Her voice joined his. Her fingers pressed the keys in rhythm.

And something shifted.

The fear didn't vanish—but it softened. Melted. The frost inside her eased away, replaced by something glowing and quiet. Her mind finally accepted that nothing disastrous had happened. She had begun. That was enough.

By the time they reached the final chord, a small smile had bloomed on her lips. She allowed her voice to find its natural sound—bright, clear, alive.

When the last note faded, Sunday gave a soft chuckle.

"You have a very living voice," he said quietly, still close. "You know how to wield it. And I can see you have the motor coordination to support that control. Which tells me more than enough already. In truth… now I want to hear you even more."

Her heart clenched. The smile on her face curled inward, shy now. To hear that—from him—felt impossibly precious. Like a dream. She couldn't believe her ears hadn't betrayed her.

"Thank you…" she whispered, breathless. "I think I can do it now."

"You don't have to force yourself," Sunday replied calmly. "If you chose to stop here, I would be content. Grateful, even, to have heard just a glimpse of your talent."

Stelle immediately shook her head.

"No—no, truly. I've made up my mind. I want to try."

A small smile tugged at his lips. He gave her hands one final squeeze, warm and reassuring, as if to say good luck. Then, at last, he stepped away—taking with him the radiant heat of his presence.

The moment he sat back down, she straightened her posture. Raised her hands once more.

And only then did she realize—she was no longer trembling. No longer paralyzed. The nerves had quieted. Her hands were steady. So she simply exhaled, slow and steady—

And let her fingers fall to the keys.

The world narrowed like the neck of a bottle—everything reduced to the points where her fingertips touched the cold smoothness of the ivory keys. The first chords, simple and delicate, shimmered in the silence like lines traced in invisible ink.

The piano responded obediently, almost eagerly—as if it, too, had been waiting too long. As if, like Stelle herself, it had grown tired of restraint and was now breathing in time with her.

Her hands moved cautiously, each note approached as though it might burn. A soft arpeggio trickled through the room like the first sunbeam piercing a frosted window. Hesitant. But clear.

Her voice didn't come at once.

She parted her lips for a moment, but no sound escaped—her breath caught in her throat. Just for a moment. Surely Sunday noticed—his ear was too precise not to—but she didn't stop. As if that, too, had been part of the song.

Her voice was not powerful, but it was true. It carried no grandeur, no practiced projection. But it held emotion—and that was all it needed. It didn't fill the space like a performance for a hall. It reached only him.

The melody flowed, winding like a stream beneath thin ice. Her left hand a steady pulse. Her right—a flicker of light, trembling occasionally, but always returning. And her voice… it bloomed. At first, between the notes. Then in time. Then—bolder. Brighter.

Sunday watched her face shift as she sang. On certain lines, her expression lit up—touched by something remembered. In others, it darkened, the shadow falling across her lashes. Sometimes, her eyes closed—not from fatigue, but from immersion. She was completely inside the song.

He didn't look away once. In that moment, it felt like he wasn't simply listening to music—but to a reflection of Stelle's soul.

One of the higher notes trembled. Her voice wavered—but she didn't break. She sang through it.

And something within Sunday shifted.

He, who lived among perfection—clean notes, mathematical compositions—did not feel the urge to correct it. He didn't even feel the flicker of irritation. Quite the opposite.

As the piece neared its end, the sound turned lighter. Her fingers gentler. Her voice faded toward breath, toward whisper. The final line came like a sigh.

And the last chord landed softly—like the brush of a feather.

Silence followed. Sweet. Lingering. Not heavy, but full—waiting, not pressing.

She glanced at the Prince, breath held tight. Part of her braced to find disappointment in his eyes.

But instead, she was met with a steady, attentive gaze. No coldness. No judgment. When he saw her looking, his expression softened, and the corners of his lips tilted just slightly. A silent gesture of reassurance. And resounded louder than any applause.

Stelle hadn't even realized she was smiling back until her heart gave a delighted flutter. The fear hadn't vanished, but something warmer now began to take its place—an eager anticipation.

She lifted her hands to the keys again.

A pause.

Then the next melody began to pour.

This chord struck low—deep, almost muffled. Like the sound of a heart under pressure. The first phrases were slow, weighted, drawn out as if each note had to be pulled from the depths of a dry well. The piano no longer sang. It ached.

Her voice didn't enter right away. She played first—steady, slow. Each phrase like a footstep in snow long untouched. And when the voice did emerge—it didn't rise. It dragged.

There was weariness in it. A roughness, lower than her usual tone, that made it sound not broken—but tired. Not from pain. But from all that had been endured.

And something in that voice struck Sunday in a place he didn't expect. A place rarely touched.

He saw her press her lips together between lines. Miss a breath or two where she should have taken one. Fix her gaze on a single point in the room, like something unfinished lingered there. Her voice became a diary—read aloud in a whisper, knowing someone might be listening. There was too much in it that could not be spoken plainly.

Her fingers didn't tremble. But every motion, every shift, seemed to cost her. She was in the song, body and soul. And it showed—in the way her energy waned, not from effort, but from honesty.

As the final lines approached, her voice thinned again. Her body leaned forward slightly, her whole frame moving with the sound—carried by nothing but breath and rhythm. She felt nothing outside of that. Only motion and music.

The room held its breath. The notes of the second song still trembled in the air like the fading tail of a falling star. And she… didn't move. She didn't allow herself a sigh, nor a glance in his direction. Only shifted her hands—deliberately, almost ritualistically—into a new position.

Everything within her knew: this next part would be different.

Harder. Colder.

And she struck the first note.

The piano responded with weight. Sharp and dense. Gone was the softness of the earlier pieces. The sound now was like the tread of boots across stone. Each chord a step through a storm.

Her hands moved with precision. Almost with anger. Her spine straightened, shoulders rolled back. She was no longer singing as Stelle. She sang like someone walking through winter.

Her voice entered firmly—no test, no whisper. There was a cold steadiness to it, sharp and cutting like a blade of steel. But not empty. Beneath that coldness was a quiver—not of fear, but of restrained force.

She didn't plead with her lyrics. She declared them.

Each word a statement. Each ending a pin pressed into a map, where someone had once died.

But she had survived.

Her fingers didn't play—they pushed the sound outward. Her right hand danced in the higher registers, sharp, insistent, almost militaristic. The left hand anchored the base—deep and heavy, like the heartbeat of a war-torn city.

And at the peak—her voice opened. Not loud, but wide. Expansive.

Her chest vibrated with the resonance. Her posture—the shoulders, the neck—echoed the stance of a soldier mid-march. A single bead of sweat slipped from her temple. She didn't notice. In that moment, she was no longer herself. Her eyes stared ahead but saw nothing.

And then—

Silence.

It came suddenly. Cleanly.

Only the final chord remained, stretching out, her foot holding the pedal down, letting the sound melt slowly—like the last flicker of a lamp before darkness.

When it was gone, she remained seated. Back straight. Fingers still resting on the keys.

Then—relief.

Her shoulders dropped. Her head dipped slightly forward. Her fingers trembled, and slid slowly away from the ivory.

The silence now was different. Not heavy. Not theatrical. But true. Honest. As if she had just told her entire story—with nothing left to hide.

Only then did she allow herself to turn. Not to face a judge. But a listener. Someone who had just received a piece of her soul in the shape of music.

She smiled—soft, unburdened. Her cheeks were flushed, whether from effort or from something warm rising inside her, she didn't know. She stood and dipped into a playful curtsy.

Sunday's face, in that moment, was difficult to read. His lips parted just slightly. His gaze—thoughtful, intent—cut straight through her.

And then a breath. Quiet. But audible. And something gentle touched his eyes.

"Now," he said, his voice low, "I can say with absolute certainty… that my gift is wholly unworthy of how deeply you've impressed me, my lady."

He rose from his chair. Took the box once more into his hands. And as he approached, he inclined his head to her—not as a prince. Not as royalty. But in acknowledgment.

"In truth… you didn't have to prove anything to me. You weren't obligated to push yourself. Or reveal so much of yourself. But you did. For me. And for that, I am grateful."

He held the box out once again, his voice quieter now—more personal.

"Please. My humble gift… belongs to you by right. And now, I can give it with certainty. You've earned it."

It felt as if something invisible had been gently drawn from her chest—like a knitting needle quietly slipped from tight stitches—and suddenly everything inside her turned soft. Vulnerable. Warm.

Sunday's words lingered between them, like one last chord still reverberating in the air.

She nodded. Once. Then again, a little more surely.

"Thank you…" she breathed, smiling shyly. "If someone had told me even a week ago that you would praise my singing, I think I would've laughed myself to death."

She took the box in both hands—as one would a bowl filled to the brim with water, careful not to spill—and they both sat down beside each other on the adjacent chairs.

The velvet was cool and smooth beneath her fingers. The slender gold ribbon gave a faint, silky sound as she loosened the knot with her fingernail. It resisted—lightly, playfully—before sliding across the box and coiling like a little serpent in her lap.

Stelle swallowed. She could feel his eyes on her—the man with platinum hair, watching. She glanced toward him and asked softly:

"May I…?"

He gave her nothing but a warm smile and a nod.

She exhaled nervously and brought the box closer. Her palm rested on the lid. Her fingertips brushed across it—as though testing whether it was real. She ran her thumb along the corner, felt the smooth beveled edge, and the faint scent of lacquer. Then, with care, she lifted the lid.

Inside: a dark, cosmic gleam. The lacquer shimmered with depth like a night sky. On the underside of the lid—engraved stars, delicately pricked into the surface like pinpoints of light, and between them, a spiderweb so fine it might have been drawn with a silver needle.

Her breath caught. Her brows lifted, eyes widening. Her hands trembled with anticipation.

She lifted the object from the box—a music box, unmistakably—and a small key shaped like a treble clef lay nestled beside it. She set the velvet box aside, resting it gently on the nearby table with the golden ribbon, and only then did she begin to truly see what she held.

The stars shimmered gold beneath the warm light of the lamps, and the base wasn't merely black—it shifted, depending on how she turned it. Shades of blue and violet danced just beneath the surface like distant galaxies.

She hadn't even seen what was inside yet, and already her smile bloomed. Radiant. Her eyes sparkled. For Sunday, there was no greater reward than that look.

She was barely keeping her emotions in check.

To open it, she needed to insert the key. She hurried to do so, hands light but eager. The mechanism clicked—a dry, lyrical snap—followed by the spring of tension winding through its core.

Then the lid rose—smoothly. And the melody rang out. It took her only a second to recognize it.

That melody—his melody. But transfigured—higher, finer, as if it had passed through a thread of crystal. The steel comb struck the cylinder, and the familiar turns of phrase unfolded through the delicate ticking of gears—slightly toy-like, but somehow all the more touching for it.

She recognized it from the very first note—the final part of his concert, the piece he had written for her.

The sweetness of recognition bloomed in her chest like a flower opening to the sun. But that wasn't all.

"Oh my God…" she whispered—a breath, a laugh, a gasp all in one. "This is…"

Only then did she notice the scene within the music box.

A small stage—circular, with a delicate golden trim etched with tiny stars. And at the center—a figure. Most music boxes featured a ballerina turning gracefully to the tune. But this… was something else entirely.

A young woman, dressed in a gown of deep wine-red with black accents. Under the light, it shimmered with glitter—the exact gown Stelle had worn at her debut. The girl's hair was gray, gathered into neat curls, with a few loose strands framing her face. In her hair, miniature gemstones glinted—perfectly replicating the ones Stelle had worn that night. Could they be real?

The figurine had amber eyes. Just like hers. Not lifeless. Not still. But captured in that soft, wistful melancholy that had defined her expression that evening.

She was seated at a piano, eyes lowered, a gentle smile on her lips. Head bowed ever so slightly. The dress flared as if caught mid-turn—though the figure was still, it seemed to move.

As though the air itself whispered around her. There could be no doubt.

"Is that… me?"

Her eyelids wouldn't drop. She stared, transfixed, unable to look away. Every detail held her in place. In awe.

The figure slowly revolved to the tender tune, moving in quiet harmony with the song.

Stelle covered her mouth, trying not to gasp too loudly. Her eyes stung with tears; she blinked several times, desperate not to let them spill and mar the lacquer and delicate mechanism.

"You—" Her voice broke, trembling on the edge of tears. "You made this… for me…"

Her gaze darted again to the engraving. She touched one of the "stars" with her fingertip, cautiously, as if the design might vanish at a touch. Only then did she notice—along the front edge, if you looked closely, the stars formed a line, spelling out her name: Stelle.

It nearly took her breath away. That was the final drop. Her shoulders shook. Try as she might, she couldn't hold the tears back any longer; they spilled over, warm and full, racing down her cheeks. Her chest ached with the sheer rush of emotion—she was so moved, so blissfully overwhelmed, she didn't know how to thank him or even where to begin.

The melody played on—delicate, crystalline. And each note echoed inside her, in perfect step with her heart.

Stelle looked up at him. Open. Vulnerable. If she had ever worn armor, it lay abandoned now. And when she met the tender look in Sunday's eyes, she broke even more, letting out a sob, trembling harder.

Her voice wavered, almost unrecognizable:

"Your Highness… I don't know what to say. I—I—this is the best gift I've ever received. Alongside your concert."

Her words faded to a whisper.

And then Sunday's hands cupped her cheeks—almost reverent, as if he was afraid she might shatter. His thumbs gently swept away her tears. The gesture was so soft, so achingly tender, that Stelle instinctively leaned into his touch, lashes fluttering.

"I think it's time I confess something," he said, his voice low, intimate, as though someone else might overhear if he spoke any louder. "I waited for your invitation, my lady. I commissioned this music box for you some time ago, and now—at last—it's found its moment."

"Why…?" she whispered, brows knit.

Sunday's eyes lowered, gentle and unguarded.

"You ask questions that leave me at a loss," he admitted. "I'm afraid… even I can't offer you a simple answer. But I would do it again, if only to see you this happy."

She couldn't help it—another sob slipped out, her heart fluttering and aching at once.

"But I would rather not see you cry…"

His hands lingered, catching every tear. Not a single drop escaped his careful attention.

In that moment, Stelle—who always tried so hard to hold herself together, who hated showing any weakness—looked so soft, so vulnerable. The violet rose in her hair made her seem even more enchanting. Her flushed, tear-streaked face and eyes shining with joy awakened something long buried in him. For a long moment, he brushed her cheek with his thumb, though no more tears remained—then slowly let his hands fall away.

Stelle carefully set the music box on the table, her gaze lingering in adoration just one moment longer before she turned back to him. Only then did she finally smile—a bright, euphoric glow, even with tears still glistening in her eyes.

She hesitated just a heartbeat—and then her arms were around his neck, leaning over the chair, hugging him tightly. She couldn't hold her feelings in anymore—yes, she was crying again, but it no longer mattered. She felt she might explode if she didn't embrace him.

"Thank you so much…" she sang softly by his ear.

Sunday let out a gentle breath, his hand sliding to the nape of her neck, drawing her closer, while his other arm wrapped around her back, holding her carefully, securely. The heat in her chest bloomed until she pressed herself against him as tightly as their seats allowed.

"No," he whispered, "I should thank you—for reminding me what music is meant to be. That what matters isn't perfection, but emotion. Only now do I realize how long I've allowed myself to forget."

Stelle let out a soft laugh.

"If you ever need another dose of 'imperfection,' I remain at your service."

"Thank you. I'll remember that," he replied—and though she couldn't see his face, the smile in his voice was unmistakable.

His hand moved gently over her head, a barely-there motion—comforting, rhythmic. Stelle couldn't remember the last time she'd felt this warm. She felt like a kitten basking in sunlight. She nearly purred aloud, but thankfully stopped herself just in time. Instead, she giggled.

Her heartbeat was so loud, it was entirely possible Sunday could hear it. Well… let him. She wasn't afraid of him anymore—not now.

And this time, there was no moment where he pulled away. No hesitation. He simply held her, patient and still, until she decided to let go. And that moment didn't come for a long while. Only when the heady wave of euphoria began to ebb did she slowly, reluctantly pull back.

But the smile on her face never left. Nor did the blush. And it didn't seem eager to fade anytime soon.

The moment their embrace ended, a strange chill crept in—a touch of melancholy in the absence of warmth. Maybe it was out of self-consciousness, or maybe just to keep her hands busy, but Stelle tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

Sunday's gaze followed the movement, and there was something unreadable in his eyes.

When their eyes met again, a flurry stirred in her stomach, butterflies beating their wings against her ribs. There was something in his look she couldn't quite name—perhaps it was just her imagination, but… it seemed darker. Deeper.

She quickly glanced back at the music box. The girl still couldn't stop admiring it. Even the little figure of her—it looked far more beautiful than she did in real life, or so she thought.

To shift the mood and avoid falling into awkward silence, she asked the question that had earlier surfaced in her mind:

"Are those… real gems in her hair? They sparkle like the real thing…" she mused, brushing her fingertip gently over the figure's hair.

Sunday gave a brief nod.

"Of course."

As if it were the most mundane thing in the world. No pride in his tone. No need to show off. Just a fact.

She wondered what it must've cost—this little miracle in her hands. Of course, she didn't ask. That would have been far too improper. But the curiosity quietly gnawed at her. Then again, for a prince, money was probably never an issue.

"So… how have you been, all this time?" she asked, winding the box again. Her smile widened the moment the melody played once more.

The Prince looked slightly taken aback by the question. Still not quite used to anyone asking with genuine concern. He took a second to think before answering:

"I'm not entirely sure how to respond. My affairs haven't changed much since the last time we saw each other."

Stelle laughed softly, turning her eyes toward him.

"I didn't mean that. I meant—how do you feel? You've probably been overworking yourself again, haven't you?"

Another pause. And then, a little hesitantly, he replied:

"At this moment… I feel better than I have throughout the entire time we've been apart. As for my routine—nothing's changed. So yes, I suppose I have."

"I'm glad my 'imperfect' company was able to break the routine a little, then," Stelle drawled, a touch teasing. "And… if it's not too much, may I ask what you've been working on lately? I know you're always burdened with duties, but what's been occupying most of your attention these days?"

The Prince turned his gaze away, looking past the walls—as if seeing beyond the room. His voice shifted into a tone she was more familiar with: measured, nearly formal.

"Lately, the committee and I have been focused on implementing an education reform. It includes rewriting the curriculum and restructuring how school grades are translated into a universal system, to make university admissions more accessible—and eliminate the majority of entrance exams, which are often disjointed and unfair."

Stelle hummed in genuine interest, nodding thoughtfully.

"That sounds wonderful. I never really thought about it before, since I'm privately tutored. Technically, I've finished secondary school, but I haven't decided whether I'll pursue university just yet. So, speaking as a possible future applicant—I love this idea. Whose initiative was it?"

"Mine," he replied simply. "I've been considering it for quite some time. Only now have I found the opportunity to begin implementing it."

Her eyes lit up.

"Really?!"

She clasped her hands together, gazing at him with open admiration.

"I think students will end up writing you odes for this—honestly, I'm tempted to start one myself. Now I finally have a real reason to consider applying."

Sunday's gaze softened as he looked at her again, so full of enthusiasm it almost sparkled.

"I'm fairly confident you could be admitted even without the reforms, my lady."

She grinned, playfully narrowing her eyes.

"And would you write me a letter of recommendation, hmm?" she asked, leaning in with a mischievous glint, batting her lashes in mock innocence.

But Sunday, alas, was immune to puppy eyes. His courtroom judgments would have been a complete farce if he weren't. He simply shook his head:

"If you like, I can provide you with a trial version of the state exam. If you score above the minimum required by your chosen university, I'll personally vouch for your admission."

Stelle huffed dramatically, puffing out her cheeks.

Well, fair enough.

But if she really thought about it…

"Actually…" she began, tapping her finger against her chin. "That might be a good idea. And if I do terribly—what happens? Will they put me on a public shame board and send out my portrait to every school labeled 'hazard to the educational system'?"

Sunday gave a quiet laugh.

"There's no such thing as 'terribly.' There will be percentages. Some scores may be sufficient for one institution and not for another. You might get eighty percent in algebra, for instance, but that may not meet the Royal Academy's mathematics department requirements. Yet another school might welcome you with open arms. Besides… since this would only be a test run—if you find the results unsatisfactory, I give you my word: they will remain between us."

The Royal Academy…

A realization struck her. That's where Dan Heng and March were studying. If she got accepted there… it would give them an excuse to meet freely, wouldn't it? Of course, there was the little problem of either inventing yet another identity—or coming clean about everything. But… that was a question for another day.

Still, it stirred something—motivation, perhaps.

"You're starting to convince me, Your Highness," she said with a smile. "Do you think I'd be able to juggle work and studies? My mother recently entrusted me with overseeing the affairs of the Southern Port. Well, not anything major yet—it's still difficult for me…"

"In that case, studying economics at a university could make things much easier," he replied. "I can personally vouch for the Royal Academy—it's partially under my jurisdiction."

"Oh, is there anything not under your jurisdiction?" she muttered.

The Prince gave a slight shrug.

"I try to maintain some degree of oversight in everything. I don't handle it all directly, of course. Still, I occasionally step in when necessary, or check that everything is in order. Even I cannot be in all corners of the kingdom at once."

Stelle nodded.

"Still, that's remarkable. You have to worry about everything at once. It must be exhausting."

Sunday fell silent.

He didn't deny it, didn't confirm it—only looked off to the side, distant. As though admitting to being tired was something shameful. He said nothing this time, but his silence was enough.

And that was all she needed to understand.

So, not wanting him to feel obliged to answer, she returned to the previous topic with a smile:

"Well, I suppose there's no harm in at least trying this exam, is there? I mean, it's an honor in itself to be offered the chance. Besides, you promised to turn any potential embarrassment into a state secret, so I'm safe."

"A state secret?" he repeated, a laugh slipping out of him before he could stop it.

"Of course!" she replied with mock gravity.

The fact that she could still draw even the faintest smile from someone so composed, so reserved—it brought her a kind of giddy joy every time. And every time it happened, she found herself a little more enchanted, as if it were the first time.

"In that case," he said with a small nod, "once everything is prepared, I'll send for you. The core subjects include only algebra and geometry—which we've consolidated into one exam—and the national language, which consists of grammar questions and a short essay on a randomized topic."

Stelle nodded eagerly, her expression filled with determination.

But that wasn't all.

"In addition to that, you may choose a number of other core subjects to improve your admission chances. I'll give you time to decide."

She chuckled awkwardly.

"Looks like I just earned myself a new headache for the collection… Although, saying that to you feels wrong. Compared to your life, mine is a permanent vacation."

Sunday smiled, his gaze drifting away again—this time toward the clock.

His brows drew faintly together.

"Speaking of which… I'm afraid our time has run away from us. I must leave for my next appointment—though I doubt it will be nearly as pleasant as this one."

He rose in one smooth, graceful motion, pulling his coat back on with practiced ease.

A chill swept through Stelle's chest. She blinked, then stood with him. She didn't want to show her sadness, but it bled through anyway. Her hand came gently to rest over her heart.

"I understand… Thank you so much for finding time for me despite your packed schedule. It means the world to me."

He gave her a soft nod in return.

"And I thank you for the warm welcome. Your concert will remain in my memory for a long time. I'm afraid my orchestra may no longer meet my expectations after this."

That drew a small laugh from her, though her eyes still shimmered with unspoken sadness.

"Well then, I'll expect angry letters slipped under my door."

"If anyone dares try such a thing," Sunday said calmly, "I assure you—they'll find that expulsion from the orchestra would be the least of their concerns."

She had only been joking, but the way he answered…

It sounded entirely sincere.

And somehow, that brought both a comforting warmth… and a cold shiver.

Joking aside, he wasn't someone you crossed lightly.

Just before they left, Stelle gently closed the music box and tucked it back—along with the key—into its velvet-lined case, careful to make sure everything was secure. No one would so much as breathe on this treasure, not if she could help it. Only then did she rejoin him.

"My room is nearby—would it be all right if I brought the box there?" she asked. "Oh! And I should return your cloak. I'm sorry I kept it for so long…"

Sunday smiled.

"If it's nearby, then by all means. As for the cloak, you may keep it. Consider it a memento."

They stepped out of the music room, and with the soft intimacy of the space left behind, the reality of parting crept back in.

"But… I can't just keep your property," she protested. "It even has the Royal Emblem—I can't wear something like that."

"It's perfectly fine," he said calmly. "As long as you don't wear it in public without me present, nothing will happen. Think of it as a small reminder of today. Just promise me one thing: don't forget your warm clothes next time. I don't have as many cloaks as you might assume."

Stelle pouted, letting out a theatrical huff.

"Great. I forget it once, and now I'm doomed to hear about it for the rest of my life…"

He didn't respond—but she saw it. The faintest softening around his eyes. The corner of his mouth nearly turned.

Was he teasing her? Again? If anyone else had heard that line, they'd think she was imagining it—but no. Not her.

And besides, he wasn't the only one who could tease. Let's see who ends up flustered this time…

They reached her door in under a minute. But before opening it, Stelle took a theatrical pause. Channeling every drop of performance instinct in her body, she slowly turned to face him—eyes lowered, lashes fluttering just so, a deliberately ambiguous smile playing at her lips. Her voice dripped with mock sweetness.

"Your Highness, would you care to come in?" she asked. "You could… get your revenge for that time I accidentally walked in on you while you were changing."

Sunday's brow twitched. She didn't miss the subtle way his lips pressed together, or how he briefly looked away. For the barest moment, something flickered in his gaze. A shadow. His hand moved behind his back.

"My lady," he said, voice low, composed—but with something ever so slightly taut beneath it. "You shouldn't joke like that. Not even with me. I am, after all… still a man."

Stelle sighed and dropped the act, returning to her usual self.

"How'd you know I was joking?" she grumbled, puffing out her cheeks.

"I've come to understand you a little," he replied gently. "So please—do hurry. I'd rather not be late again, as I was after the concert."

And just like that—he won again.

Stelle narrowed her eyes at him, sulking internally. Foiled. Again.

This wasn't over.

With a hopeless shake of her head, Stelle slipped quickly into her room. Only there did she finally allow herself a breath. She set the box carefully on her vanity, as if placing a sacred relic in its rightful place. Her eyes caught the familiar dark fabric—the cloak had been returned by one of the maids, untouched and pristine. Without hesitation, she swept it around her shoulders.

And when she stepped back out, she thought—no, she felt—his gaze soften just slightly at the sight of her wearing it again.

Together, they began the slow walk toward the entrance. As painful as it was. Oh, how she wished she could stretch those minutes out just a little longer. But Stelle knew how selfish that would be. She should be grateful he gave her his time at all—hours, no less. That alone was already a gift beyond what she could have hoped for. For someone like him… that must have been a tremendous offering.

People stared again as they passed—servants, guards, even a few wide-eyed guests—but this time, she didn't pay them any mind. She was too focused on soaking in these final moments.

By the time they reached the gates, night had already fallen. Naturally.

He turned toward her fully, pausing before the final step away. Stelle offered him a soft smile—tinged with melancholy.

"Take care of yourself, Your Highness," she said gently. "Try to rest… as much as your schedule allows. And take care of your health, too. After all, the kingdom needs a responsible Crown Prince like you."

She paused at the words, as though they weren't quite what she wanted to say. Then, in a quieter voice—almost hoping he wouldn't hear—she corrected herself.

"…And so do I."

Sunday's expression shifted—subtle surprise at first, then something warmer. He inclined his head slightly, with that calm, reverent grace that always made her chest tighten.

"Thank you for your concern, Lady Stelle. But you mustn't overwork yourself either. And… don't forget to eat well."

Then he reached for her hand—took it—and, leaning in, pressed a kiss to her knuckles. Just a moment too long to be merely polite.

She hadn't put her gloves back on after playing, and the warmth of his lips against her bare skin burned through her like a spark. Her cheeks flushed instantly, a warm jolt pooling low in her stomach. His fingers gave hers a final, lingering squeeze… and then he let go.

"I shall look forward to our next meeting."

"I will, too…" she whispered, dipping into a low, graceful curtsey.

And on that note, Sunday turned toward the waiting carriage—leaving behind only the aching sweetness of farewell.

She watched him go. And kept watching, until the carriage vanished from view entirely. And even then… she stood there, frozen in the quiet night, cradling the fresh memories that were already starting to blur, like a dream slipping away.

Everything they'd shared—so recent, yet now that he was gone, it felt distant. Almost unreal. Too beautiful to be anything but imagined.

Her heart glowed, full to the brim. Every place he had touched, every look, every word still hummed across her skin, like residual heat that refused to fade even in the cold.

And then—suddenly, horrifically—it hit her. She gasped.

"I forgot to offer him tea… What a disgrace…"

Chapter 15: Aventurine's Struggle

Summary:

He can win every hand and still lose the only game that matters.

Notes:

helloooo sorry for the delay~

The night frost bit at his skin—sharp, unrelenting. December hung over the city like an icy hand, and even through his coat, Aventurine could feel the fingers pressing into his ribs. The hat sat low on his head; the tinted lenses turned an already dark street into an even deeper shade of shadow.

Ah, no—not Aventurine tonight. The last thing he wanted was to remind himself that he was a prince—too many obligations, too many... unnecessary distractions. Excessively formal distractions.

So for now, he was just another gambler, drowning in chips, in women, and in the metallic tang of expensive liquor.

The casino doors flung open for him as they always did—willing, hospitable. Warmth wrapped around him at once, along with thick cigar smoke, perfume, and that particular kind of despair that clings to every gaming hall like wallpaper. Crystal chandeliers cast ragged light across the green felt tables. The soft riffle of cards, the click of chips, the muffled laughter of winners, and the knife-edged silence of losers—everything rose over him in a familiar wave.

He should have felt something. Relief, perhaps. Anticipation. That electric excitement that used to dance along his spine at the promise of a good game.

Instead, lines flashed before his eyes—letters penned in a deliberately perfect hand. And that "Your Highness" from her read like a rebuke, not a form of address.

His jaw tightened. He forced the familiar half-smile onto his face and moved through the crowd with practiced ease, answering nods and greetings with the barest inclination of his head. The high-stakes room awaited—the usual table, the usual drink the server was already pouring without needing to ask.

On the first deal he put down a thousand. Won.

On the second—five. Won again.

By the fifth, he was up more than many see in a lifetime, the other players watching him with that same blend of fear and resentment. So familiar—itching to accuse, too afraid to squeak, knowing what would become of them. The cards fell into place as if magnetized to his fingers. Every bluff landed. Every call was perfect.

And it was... so boring.

Mind-numbingly boring.

He toyed with a chip, tossing and catching it with just his fingers—more from boredom than to impress.

He drained his glass—third? Fourth?—the burn in his throat, the only thing that felt real. Behind tinted lenses, his gaze raked the room—faces, gestures, words. Everything here was so transparent, so predictable…

"Is this seat taken?"

A voice—honey and smoke. He turned his head slowly to find her because, of course, it would be a woman. It always was. And this one was objectively stunning: dark hair falling in waves over her shoulders, a dress worth more than most people's rent, curves snaring half the room's attention even when she focused entirely on him. Her mouth was the color of blood; kohl made her eyes look larger.

"Now it is," he drawled, indicating the chair beside him with a lazy flick of his hand.

She smiled—heavy lids lowering in promise—and sank down with a silk whisper close enough that her perfume wrapped him. Something sweet. Expensive. Dull.

"I've been watching you play," she admitted, leaning in deliberately so her breath slid across his ear. "Lady Luck's on your leash."

A smirk tugged at the corners of his mouth. He dipped his head toward her.

"Fortune favors the bold," his voice deep, sweet, honed. "Care to test yours?"

She understood the invitation—naturally. She smiled slyly, lowering her eyes, unable to hide the hungry spark in them.

How... easy.

Aventurine played another hand. Won. She pressed in closer, thigh to thigh, tracing idle patterns over his wrist with slim fingers. She whispered quick remarks about the other players, laughed at his dry asides, played her part perfectly. When he ordered another drink, she matched him. When he lounged back, she followed, keeping that careful proximity that promised more.

Any other night—any night before that cursed festival—he would already be picturing her beneath him. He'd be calculating how soon he could rise from the table, slip her away somewhere secluded, lose himself in a rush of heat, in sighs, in the blessed emptiness that always came in such moments.

But now...

Now—damn it—every time he turned he wanted not those black eyes but amber ones, always bright with something alive and provoking. Eyes that now looked at him not with invitation but with rejection. With that cold, professional distance that set his blood to a boil.

"I trust Your decision will remain impartial..."

"You're distracted," the woman noted in a languid purr, pressing her breasts to his arm, her chin resting on his shoulder. "Am I boring you?"

He clicked his tongue—barely audible—and suddenly turned to catch her mouth with his. A small sound of surprise melted swiftly into satisfaction. Her lips parted at once—eager, yielding. Aventurine knew how to kiss her exactly as she wanted—commanding, fervent, with the kind of force that stole breath.

Nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

Not the faintest spark of interest in his body. Only mechanical motion, like shuffling cards or counting chips. Routine. Empty.

He drew back. She stared, pupils blown, cheeks flushed, breathing uneven. Beautiful. Objectively perfect.

Boring.

"There's a private room upstairs," she whispered, sliding her hand along his thigh. "We could..."

"Lead."

The word slipped out before he could stop it. Old habits. Old patterns. Maybe muscle memory would seize control and, this time, he'd forget silver hair, formal letters, and the way a certain girl had wiped his kiss from her lips as if it were poison.

The private room—velvet-lined and bathed in muted light—was built for exactly this. She was on him the moment the door clicked shut: hands tangling in his jacket, mouth hot at his throat. Aventurine answered automatically—hands at her waist, pinning her to the wall, giving her exactly what she plainly wanted.

She was saying something—his name (or what she thought was his name), how much she wanted him, how long she'd been watching him—but the words just echoed as annoying buzzing in his ear. Meaningless noise.

He tried. Genuinely tried. Tried to focus on the curves of her body, the heat of her skin, the sounds escaping her lips at his touch. Tried to summon even a glimmer of that desire that used to come so easily, that had been his salvation from emptiness.

Nothing. No heat, no lust, no desire. The only thing he felt was a shadow of disgust, and he didn't know if it was directed at himself or at this woman.

But her eyes were wrong—too dark, too hungry, too predictable. Her hair was wrong—too long, too straight, reflecting light wrong. Her voice was wrong—too high, too breathy, too... performed.

Everything about her was technically perfect and entirely wrong.

Not a single feature that could even remind him of—

Her hands fumbled with his belt, and that's when he felt it—not desire, but revulsion. Sharp and sudden, like ice water on skin. Aventurine caught her wrist sharply.

"Huh?" The woman blinked in confusion.

He cursed under his breath.

It was all pointless.

The reason was so pathetically banal it was laughable—he simply couldn't get it up. No matter what he did.

He stepped back, raking a hand through his hair and adjusting his hat. She stared at him—confusion edging into offense. Her makeup no longer impeccable, her dress disheveled.

"Did I do something wrong?" For the first time all evening, sincerity flickered in her voice—uncertainty.

He almost laughed. Wrong? No, she'd done everything right. Exactly as expected. And that was the problem.

"No." The blond picked up his jacket and put it back on with practical efficiency. He lazily tossed a generous amount of gold onto the nearby table—enough to buy silence, and then some. "Consider it compensation for your time."

"Wait!" The dark-haired woman grabbed his hand, clear desperation in her voice. "We could try something else. Anything you want—"

He shook her off—not roughly, but firmly. Adjusted his glasses. His tone was colder than anything she'd heard that night:

"I'm not in the mood."

A lie. He just wasn't in the mood for her.

Aventurine walked out, leaving her unsatisfied and insulted, with money on the table. Let her do whatever she liked with it.

Back in the hall, light and noise grated like an affront. He swept his chips together—an indecent fortune that meant nothing—and cashed out without counting. The money he dropped into a charity box. Let them think him generous. In truth, he only wanted to be rid of it.

The night air hit him like a slap. He slipped off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. The hat felt too heavy, his jewelry too loud. Suddenly, the favorite nighttime costume of Ace felt like a child's outfit he'd long outgrown.

It had happened again. How many times in a row now?

Two months.

Two months since that damned night. Two months of trying to wring the same pleasure from cards, from coins, from women who meant nothing. Two months of failure

He laughed, short and bitter. The Second Prince, reduced to this—standing in a dirty alley outside a casino, unable to perform with a woman because he couldn't stop thinking about one who'd made it crystal clear she'd forgotten he existed.

That same persistent phrase surfaced in his thoughts again, like a curse:

"I trust Your decision will remain impartial..."

As if anything between them could be called impartial.

His feet carried him on their own, away from the entertainment district toward quieter parts of the city. He needed to walk, to move, to do something with this restless energy that had nowhere to go. And the worst part—the absolute worst part—was that he knew exactly why nothing worked anymore.

Because every woman he looked at, he compared to her. Every kiss felt wrong because they weren't her lips. Every body felt wrong because it didn't have that damned star-shaped birthmark. Every voice was wrong because it wasn't her saying his name—even if it was that ridiculous alias, it didn't matter. It wasn't her.

She had been with him only one night. And somehow it had broken all the rest.

Streetlamps threw long shadows; his steps cracked the snow. The easy looseness in him had congealed into something heavy—the weight of a want that no win, no woman, no measure of liquor could satisfy.

His thoughts slid back to the letter—so correct, so professional. Had it cost her anything to write? Did she hesitate over the words? Did she remember that night as he did? Or had it truly been that easy to forget?

Not knowing was killing him.

A wry smile twisted his mouth. The great Aventurine, humiliated by a girl who hardly spared him a proper look. What would the court say if they could see him now? A prince who could have anyone, pining like a lovesick fool after the one who had turned the pretense of his nonexistence into an art.

He stopped only when he realized where his feet had taken him—the market square, where he had held her in his arms and she had rejoiced over a silly candy as if he had given her half the kingdom. It was empty now, save for a few night vagrants.

And still he could see her there—in that ridiculous raccoon hood with ears and a tail. Amber eyes bright with resolve and mischief as she pressed her spider lollipop into his hand—the one that had been in her mouth a second before. God, she hadn't even known how enticing she'd looked in that moment, how that smile had lodged itself in his heart. Or how she had stolen his glasses just to lure him into a dance—not to seduce, not to play a game, simply because. And then she smiled again.

Back then she looked at him as a man—not a status, not a title, not a mask. Before it all went to hell.

"I hate you, Stelle…" he told the empty square, and the frost-bitten wind carried the words away.

Even as he said it, he knew it was a lie.

In truth, he hated how much he still wanted her. How much he wanted to rip through that perfect political composure and find the fire hidden beneath. How much he wanted to prove she hadn't forgotten—couldn't have forgotten—when he remembered every detail with scalding clarity.

The city bells struck three. He was still standing there—a man in fine clothes and ridiculous ornaments, looking every bit the successful gambler and feeling hollow.

His lips stretched in a bitter grin, and a laugh—full of irony—broke from him.

He stripped off his glasses and covered his face with one hand, barely stifling a burst of laughter.

Now, it took only a thought of her…

He got hard.

***

The soft crackle of the fireplace and the muted light wrapped the drawing room in warmth. The tall clock of dark wood ticked in steady beats. Night had already fallen—no moon to be seen behind the heavy clouds.

A pleasant melody drifted from the music box in Stelle’s arms. She sat on the sofa with a gentle, slightly abashed smile; beside her was Kafka, with a thoughtful expression, though the sly spark in her eyes was impossible to hide. A meaningful smile touched her lips.

Several hours had passed since Sunday left the estate. And still the warmth would not leave the silver-haired girl's heart.

"So?" the purple-haired lady asked softly, inclining her head. Her gaze was intent, yet a glimmer of tenderness shone in it. "Judging by those shining eyes—and the way you're hugging his gift—the evening did not go as badly as you feared."

Stelle instinctively pressed the music box tighter to her chest, as if afraid someone might take it away. A dreamy smile curved her lips.

"It was far better than I could have imagined," she breathed, her voice trembling with too many feelings at once. "He not only came, he was… so courteous and kind. At times, I even forgot he is a prince. I felt as though…"—she faltered, searching for the words—"as though we were simply acquaintances spending time together."

Kafka's eyes narrowed in knowing amusement; she gave a meaningful hum.

The fire crackled, casting warm reflections over their faces. The music box kept its tender melody, filling the room with sounds that would forever be bound to this day.

"And did you play well?" the duchess inquired, though her daughter's face already told her the answer.

The silver-haired girl laughed awkwardly and looked away.

"At the very beginning, I couldn't even start," Stelle admitted, her cheeks flushing at the memory. "My hands were shaking; I was sure I'd disgrace myself. But then he… came over and helped me. He played a simple little tune with me until I calmed down."

Kafka's brows lifted the slightest bit.

"He played with you?"

"Yes," Stelle exhaled, and there was something close to reverence in her voice. "His hands guided mine; he sang beside me… His voice was so beautiful—I've never heard anything like it. He didn't press me. He said I'd already impressed him, even with that."

Kafka was silent for a time, considering, her eyes on the fire. Her fingers slowly stroked the armrest of the sofa.

Then, more to herself, she said quietly:

"How curious… For Sunday to play and sing— and not alone…"

Stelle didn't quite catch it, and had no chance to ask.

Kafka's mouth curved in a smile. She returned her gaze to her daughter with a small nod.

"And what did you speak about afterward?"

"About many things," the girl settled more comfortably, her eyes lighting at the recollection. "About music, about what it means to be genuine… About his work. You know, he told me about the education reform he's carrying out. And…"—she paused, mustering courage—" we talked about the exams. And about the Royal Academy."

Kafka held her daughter's gaze.

"Go on."

"He suggested I try to take the trial state exams," the amber-eyed girl said, her words quickening with excitement. "He said that if I score high enough, he'll vouch for me to be admitted. I know it may sound foolish, but…"—she drew a breath—"I thought perhaps I should try?"

Kafka leaned back, thoughtful. Silence stretched for several long seconds, broken only by the crackle of logs and the music box's gentle chime.

"Little star," she said at last, softly but with a note of caution, "you do understand we have no need at all to send you to a university? Everything you must study to manage the house's affairs we can arrange here. The best professors are willing to come to us; private lessons are always more effective."

Stelle's face dimmed a little, but she nodded slowly.

"I understand…"

"But," Kafka continued, warmer notes entering her voice, "if you are truly resolved, if you truly want this… we can consider part-time study. You may attend lectures and seminars, but the core work does not vanish."

The silver-haired girl straightened, hope kindling again in her eyes.

"Truly?"

"On one condition," the woman added, firm, lifting an index finger. "You will balance study and duties yourself. I will not lessen the workload of port business or negotiations with the Fund merely because you have exams. If you wish to combine them—prove you are capable. You take full responsibility."

Stelle nodded with resolve, fists lightly clenched.

"I can do it, mother. I promise."

Kafka studied her daughter's face closely, as if trying to read a hidden message there.

"Only remember: if you go to the Academy, you must be very careful. There will be many who will try to use your name and position. And some may try to harm you precisely because of who you are."

The silver-haired girl did not avert her gaze. Danger is always present. To be afraid is never to leave the house— to lock yourself in a cage. She did not want that. Better to risk and regret than to regret never having tried.

"I will be careful."

"And another thing," Kafka added with a sly smile, "if you do decide to sit those exams… do try not to disgrace yourself before the prince. He already pays you far too much attention."

The daughter flushed anew. She smiled shyly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

"Mother…"

"What?" Kafka lifted her shoulders innocently. "I can see how you glow every time you mention him. And judging by that gift"—she nodded at the music box—"the interest is mutual."

Stelle hugged the gift tighter, her gaze on it bordering on adoration.

"I still can hardly believe it's real. That he truly came. That I finally had a guest— and such a wonderful one at that. His very presence was a gift beyond any expectation. But he did something I don't even know how to repay."

"Believe me, dear," the duchess inclined her head, her elegant palm coming to rest atop her daughter's hair, "when a man commissions a music box with your likeness—where every feature and strand, and every piece of jewelry, is identical—that is not mere politeness."

She stroked her daughter's hair gently. Stelle at once blushed deeper, looking down, her heart pounding—almost painfully—against her ribs. She studied the tiny figure of herself; indeed, even the hairline followed the right direction, the strands arranged as if sculpted from an identical portrait. And as for the stones and ornaments, there was nothing to add.

Her heart brimmed fuller with each passing second, and she had nowhere to put all of it. Stelle was at once embarrassed—she did not understand how she had earned such an honor—and, on the other hand, her happiness knew no bounds. Her body felt light as a feather; it was as if all her organs had sprouted little wings and were tickling her from within.

"Now go, rest. You have much work ahead of you—especially if you are serious about these exams. And do not forget the meeting with the Investment Committee."

Stelle nodded carefully and rose from the sofa. She was so filled with bright feeling that she seemed to float; the smile would not leave her face, nor would the blush. Even thoughts of meeting those obnoxious "partners in the Fund"—and Aventurine—could not spoil her mood now.

***

The carriage swayed softly as it covered the last yards to the palace's main gates, then glided to a halt. Stelle sat straight-backed, hands folded on her knees atop a folder of documents. A black dress of austere lines lent her silhouette an almost official air. Her hair was gathered in a loose bun.

She looked the part of a business partner, and yet the anxiety would not ebb. This was her second meeting; it had to go better. At least, she hoped so.

The coachman opened the door, and the cold February air burst in, making her shiver and adjust the black fur cape. She accepted the offered hand and stepped down onto the cobbled court.

The palace rose before her—majestic, overwhelming in its magnificence. Gilded spires were lost in the grey sky, and a broad staircase of white marble led to massive doors.

The guards at the entrance nodded, recognizing the Solaris crest on the carriage door. The palace steps had been polished to a shine despite the winter slush. Inside, the familiar chill of marble and gilt greeted her—beautiful, imposing.

A footman led her through corridors entirely different from those used when she'd been taken to the Marble Hall for her debut. They passed through an enfilade of rooms—past tapestries with historical scenes, beneath crystal chandeliers that threw prismatic gleams. Each step echoed despite the carpet runners.

As she walked, she could not stop thinking that somewhere here, behind one of these high walls, was Sunday. She wondered what he was doing now, how he was feeling. He likely had no idea Stelle was here. And if he knew—would it matter to him?

Lost in thought, she did not notice when they arrived.

The negotiation room lay at the very heart of the palace's administrative wing, and that alone promised much for today's meeting.

Double doors of dark wood swung open, revealing a spacious chamber with tall windows, heavy velvet drapes the color of fine wine, and a massive table of polished oak. On the walls hung paintings by eminent artists in gilded frames.

Mainer was already there—as always, with a glass of amber liquor. Beside him, his assistant was laying out papers with mechanical precision. Tal sprawled carelessly in an armchair, turning a silver coin between his fingers. Stahlberg, as taciturn as during the first meeting, studied a document through a monocle.

And Aventurine.

He stood at the window with his back to the room, arms folded across his chest. Winter light traced his silhouette, making his wheat-colored hair almost white. Something in his posture seemed drawn tight, like a string ready to snap.

At the sound of the doors opening, he did not turn. He did not so much as stir.

"Lady Stelle," Mainer rose with exaggerated gallantry that sounded more like a sneer. "You're right on time! We were just discussing last quarter's results."

Stelle frowned. She had barely crossed the threshold when indignation pricked—yet she bowed politely and took her seat.

"You began discussion without a representative of one of the committee's parties?"

Tal snorted, rolling his eyes.

"Let's spare the theatrics. It so happened everyone arrived before you. I suppose that's a woman's thing—being late?"

She mastered her irritation and looked at him calmly.

"I arrived punctually. In fact, a few minutes before the official start."

"And has no one told you that, by unwritten rules, one must arrive at least fifteen minutes early?" the baron pressed.

"Oh, let it go," Mainer laughed, draining his glass and setting it down with a bright clink. "The lady is still inexperienced; let's not press her."

Stahlberg—the voice of reason in this disagreeable company—proved timely.

"How about we discuss the results?"

Tal looked a touch put out that he hadn't been allowed to taunt Stelle longer, but he did not object. He only clicked his tongue.

Stelle calmly opened her folder.

"Were the results satisfactory?"

"Depends for whom," Tal grunted. "Your port showed growth of a full three percent. Astonishing for a structure that, by our forecasts, should have collapsed without support from the industrial consortium."

"Perhaps your forecasts were based on faulty assumptions," Stelle parried gently.

"Or," Mainer smiled fox-like, eyes fixed on Stelle, "someone is providing you unofficial support. I do wonder who that might be?"

There was an unmistakable hint in his tone. Stelle felt her shoulders tense.

"House Solaris has always relied on its own strength and lawful partnerships."

"Oh, we don't doubt the legality," the duke drawled, topping up his whisky. "But, you see, my dear, rumors at court spread faster than fire. They say His Highness the Crown Prince honored you with a personal visit."

The air in the room thickened. Aventurine, by the window, gave the faintest twitch, though he still did not turn.

Stelle kept her face composed, though her heart quickened.

"His Highness honored our house by calling on my mother during her illness. It was an act of royal grace, nothing more."

"Ah, yes, the duchess's illness," Tal leaned forward, propping his head on his hands. "A remarkably convenient illness, don't you think? It allows one to avoid unpleasant meetings, yet does not prevent receiving… select guests."

"Are you accusing Her Grace of feigning illness?" Stelle's voice went cold.

"God forbid," Mainer raised a hand in feigned horror. "We merely note interesting coincidences. For example, that the Crown Prince's visit coincided with the day the final documents on the Fund's restructuring were due to be submitted."

They're finding connections where none exist! I do wonder how long they dug to unearth something so… unobvious.

"The documents were submitted on time," the girl cut in.

"Yes, but with some… interesting adjustments," said Albert Stahlberg, producing another folder. "You see, Lady Stelle, a great deal has changed in the three months since our last meeting. The provisional management of the port, which we left in your hands, has yielded certain results. But the term is nearing its end."

Three months. A quarter of the trial period already gone. And they intended to revisit the terms now, when she still lacked sufficient data for a full defense.

"The term was set at twelve months," Stelle replied firmly.

"With the right to an early review upon a change in circumstances," Gregory Mainer smiled. "And the circumstances, my beauty, have changed rather significantly."

He nodded to his assistant, who began distributing new documents. When the papers landed before Stelle, she skimmed the main points—and felt a chill gather in her chest.

A new structure for the Fund. House Solaris's share cut to five percent. Port management transferred to a "collective council" with the industrial consortium holding the casting vote.

This was beyond the pale. They weren't even pretending not to strip her of every right and privilege. She longed to show her displeasure, to raise her voice, but she had to hold the line. Only the way her fingers gripped the paper a touch too tightly betrayed her real feelings.

"This isn't a revision—it's a seizure."

"It's an optimization," Stahlberg corrected. "Numbers don't lie. Under the current model, the port's efficiency could be twenty percent higher."

"Under the current model, the port has, for the first time in five years, turned a steady profit."

"Steady, but insufficient," Arthur Tal's voice hardened, his gaze grew colder. "Listen, girl, let's speak plainly. You've managed not badly these past months—everyone admits as much. But the children's games are over. The port is too important an asset to leave in the hands of some inexperienced—"

"Enough."

Aventurine's voice knifed through the air. At last, he turned, and Stelle flinched despite herself. Shadows lay under his eyes, and his face looked sharper than the last time she'd seen him.

He came to the table—his movements were usually smooth and unhurried, but this time there was tension and an edge in them. He took his seat—directly opposite her. And then, for the first time in three months, their eyes met.

The breath caught in her throat. Not from fear or mere agitation—something more complex. For in those violet-blue eyes, behind the veil of cold, she saw the spark of something she could not name. Something deep, as if he were trying to look into her soul—or deeper still.

"Let's not waste time," he said, not taking his gaze from her face. His voice was even, yet everyone could feel the danger that lurked beneath the surface. "We have a concrete proposal. Lady Stelle may accept it or reject it. But the consequences of either choice must be clear to her."

"Just so," Mainer chimed in, plainly pleased by the prince's intervention. "And to make those consequences clearer, allow me to sketch the situation. The Royal Council is considering a new tax code. As you understand, port duties may be… adjusted."

The threat was transparent. Raise the taxes, and the port becomes unprofitable.

"Moreover," Stahlberg added, "the matter of the copper mines remains unresolved. Without formal recognition of House Solaris's rights, anyone may submit an application for development."

"And we've already prepared such applications," Tal smiled with deliberate sweetness. "From seven different houses. Naturally, if Solaris enters the Fund on the proposed terms, these applications will be… withdrawn."

Stelle's gaze moved slowly from face to face. Mainer swirled his glass with the air of a well-fed cat. Tal was openly smirking. Stahlberg kept a mask of impassivity, though cold satisfaction gleamed in his eyes.

And Aventurine… he was tapping his foot, silently, almost imperceptibly, beneath the table. Though he lounged back in his chair as usual, there was a shadow of tension across his shoulders.

Stelle smiled. She had known the conversation would come to this. And she had already prepared the documents—chief among them the one confirming their title to the copper mines: absolute, not subject to partition. She had even prepared copies.

"Would you be so kind as to hand out a copy to everyone?" Stelle asked the assistant pleasantly, extending the stack.

He froze for a moment, as if unsure whether he could take orders from Stelle, and looked to Mainer. The duke grew faintly uneasy, but nodded.

When the papers were in everyone's hands, only Aventurine spared them a brief glance, his expression unchanged. He had expected this, it seemed.

Tal squinted, a crease forming between his brows. Mainer cleared his throat.

Calmly, the girl explained:

"Before you is a document certified by the Royal Notary and His Majesty. It confirms House Solaris's full rights to the copper deposits in the south, without the possibility of division or transfer of title. I fear that applications from other Houses carry somewhat less weight."

Her lips curved in a smile at their displeased faces. Then she went on:

"Isn't that so, Your Highness?" She turned to the blond prince, expectant.

She could only hope for his sense of justice. It was he, after all, who had acknowledged the document's importance. Just in case he chose to forget, she even had his letter ready.

Aventurine did not answer at once; he only let his gaze drift, emptily, to the side. Everyone waited for his word—each of them with their own hope.

"Correct. The copper mines' belonging to House Solaris is not up for discussion."

The reply was brief but clear. It was as if a great stone slid from Stelle's shoulders. She exhaled—almost imperceptibly. Of course, he had not done it for her. But had he done otherwise, his earlier words would have rung hollow—and he surely suspected she would brandish that letter, were it necessary.

Even so, relief washed her from head to heel. And her "partners'" reactions added a certain satisfaction.

While they gathered their thoughts and pondered a change of strategy, Stelle continued:

"And now I have a counterproposal."

Silence. Taut as wire. The trio exchanged glances.

"Go on," Mainer gestured invitingly—though it looked more like a dismissive wave.

Stelle leafed through her folder and drew out the next document. Her hands did not tremble; over these months she had learned to master the outward signs of fear.

"An efficiency audit. Independent, with international experts engaged. Six months to collect the data. If the results show that House Solaris's management is indeed ineffective—we accept your terms. If not—the shares are revised in our favor."

Tal snorted at the audacity.

"And why should we agree to that?"

"Because you're certain you're in the right, aren't you?" Stelle tilted her head a fraction, a guileless smile playing at her lips. "If the numbers are truly on your side, you have nothing to fear."

"Clever," Stahlberg murmured. "But who guarantees the auditors' independence?"

Silence fell again. Stelle was about to open her mouth with a proposal, but someone spoke first.

"The Royal Treasury."

Aventurine still refused to look anyone in the eye; he merely tapped his fingers on the back of his chair.

At once, everyone turned to him.

At last—for the first time that meeting—that lazy half-smile appeared on his face, the very one Stelle remembered all too well.

"If Lady Stelle is ready to stake everything on the audit's results, and you gentlemen are so certain of the numbers—let there be a neutral arbiter. The Treasury will conduct the audit at its own expense. The results will be final and binding on all parties."

"Your Highness," Mainer began cautiously, clearing his throat and even sitting up straighter, "that is a somewhat… unexpected proposal."

"Why so?" the prince rolled a shoulder. "Efficiency benefits the Treasury. If the current model really suppresses the port's potential by twenty percent, as Baron Tal claims, we lose tax revenue. If Lady Stelle is right and her management is optimal—there is no sense in breaking a working mechanism."

His gaze slid back to the girl then, and something in it changed. As though he were throwing down a challenge. Or testing her.

Are you ready to put everything on one card? To entrust your fate to another's decision? To his decision?

She held his gaze.

The situation was thorny. On the one hand, it sounded like the best arrangement. If one forgot that the very Treasury in question was headed by none other than Aventurine himself. And who knew what was on his mind?

Would he act justly—or choose to punish her for something? Or let some other impulse seize him?

She very much did not want to rely on him. Stelle could not trust him—indeed, no one could trust Aventurine.

But was there a better choice?

No matter how she thought, nothing came to her. Whatever she offered in exchange would look either suspicious or simply unreliable.

So, with a quiet breath, she nodded all the same:

"House Solaris accepts the audit under the guarantee of the Royal Treasury."

Mainer and Tal exchanged glances. Stahlberg tapped a finger on the table, running the calculations.

"We need to discuss this proposal," the count said at last.

"Discuss it," Aventurine rose; the motion was so sharp the chair rocked. "You have one week. After that, the Treasury will initiate the audit unilaterally, and then we will examine all your assets as well. I am sure we shall find many… interesting things."

The threat was unambiguous. Tal purpled, but held his tongue. Aventurine headed for the door and, before anyone could speak, left—slamming it so hard the panes trembled in their frames.

Silence settled over the table.

"Well then," Mainer drained his drink with a heavy sigh. "It seems the meeting is over. We will consider His Highness's proposal and give our answer in a week."

Stelle gathered her papers and stood. Her legs quivered, but she forced herself to walk evenly. Stahlberg left first, leaving the three of them. At the very threshold, Tal's voice halted her:

"I do hope you understand what you're signing up for, my lady. An audit can reveal more than efficiency. It can uncover… other interesting details of management."

The silver-haired girl turned, meeting his gaze head-on.

"House Solaris has nothing to hide."

"We shall see," Mainer purred. "Take care that excessive confidence doesn't come back to bite you."

"Or perhaps that confidence springs from… intimate ties with the Crown Prince?" Tal smiled meaningfully, a spark of mockery in his half-lidded eyes. "Perhaps Lady Stelle will croon a few tender words in his ear, and then we'll all be in for trouble?"

The amber-eyed girl froze; a chill ran down her spine. She could endure much, but striking at this was the lowest of blows. The thought that His Highness's name might be smeared on her account set her blood boiling.

"His Highness the Crown Prince would never judge without objectivity, regardless of from whom this or that word or proposal comes," she answered coldly, frowning. "Besides, there has been a misunderstanding. Our relations with His Highness are strictly professional; there has never been anything between us beyond the bounds of propriety."

But Tal and Mainer only kept smiling. With a low hum, they traded glances—they had certainly contrived something.

"As you say, Lady Stelle," the duke murmured in a velvet voice through which the poison bled regardless.

"In that case, good luck with your 'partnership' with His Highness," Tal added, sly.

They went out first, and their laughter could be heard even through the door. Stelle trembled with rage—the first moment she could let it show, once she was alone. She clenched her teeth, burning a hole in the door with her glare.

How vile they were. No shame, no conscience. What stung was not for herself, but that the Crown Prince's reputation might suffer because of her—that he might be called biased without the slightest foundation. She would never forgive herself for that.

But what to do? Limit her contact with him? They scarcely met in person as it was—His Highness was far too busy to waste time on intrigue. Besides, they would spin their webs whether there were pretexts or not.

Stelle drew a deeper breath into her lungs—and exhaled slowly, gathering her thoughts.

She left the chamber, and only in the empty corridor allowed herself to lean against the wall.

She had just staked everything—the port, the mines, the house's future—on the results of an audit. If she lost…

But there had been no choice. They had cornered her, and the only way out was this risky maneuver.

And Aventurine… what on earth was happening with him?

That strange tension, the unreadable looks, the unexpected support with the audit—was it help, or a new trap?

What is on his mind at all? Try as she might to analyze, it was no use. Did he himself even understand his own feelings? He seemed so cold—then why was he helping?

Stelle shook her head, chasing off needless thoughts. Now was not the time to dissect the Second Prince's feelings. She had half a year to prove the port's efficiency. Half a year to—

Footsteps sounded at the end of the corridor. Quick, decisive. She pushed off the wall at once, straightened, and lifted her gaze.

Aventurine was coming toward her, and for some reason, there was something dangerous in that stride. He stopped a couple of steps away, and she had the impulse to retreat—but she did not. She stood straight, polite, composed, and bowed, saying in a steady voice:

"Your Highness. Thank you for an impartial decision."

He halted a mere pace from her; the gleam of the marble threw back their outlines with metallic clarity. An icy draft flowed from the open windows. Aventurine raised his eyes to her face slowly—as if weighing the price of every millimeter of the movement.

"'Impartiality' is a cheap word," he said evenly. "The Treasury is interested in efficiency. You quoted that yourself."

He angled his head slightly; the light cut along his cheekbones, turning his gaze into a blade sheathed in ice.

"You held yourself… with dignity, Lady Stelle. For a second meeting."

"Thank you" froze on her tongue. His "with dignity" sounded like "tolerable," and "for a second meeting" like "still green." Stelle inclined her head the barest fraction.

"I strive to match the level of the discussion."

The corner of his mouth twitched—not a smile, the shadow of one.

"You must not match it," he countered softly, almost lazily, "you must set it. Otherwise, they will never stop dictating to you. Today, you repeated other people's formulas too confidently for them to be yours."

He said it without malice—more like a diagnosis. Which only made it sting more. Stelle drew breath, keeping her voice level and official:

"The formulas rested on facts."

"The facts you showed," he agreed. "But it was fear—and someone else's schooling—that spoke for you. Anyone can hear them between the lines."

He stepped closer. Stelle did not yield ground. Aventurine noted it with a glance—brief, with that contemptuous satisfaction of a hunter when the prey suddenly lifts its head.

"And all the same," he lowered his tone, "you made life harder for my colleagues. For that… separate thanks from the Treasury."

"I was doing my job," the amber-eyed girl answered just as quietly. "As you were doing yours."

"Not quite. I did my job way better than I had to," his eyes flickered, just for a moment, with weariness. "And you—braver than you ought to be."

A pause. Somewhere far off, a sentry's spurs clicked, and the sound scattered under the vaults.

"Ah, and about your… bravery," he set the word so that it sounded equivocal, a cold half-smile touching his lips, "half the court will be singing of it soon. The more zealous are already trying to tether it to my brother's name. Awkward arithmetic: the gifted Heir, the young Solaris, the port, the taxes… It adds up neatly. For rumor."

Stelle held her ground. Her gaze was steady.

"Let them add," she answered evenly. "If they add up a falsehood—there will be punishment for slander."

"You believe in justice," he approved with a mockingly gentle intonation. "How… touching."

He meant "naïve," and she knew it. His gaze was not from above but head-on, covering her like a palm. The smile—lazy, dangerous—the kind that usually tangles a woman's pulse. Not hers. Not now. And that, more than anything, irritated him.

"All right," he said with a sigh, as if closing a business file. "Since you've decided to speak like an adult—then we shall proceed accordingly."

He slid closer—within the distance of a breath—and braced his palm against the column by her shoulder. Without touching her, yet marking the boundaries so clearly, the walls themselves seemed to draw in. His voice dropped, lower, muted:

"You sent me a lovely letter. Wrote 'Your Highness' in an impeccably perfect hand. Attached seals, copies, pagination… Very proper. Very correct. Very… cold."

He did not look into her eyes—lower, at the corner of her mouth. A fine tremor ran down Stelle's spine, but she neither looked away nor stepped back.

"It is official correspondence," she frowned, barely perceptibly. "It can have only one tone."

"Oh, I know thousands of tones," he murmured, honey over ice. "And every cold line has its price. You want the Treasury's support. You want me to keep those jackals at bay. You want to pass the audit and come out stronger. Excellent. That is business."

He lifted his eyes. And in that calm, there was something especially dangerous.

"Only business requires payment. I am no benefactor. I do not make unprofitable deals."

Her chin rose a fraction.

"How much?" she asked simply.

He smiled slowly—assessing.

"Money won't pay me. No cheques, no notes, no compromising entries in a ledger. I require… personal consultations. Off-schedule, off-the-record. With no witnesses."

He spoke of it as calmly as of paperwork. Without filth. But the meaning was plain.

Stelle's heart dropped into her heels.

"Personal… business meetings?" she clarified softly, her voice unsteady.

"At last we understand each other," he nodded, wearing that same lazy smile. "In return I ensure: no sudden inspections, correct interpretations of disputed clauses, a neutral slate of auditors… silence around your name."

She said nothing. Only her breathing grew measured—as if she were counting it so as not to break.

"You… are asking me to pay with my body," almost a whisper. "For what ought to be done as a matter of duty?"

He lifted a shoulder, as if she had failed to grasp the obvious.

"I'm offering a bargain, my lady. You like bargains. You showed us that today. Let's not pretend you don't understand how the world works. In it, one pays with whatever one possesses."

A shadow passed through his gaze—and it made her truly uneasy.

"And allow me one… business detail," he said matter-of-factly, as though naming a delivery rate. "Secrets. Dear currency. Especially sweet, intimate ones… such as, say, a little star in the middle of a chest."

The words fell softly. Without pressure. As if they were not about her at all.

The blood drained from her face. Her fingers clamped the folder so hard the cardboard edge cracked. Her heart thundered; a chill raced over her skin.

"You have no business knowing anything about my body," she whispered. "You know nothing."

"Of course," he agreed lightly. "I know nothing. Until little birds begin to chirp. And people do love birdsong. Especially when it concerns what mustn't be seen. What do you think the ladies will say, with nothing to do on winter evenings? Or… your precious Sunday?"

Stelle was barely holding herself together. But the name Sunday struck like a live wire—her shoulders twitched, her breath hitched, her eyes blurred.

Aventurine felt the crack. And he struck.

"He is holy, of course. But is he holy enough to forget… a stained innocence?"

That was the last drop.

Too much.

Stelle had not expected such baseness even from him. She could not have imagined he would stoop so low as to threaten the closest, most intimate thing she had—the thing she had so foolishly trusted him with.

This is all my fault. I'm an idiot.

She had thought Aventurine could no longer wound and humiliate her—but she was too naïve. Now she could almost physically hear her heart crunch again, like a shard of glass under a boot.

She blinked—too sharply, as if to dislodge the burning wetness that kept welling. Her chest felt tight, like a cage—fingers squeezing, ragged nails digging in—and every new word pressed harder. She lifted her chin, but her voice betrayed her, trembling:

"You're a… scoundrel, Your Highness."

For a heartbeat, something hot flared in her amber eyes—a mix of humiliation and fury. It nearly threw Aventurine off balance. She stood straight, proud, even defiant, but the fine tremor in her shoulders betrayed her more than any words.

He almost tasted victory. Almost.

"A scoundrel?" he echoed softly, letting his lips curl in an icy smile. "Perhaps. But it is scoundrels who are often far more useful than knights."

She stared into him as if she meant to burn through him. And then she faltered: a clear tear slipped from the corner of her eye and ran down, leaving a glistening track on her pale cheek. A ragged breath broke from her parted lips.

That tear hit harder than any accusation.

Aventurine froze for a second; his fingers twitched of their own accord, as if he meant to touch her face, to wipe away the trace. But Stelle had already stepped back—one step, then two.

"I am not your merchandise," her voice was choked and shaking, yet even so, there was steel in it. "And I never will be."

She turned and went at a quick pace—nearly a run. The sweep of her dark skirt brushed his cloak, and in that touch there was more pain than in all their talk.

"Stelle—" escaped him almost soundlessly, and all that showy cold, assurance and velvet slipped away.

She did not look back. Only her back, straight as a tightened string, carried farther down the corridor until it dissolved in the lamplight.

His hand reached after her instinctively, as if somehow he could call her back, somehow take back the poison he had just poured.

But she was gone.

His hand clenched against the column, hard—until it hurt—and he leaned his forehead to it with a ragged exhale.

His chest squeezed so tight it was hard to draw breath. He wanted at once to laugh and to cry—to madness—because nothing had gone as he wanted. Yes, he had wanted to make her hurt, to see her break and show him she still remembered. That that night had not been a fever dream.

But in the end, his anger and desire had mixed into a murderous compound that poisoned her before he could process what he was saying.

Aventurine hadn't even planned this conversation. Hadn't planned to approach her at all. He had left first precisely because he feared he might not hold himself together, seeing her—she was, damn it, more beautiful every time he saw her.

"What the hell is wrong with me…" he hissed, his nails biting into his gloves so hard there was a dry crack.

Each new day, each meeting was breaking him further. All these months—thinking only of her, abstaining, unable to take pleasure in anything that used to work—had turned him into a monster.

And now he didn't know what to do.

Because it turned out… he had not wanted to hurt her at all, though he had thought the opposite. He had thought it would be enough to punish her—to make her feel, to show that she still cared. To make her suffer as he did.

But now that he had succeeded—Aventurine suddenly understood he didn't want just any emotion from her, aimed his way.

It turned out to be worse—and more frightening—than it seemed. He did not want to admit it—even to himself. Not for anything…

He would never admit that what he wants is to see her smile—at him.

Never.

Notes:

this chapter is impartial btw

Chapter 16: Sunday's Song

Summary:

After Aventurine’s cruel threats, Stelle runs—right into the arms of the Crown Prince.

Notes:

hello babies!! i missed you, and i hope you're all having a great day :з

"I am not your merchandise."

Stelle's own words rang in her skull as she strode—practically ran—through the palace corridors without so much as a glance to either side. Her heels hammered a frantic rhythm against the marble.

"And I never will be."

She moved without thought and without aim—any direction would do so long as it carried her forward, away from the poison unjustly poured over her by Aventurine's lips, like acid that ate straight through the restraint she had been forcing over herself for months. The tears she had held back during that conversation crept now to the corners of her eyes, and would soon spill over. Crystal reminders of humiliation.

"Until little birds begin to chirp..."

Her chest felt bound by a hundred taut ropes; every breath came ragged and sharp. The walls blurred—tapestries, marble columns, gilded frames—all of it turned into meaningless scenery for a scene of flight. She needed air. Space. Somewhere far from that mocking, glacial voice and those calculating eyes that had once, just once, looked at her with tenderness.

"Is he holy enough to forget... a stained innocence?"

The cruelty of it stunned her again and again, calling up fresh waves of panic. How dare he? How could he drag Sunday into this and wield him like a weapon? One thought alone made her stomach drop—that those filthy, venomous words might reach the Crown Prince's ears, that the gentle warmth in that amber gaze might curdle into disgust or disappointment—

No. She wouldn't even let herself think it. Couldn't. Her heart was tearing; her nose prickled sharper.

How could I have trusted someone like Aventurine? Even for a heartbeat?

What a fool I am.

Because of one foolish mistake, her whole reputation now dangled by a thread.

How easily Aventurine had played her. It was almost funny. She wanted to laugh at herself. Naïve, silly girl. Anyone else would've been better—so why him?

Why was he blackmailing her and demanding… private meetings?

For control? To grind her down even further?

That peacock hardly suffered a deficit of attention. No chance her inexperienced touch had charmed him so much he wanted another night. More likely, he wanted to set her up and prove to everyone how easily she could be coaxed into selling her body for a trinket.

Rage, hurt, and the bitterness of betrayal boiled together into a mad elixir that made it hard to breathe. Breath hitched; all she wanted was to curl up and sob in some corner—or vanish from the world altogether.

It wasn't only that the deed itself was vile, it was that Aventurine did it—yes, she'd had no lofty expectations; she had understood that to him that night meant nothing, and she herself meant nothing… and yet… Somewhere in her, she'd believed there had been a thread between them, that not everything was false, that those flickers of warmth and tenderness had carried at least a little truth.

That childish faith made the disappointment strike a hundred times harder. It shattered her heart and whatever scrap of hope remained that Aventurine's heart still had room for anything human—smashed to dust.

She turned the corner too quickly, vision fogging as tears ran hot down her cheeks, and her knees went weak. She didn't even notice the figures approaching from the opposite direction until it was too late.

The collision was inevitable.

She slammed into a solid chest; the folder slipped from her hands and slapped against the marble. A sharp breath scraped from her lips. She recoiled, nearly stumbling, but strong hands closed around her shoulders and steadied her.

"Ah! Forgive me, I—" she began automatically, her voice thick with barely checked emotion. She lifted her head to apologize to whomever she'd blundered into—

—and the words died on her tongue.

Amber eyes, anxious and familiar—the eyes she'd come to know so well, the eyes that had rested on her with such tenderness in the Solaris music room—looked down at her.

Sunday stood before her, his hands gentle but firm where they held her shoulders, and the composed, impeccable calm of his face shifted at once to surprise and alarm when he realized who she was—and in what state.

"Lady Stelle?" His voice was hushed, as if he himself couldn't believe it was truly her.

But then other hands seized her—nothing like his careful touch. A steel grip yanked her aside, twisted her arms behind her back, and held her with such ease she could barely twitch.

Only then did reality snap back into focus. Her clouded eyes flew wide. She looked around—in Sunday's wake stood three officials, their stares boring into her with bafflement, even contempt.

A guard had taken her by the wrists, scanning her like a common criminal, squeezing so hard she could already feel the bruises that would bloom there.

"What do you think you're doing?" grated the oily voice of a tall official with waxed mustaches.

The prince's amber gaze slid from her face to the guard's hands, then back to the tears shining on her cheeks. Sunday's expression darkened—not with temper, but with something far more dangerous. Quiet fury often menaces more than any shout. The corridor itself seemed to grow colder.

"Release her. At once."

He did not raise his voice, but the steel in it was so palpable the guard's fingers sprang open that instant; he stumbled back a step as if burned.

"Your Highness, we should have this wench punished," huffed the broad official with a snort. "She charged down the corridor at speed and nearly knocked you off your feet."

"We should check whether she stuck anything on him—or slipped anything into his pocket," squinted a third, arms folded.

"Perhaps she was eavesdropping?" insisted the mustached one.

Stelle's eyes were not frightened—empty would be closer. Someone had spat into her soul minutes ago, and this was just one more handful tossed onto something already rotting. She lowered her gaze to the floor and bowed deeply.

"I offer my sincerest apologies, Your Highness," she said softly without looking up. Not only from shame—she could not bear for him to see the tears and the wreckage written across her face. Aventurine had reminded her where she belonged.

Tainted, as she was, her place was certainly not equal to the Crown Prince.

Sunday ignored the officials' barbs. His gaze did not leave Stelle—her shoulders shivering, the way her fists clenched at her sides. And her talk of punishment cut through him like a blade. His brows gave the slightest twitch.

"Our meeting is concluded. You are dismissed," he said, voice firm and unarguable.

The men exchanged affronted looks.

"But, Your Highness, we have not yet addressed half the items on the agenda…"

"I said it is concluded." Each word fell like a separate sentence. "All necessary decisions will be delivered to you in writing by tomorrow evening."

They all scowled, plainly wishing to object, but none dared. They knew that tone—dispute it now and you begged for severe reprimand.

"As you command, Your Highness…" the heavy-set politician muttered, bowing.

The guard lingered, waiting for orders, but the look Sunday leveled at him sent him retreating several paces.

"Leave us. Now."

Grumbling and whispering, the little knot of politicians moved off down the corridor. Their footsteps and discontented snorts thinned into distance and faded away.

Only when the last echo disappeared did Sunday approach the girl—slowly, as if he feared to startle her. She still stood where the guard had jerked her, head bowed, shoulders tight. Her folder lay at her feet amid scattered papers.

"Lady Stelle…" he called gently. There was no trace of the earlier official tone—only sincere concern.

She flinched, gathered the hem of her skirt in trembling fingers, but did not dare raise her eyes.

"Forgive me, Your Highness… I did not mean to trouble you. I was careless and—"

"Look at me."

It wasn't a request. It was a soft command, spoken with such care that disobedience was unthinkable. Slowly, she lifted her head—and when their eyes met, something in her chest cinched into a tight knot.

There was no condemnation in his gaze. Though surely… there should have been.

"What happened?" He stepped closer, voice lower still. "Who hurt you?"

Such simple questions—and they struck right at the most wounded place. Stelle pressed her lips together, fighting a fresh surge of tears. How could she explain? Tell him the cause of her ruin was his own brother? That Aventurine was threatening to destroy her reputation and foul whatever lay between her and Sunday with filthy insinuations?

"I…" Her voice betrayed her, trembling. "It is not important. Forgive me for interfering with your state business. I know how vital and serious they are, and—"

"Stelle." He suddenly spoke her name without a title, gentle insistence in his tone. She went very still. "Nothing discussed in that meeting is more important than how you are."

Her lashes quivered. Her eyes brimmed with hot, salt water that begged to fall again. She held back a sob. Her heart tore—both from how deeply his kindness moved her and from the fear she might lose it if he found out…

Sunday glanced up and down the corridor—empty, yes, but still no place for this. Too open. Too many curious eyes might appear any moment.

"Come," he said, bending to gather the folder and the scattered sheets. "It's too noisy here for conversation."

"Your Highness, please don't—" Stelle crouched at once beside him, reaching for the papers. "I can—"

Their fingers brushed when both reached for the same page. A little shock ran up Stelle's hand at the touch, and she went still.

Sunday stilled as well. His gaze slid from their touching hands to her face, and something in his expression gentled. Turned careful.

"Will you entrust this to me?" he asked quietly, his hand still over hers.

She hesitated. She wanted to refuse, to say it was improper, but… in the end, she nodded.

He gathered the rest with care, but paused over one thing—a sealed envelope. Aventurine's letter, the proof Stelle had taken today, that he had once endorsed her arguments regarding the copper mines. Sunday's eyes narrowed—just slightly, and only for a breath. He said nothing, tucked it into the folder, and rose, offering her his free hand.

"I know a place where we can speak undisturbed."

Her heart skipped. Heat rose in her cheeks—he was going to lead her by the hand again, and somehow each time felt like the first. Slowly, she took it—and felt safe at once. His fingers closed around hers with gentle strength, saying without words: whatever happens, he won't let go.

His touch felt like coming home after a long journey. A warm refuge amid ice. Her heart thudded quicker. With every passing second, the cruel thoughts in her head seemed to lift and float off—if only for a little while. She could focus on the warmth of his hand.

Sunday led her through the corridors at an unhurried pace—past portraits and paintings, past marble columns and mirrors. Stelle barely registered the splendor around them; all her attention was on their interlaced fingers and the peaceful warmth his nearness brought.

At last, they stopped before an unassuming door of dark wood. Sunday produced a key and turned the lock.

"No one comes here but me. Not even family," he explained, holding the door for her.

The room within was small and restful. Nothing like the palace's other chambers she'd seen—none of the gaudy gold, no jewels, no marble. It reminded her more of her own music room in the Solaris house. Dim light, wood-paneled walls. A piano stood by the window—not ceremonial, not a concert grand, but a home instrument, a touch old-fashioned, its lid edged with a border of pale mother-of-pearl. Shelves lined with old scores, neat stacks of paper, writing implements. Nothing ostentatious. Only quiet, and the scent of music. A sanctuary.

Stelle stepped in—cautious, as if she might break the silence.

"Please, sit," Sunday said softly, clearly meaning the piano bench.

She hesitated at first. Perched on the very edge, as if afraid to occupy more than a sliver of space. He noticed; warmth kindled in his gaze, the corners of his lips faintly lifting.

He sat not far from her.

"Lady Stelle," he murmured, the title gentle even though all formality had slipped from his voice. "Do not be afraid. You are safe here."

Still, she sat taut and uncertain at the brink.

Sunday shook his head ever so slightly—then, softly but decisively, set his palm on her shoulder and drew her nearer, coaxing her to sit properly on the bench. Right beside him.

"That's much better," he breathed, his hand lingering on her shoulder.

She froze at the unexpectedness of it. Her heart hammered so loud she was sure he must hear it. Her cheeks burned, but she didn't pull away. On the contrary—she wanted to lean closer.

He didn't hurry to remove his hand. Instead, he held her in a light embrace, the two of them simply sitting there, pressed together in the room's soft half-dark. The silence wasn't heavy or awkward. It soothed. Healed.

Little by little, the tension began to drain out of her body. The burn of Aventurine's words still smoldered somewhere down deep, but Sunday's presence seemed to set a barrier between her and that pain. As if his warmth spun a shield around her.

"Your Highness…" she whispered, thinking to begin explaining—but he shook his head.

"Not now… First, allow me…"

His free hand rose toward her head—careful, almost timid—as he guided her cheek to his shoulder. Every motion carried so much tenderness and care that her breath hitched.

"Just rest."

Everything inside her turned over and tightened; her breath went shallow. She eased into his shoulder, and he exhaled—like something in him, too, had unknotted at that closeness. His hand at her shoulder gave a slight squeeze and fell into a gentle, soothing stroke. His other hand lay over her own fingers clasped in her lap, warm and reassuring. Stelle's hand twitched toward his; in a moment, their fingers laced together. She shivered—not from fear or grief now, but from a trembling sweetness.

They sat that way in silence—one minute, two, perhaps more—time seemed to halt. She listened to his measured breathing, the rise and fall of his chest, the stroke of his hand on her shoulder, the reassuring squeeze of his fingers, the press of his cheek against her temple. His heat soaked into her until she felt almost flushed despite the chill outside.

Time lost all meaning. She could have stayed there a thousand years and never noticed. Her cheeks, so recently glazed with bitter tears, glowed with color now. Her stomach fluttered; her fingertips tingled.

Then Sunday shifted a little. His hands moved, releasing her, though not pushing her away. He turned to the keys; his fingers hovered over the gloss of black and white.

"You know…" he began, voice softer, thoughtful. "There is a melody. I haven't played it in a very long time. A very long time."

Stelle lifted her head from his shoulder and looked at his profile. In the light from the window, the lines of his face seemed especially gentle, almost vulnerable.

"But today… I want to play it. Please—listen."

His fingers touched the keys—gently, almost inaudibly. The first notes sounded like a whisper. The melody was simple—not a showpiece, not technically demanding. But something in it reached straight to the deepest strings of the soul.

Stelle drew in a sharp breath, eyes widening. Quietly, she rested her head against his shoulder again as the music flowed—slowly, smoothly, like a brook over stones. Homelike, intimate. Without showy elegance.

"We wrote it together," he said, almost in a whisper, yet she caught every word because of how close they sat. "She came up with the theme, and I… the accompaniment."

She… Robin, of course.

Stelle's lashes fluttered; her heart paused. She didn't even feel herself clutch at the hem of his coat.

"She sang and I played," Sunday went on, his voice shaded with something painful and warm at once. "At night, when everyone thought we were asleep. We would sneak in here—then it was just a storeroom for old instruments—and play our little song."

The music grew a touch stronger, surer. At moments, you could almost hear children laughing, a brother and sister's love—and something else, that bittersweet ache of loss.

His mastery was undeniable, even in so simple a piece. His hands knew exactly how hard to press; it was as if he were not playing at all but speaking to the keys, and they answered with all they had.

"No one ever heard it," he breathed. "Except the two of us. And after she…" He faltered; his throat tightened; his voice went rough. "…after that, I never played it again. I couldn't."

A lump lodged in Stelle's throat. She understood what an impossible gift he was giving her now. Not just music—a piece of his soul, his most sacred memory. Tears pricked her eyes.

She could hardly believe this was real. Sunday did not perform—she'd heard it from her mother and from him. And yet now he played—not just anything, but… something so important.

"But now…" He looked at her without stopping his hands, and in his amber eyes glowed a tenderness, very honest. "I think Robin would not mind if one more person heard it. Someone special."

Someone special. The words chimed in her heart like a warm bell. The tears she had held so fiercely spilled over—but these were different now: tears of gratitude, of awe, and something else—something deep and beautiful.

The music filled the room and her very being, as if Sunday's and Robin's melody were bathing her soul, washing away the filth and humiliation that had tormented her and leaving only warmth and light.

"Your Highness…" she breathed through her tears. "It's… beautiful."

He smiled—slightly, sincerely.

"She would be glad you think so. Robin always said music is a bridge between hearts. That it can heal what words cannot."

And in that moment, she understood—he played not merely for her but to heal her broken heart. He gave her the dearest thing he had to restore her faith that there was good left in the world. He cracked open his most painful memory so that she might feel better.

No jewel could compare to such a gift. Sunday had again given her something more precious than any gold or gem on earth.

That undid her completely; a sob broke free. Tears ran anew.

The melody drifted toward its end, softer and gentler, like a lullaby. If not for the flood of feeling, Stelle could have fallen asleep right there.

The last note dissolved into quiet, but its bittersweet aftertaste hung in the air.

For a few moments, they sat in the sacred hush. She couldn't find herself after what she'd heard—her heart hammered as if for the last time; a knot of gratitude blocked all speech.

"Your Highness…" she managed at last, voice trembling. "I don't know what to say… What you just did…" She faltered, searching for words. "You've given me something incredibly precious. Something that belongs only to you and—"

She didn't finish—her tongue refused. She pressed her lips together, afraid she'd said the wrong thing.

Sunday turned his head to meet her damp gaze. Soft sorrow glinted in his usually composed eyes—along with warmth.

"If it eased your pain even a little… then it has fulfilled its purpose."

She blinked; her heart clenched tighter. A helpless little sob escaped as she wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand.

"And the words…" she ventured, unsure if the question crossed a line. "Did it have words… this song?"

For a heartbeat, his face turned even more unguarded. He lowered his eyes to the keys, as if seeing something only memory revealed. The corners of his mouth tilted in a melancholy, nostalgic smile.

"The words…" he repeated, tasting the thought. "Yes, of course it had words. Robin used to say a melody without words is a painting without color."

His fingers sounded a few quiet chords.

"But… I haven't sung in so long…" He met her eyes, a flicker of uncertainty there. "I don't know if I can…"

"Please," Stelle whispered, scarcely breathing. She straightened without meaning to, anticipation tightening her spine. "If you can… I would be very happy to hear it. Only if it isn't too much."

He studied her a long moment—measuring whether he should. She was ready to apologize and change the subject when at last he nodded. He set his hands again at the keys and began the familiar melody from the start—but now with spaces left open, as if notes had been removed to make room for words.

"This little song…" he said, still playing. "We imagined we were two nestlings who would never part. That we would always be together, no matter what."

The platinum-haired man drew a long breath—and when he released the next sound, it was no longer speech. It was song—deep, velvet, and edged with a shadow she'd heard once before in her own music room.

 

Two wings upon one little bird,

Two hearts that beat as one,

Together always, that's our word,

Until our days are done.

 

His voice wasn't loud, but incredibly expressive. In it could be heard echoes of childish spontaneity, but colored with adult pain of loss. Stelle froze, not even breathing—afraid that any movement would frighten away the magic of the moment.

 

We play with sunbeams in the sky,

We sing with wind so free,

We laugh and dream and wonder why

We're happy as can be.

 

His fingers danced across the keys with the ease that only years and love can give. And his voice… his voice enchanted. The hairs on her arms rose; gooseflesh swept her skin.

 

When storm clouds start to weep and cry,

We'll chase their tears away,

When someone's sad, we'll learn to fly

And brighten up their day.

 

In those simple, childlike lines lived such purity, such innocent faith in goodness that her heart ached with tenderness. She pictured two small children—both fair-haired—singing this in the half-dark of a forgotten room… If only she could go back and gather them to her, shielding them from all the hurt to come.

 

Two wings upon one little bird,

Two hearts that beat as one...

 

He finished the refrain; his voice wavered at the last notes, revealing the truth beneath. It hurt him—and he still forced himself through… for her. That deep, quiet grief in his amber gaze made it ache worse.

Stelle didn't know what to do with herself. She was so overcome she couldn't even show it. Her lips parted; her eyes were wide and wet—she ached for someone she had never known. Pain cleaved her chest as if a shard of Sunday's sorrow had passed into her.

Without thinking, she slid closer and wrapped her arms around his chest, holding him tight. Perhaps it was improper, but it felt like what he needed most. And… she did, too.

A breath shuddered out of him. He hesitated only a second, then his arms closed around her, drawing her firmly in—as if he hadn't known how badly he wanted this until it happened.

She pressed her damp cheek to his shoulder. His warmth wrapped her; everything inside her trembled anew. Without even noticing, she brushed her cheek against his jaw.

His palm rested gently on the crown of her head, coaxing her closer; he stroked her hair with such tender care it almost hurt. His other hand traced slow circles along her back, sending fresh waves of gooseflesh again and again.

"You… you sing beautifully, Your Highness," Stelle managed at last in a whisper, and cursed herself—surely not what one ought to say. She had so much to tell him, and out came the emptiest thing.

He only laughed under his breath and held her tighter. His low voice vibrated through her when he murmured:

"I haven't sung that song since…" He didn't finish; he didn't need to. "I thought I never would again. In truth, I swore I wouldn't."

The words struck like lightning. Her eyes flew wide; her fingers clenched in the fabric of his coat. She didn't interrupt, though every part of her wanted to fall to her knees and thank him for such an honor until the end of days.

She only asked:

"…Why?"

The question seemed to catch him off guard. He exhaled and went still, took his time—then shook his head.

"And again you ask me what I cannot answer. It's a little shameful to admit there is something I don't know…"

There was almost a boyish awkwardness in his voice. Then:

"But… I do not regret it. I'm glad Robin's memory will live with you as well. I think she would be glad."

Stelle smiled despite herself—foolishly, helplessly happy. Warmth spread through her to the fingertips. She rested her cheek on his shoulder again. Sunday's scent folded around her like a winter blanket—so comforting she never wanted to draw away. Yet the silence that followed carried a breath of expectation.

He eased back—not abruptly, not pushing her away, but carefully, as if afraid to fracture the delicate moment. His hands settled at her shoulders, and he looked deep into her eyes.

"Would you…" he began softly, then faltered as if doubting the words themselves. "That is—would it be improper if I…"

He paused; she saw the struggle flicker in his gaze and couldn't help the tug of curiosity—what could make even Sunday uncertain?

"What is it, Your Highness?" she prompted gently, edging a little closer.

He drew a breath, gathering himself.

"This melody… it was written for four hands," he said a touch too quickly, as though afraid if he went slower, he'd lose his nerve halfway. "Robin played the upper line; I played the lower. And I thought…" A beat. Careful hope warred with fear in his eyes. "Might you… try to play it with me?"

Stelle's heart stopped and tripped. Her brows nearly hit her hairline; she straightened in shock, staring at him like he'd descended from the moon.

"Truly?!" she blurted—far too loud, far from elegant. She caught herself at once, ducked her head; her cheeks flared. "Forgive me…"

Her awkwardness, at least, had one benefit: it made him smile. Only a little—but enough for even her shy glance to catch it. His face softened; something like peace came into it.

He freed one hand and turned to the keys, guiding her with the other.

"The upper part is quite simple," he explained, fingers hovering. "Mostly the melody, with simple chords here and there. As she would say, it's a conversation. I ask; you answer."

Stelle shifted closer. They were merely sitting again, but now their shoulders touched—and the blush refused to leave her cheeks.

"Place your hand like this." Sunday took her right hand and set it above the treble keys. His touch was careful and warm, and waves of heat moved across her skin. "We'll begin slowly. Just follow me."

He began the theme with his left hand. This time, it sounded incomplete, as if waiting for its reply.

"Now you," he nodded softly. "Repeat what I played—but two octaves higher."

She blinked, then nodded with determination, praying she wouldn't botch it. She pressed the first keys. The sound was tentative, a little unsteady, but close enough. He nodded approval.

"Exactly so. Now—together."

His left hand took the low register, and his right settled near hers, ready to help if needed. They began—slowly and carefully, like two people learning a new dance.

At first, she faltered, her fingers slipping to the wrong keys; Sunday corrected her patiently, sometimes laying his hands over hers to guide the motion.

"Don't think about technique," his voice sounded right by her ear, sending a shiver down her spine. "Just feel the music. Imagine you are speaking to me through the keys."

Easier said than done. Playing such a precious song, and with Sunday beside her—no small cause for nerves. Still, she tried, and after a number of attempts, something began to click. The music took on life—and she caught herself thinking it truly did sound like a dialogue: her voice weaving with Sunday's, creating something whole despite her imperfections.

"That's it," he breathed, and delight colored the tone. "You're doing wonderfully, my lady. Think of nothing else…"

The melody flowed; the space around them seemed to shift. She could almost feel Robin's presence become tangible—not sad, not painful, but warm, encouraging. As if the little girl rejoiced that her brother could play their song again, and that someone new had come to love it too.

"Would you like to try adding the words?"

Stelle nodded, not trusting her voice; her heart felt near to breaking—from joy or nerves, she couldn't tell. Though truth be told, the nerves had begun to lift long ago.

They began anew, and this time Sunday sang softly:

"Two wings upon one little bird..."

Stelle, though afraid, picked up a second line with a simple harmony:

"Two hearts that beat as one..."

For an instant, surprise flickered in his eyes; then he smiled—perhaps the most open, gleeful smile she had ever seen from him.

They sang it through, their voices twining; their hands moved over the keys in not-quite-perfect but easy synchronicity. Yes, she stumbled over a word here and a note there, but he didn't scold—he only smiled, as if her slips charmed him more. Because of that, she was able to finish—and stop being afraid.

When the last note melted away, both of them sat unmoving, still caught inside what had just happened.

Stelle breathed hard, a little skittish, then flicked a sidelong glance at Sunday—mischief sparking through the awe. He turned at once; in his eyes was something she'd never seen there before. Not just tenderness or gratitude—something deeper. Their faces were very near.

She looked into molten gold and understood—something had changed between them. It hadn't been merely a song. It was a memory he had chosen to share—and now it belonged to them both.

"Thank you," she whispered, lashes lowering, her heart a drum. "For letting me… for trusting me with so precious a part of yourself…"

He lifted a hand and brushed away a tear she hadn't noticed.

"Thank you," he answered quietly, his voice dropping a shade. "For giving this song a new life."

There was such tenderness in his touch that her breathing hitched. The air between them crackled; that familiar pull surged back—stronger now, deepened by a shared secret, a shared remembrance.

He seemed to feel it too. His gaze flicked to her lips, then back to her eyes. A shadow passed through his own.

She could not tell which of them moved—whether she leaned toward him, or he toward her, or both surrendered to that invisible force drawing them together. All she knew was that only a few inches remained, and the distance was still shrinking.

His breath turned uneven; she felt it fan warm across her skin, and her knees went weak. His hand trembled on her cheek; his thumb traced her cheekbone—so gentle, so tentative, her lashes fluttered.

Her heartbeat was so loud he could not help but hear it. Everything inside her cinched tight; butterflies thrashed in her belly; her fingertips tingled.

The amber opposite darkened, deepened. Her lips parted. Her eyelids grew heavy. Time slowed to a trickle.

Another inch…

He was so close she could count each lash; she could smell his skin.

His free hand slid to her waist, almost without conscious thought, drawing her nearer. Heat surged through her from his touch, washing up her spine and down to the lowest pull of her belly.

Their breaths mingled. His lips were so close she could feel their warmth—

—and suddenly he stilled.

As if something inside had snapped taut, as if an unseen thread jerked him back to himself. His eyes flew open wider. He eased away, lowered his hand, and turned his gaze to the window as if it had become wildly fascinating.

She jolted back to herself, too. She sat up straight, fixed her stare on some arbitrary patch of wall as if it were captivating. Inside, a small flame of… disappointment?… burned. She didn't even know what she'd expected—didn't dare admit it to herself. Her heart raced; her cheeks flamed; her lips tingled with a chiding ache, and she bit the lower one to subdue it.

Silence stretched. She fidgeted with her skirt hem just to give her hands a task and not die of embarrassment.

Good God—what were you thinking?

Did you imagine His Highness Sunday himself would…?

Even finishing the thought felt shameful.

He cleared his throat. When he spoke again, tension roughened the edges.

"You—" She jumped at the sound of his voice. "I don't wish to insist, but… When we met in the corridor today… you were in such a state that…"

He turned back to her; the care in his eyes made her forget her mortification for a moment.

"Something happened," he continued, and that concern pricked her nose anew. "Something that hurt you. And I…" he paused, warring with himself. "I cannot ignore it. Not when I see you suffer."

Her heart gave a painful squeeze. She exhaled unevenly.

"Your Highness…"

"Sunday," he corrected gently, the corners of his lips tipping faintly up. "After what we have just shared, hearing that from you feels very wrong. Would you… mind if we used first names when we are alone?"

It was the final arrow to her heart. In her wildest dreams, she had not imagined the crown prince would one day allow her to call him by his name. She didn't believe it at first. She blinked, as if that would dispel the illusion—but no, this was not a dream.

"I… I can't…" she mumbled, flushing and looking away. "I'm not permitted…"

He didn't relent. He took her chin lightly, turning her face back to his until she looked into his eyes again.

"And I—permit it. Come now…" His lashes lowered a fraction; his voice sank deeper. "I'll start. Stelle…"

That address—and the way he said it—turned everything inside her over; a wave of heat swept through her body. His touch sent her head spinning. When he spoke to her like this, she felt she would obey any word.

Her lips trembled. Her heart beat wild and fast. The prince's name stuck on her tongue; she was afraid to say it aloud—as if it were a spell that would change everything between them forever.

"S… Sun—" she began so softly that his ear barely caught it. Then she drew a fuller breath and, on the exhale: "Sunday…"

And she flushed to the roots of her hair.

Hearing her own voice pronounce his name without titles or ceremony struck her as downright outrageous. She wanted to pass sentence on herself for such insolence. It felt so… intimate. Almost improper.

But instead of rebuking her, Sunday's face softened further. The corners of his lips lifted in a small, wholly sincere smile. Even his own voice wavered:

"That is much better," he said, and the warmth in his tone calmed her at once. "Thank you."

Stelle lowered her gaze, still half-convinced none of this was real. Her fingers worried at the folds of her skirt.

For a few moments, they sat in silence. Slowly, though, the air began to change—as if unseen clouds were gathering above their heads. Sunday kept a thoughtful gaze on her, and she felt the worry building in his eyes.

"Stelle," he called softly, his voice turning grave. "What happened in the corridor today… Someone hurt you. And I cannot—" he paused a heartbeat, searching for the right words. "I cannot simply watch you suffer and do nothing."

She went very still. Her breathing quickened; something in her chest clenched painfully. She had known this moment was inevitable, and still she was not ready. In truth, some small part of her had hoped he might simply forget.

"It… it doesn't matter," she mumbled, keeping her eyes down. "Just a foolish misunderstanding. Nothing serious."

"Stelle." His voice grew firmer without losing its gentleness. "Look at me."

She did not obey at once. She froze first, clutching at the fabric of her skirt as if it might save her, but at last she slowly raised her head. Their eyes met. In his honey-colored gaze, she found no anger, no condemnation—only care—and somehow that made it harder to breathe.

"What I saw today," he went on carefully, "was not tears over a 'foolish misunderstanding.' You were in despair. Someone hurt you very deeply."

She pressed her lips together as treacherous tears stung again. She cursed herself for becoming such a crybaby of late. Get a hold of yourself… She wanted to deny, to run, to hide.

She did not want to speak of it. The very thought that this might change what lay between them terrified her.

And yet—one glance at the man beside her, the piano near at hand… He had just shared with her his dearest memory of his sister, the most painful remembrance he owned; he had played what he had sworn never to play and sing—only to ease her pain.

How could she lie to him after that? He had opened himself and wished to help; he deserved the same in return.

Her mind understood as much, but the animal fear in her heart refused to release its hold.

"I…" Her voice shook. "I don't know where to begin, or how to explain it. It is all very… shameful."

Sunday's hand settled gently over hers. She jolted at once.

"Whatever it is, you can trust me," he said. "I promise I will not judge you."

The words struck straight at the heart. Stelle shut her eyes and wrestled with herself.

Of course, he said that—but only because he couldn't know how grave it truly was. He surely did not imagine she had slept with his own brother, and that it might now come out. He couldn't guess that his brother had blackmailed her, threatening to spread rumors if she refused to… meet him in private.

A chill ran down her spine. She swallowed hard; her heart battered her ribs; a single bead of sweat slid down her brow.

She had refused… Did that mean Aventurine would make good on his threat? Perhaps… he already had? And the minute Sunday stepped out of this room, he would learn everything anyway—from someone else's mouth?

The thought turned her blood to ice; her shoulders trembled.

No—if he was going to hear it, then… better it come from her. Before someone's diseased imagination painted the whole thing in indecent colors that had never been there.

She wanted to run. From this room, from this world. Had she known what her stupid bid at "freedom" would bring, she would never have done it. God, she would never have approached Aventurine in the first place if only she'd known.

She parted her lips—but sound refused to emerge at first. Her body shook; Sunday felt it in her hand and tightened his grip. He covered her hand with his other, warming her from both sides, and though the kindness soothed, it also stabbed—because all of this might change now. Perhaps these were the last seconds he touched her without disgust.

"A few months ago…" she whispered, her voice breaking. "I made a mistake. A very great mistake."

She stopped to gather herself. Sunday waited with patient stillness. He did not press, only stroked her hand with his thumb, lending her strength.

Try as she might, she couldn't stop shaking. The room felt suddenly cold. She had no idea how to say it. How to frame it so it wouldn't sound so awful. Every version seemed wrong.

Her nose prickled, but she held the tears at bay.

"Before my debut, I often ran away from home. Just to spend time with friends like an ordinary girl…" she said quietly, uncertainly, praying he would somehow not hear. "And one day I met a man. I didn't know who he was. Many things happened, and in the end it all… ended with…"

She drew a deeper breath. Her heart thudded so hard her ribs ached. She shut her eyes; she couldn't bear to watch the shift in Sunday's gaze from tender, anxious warmth to disgust that would surely follow.

"…we spent the night together."

The words were so soft she barely heard them herself. Shame burned her cheeks.

There it was—the point beyond return. The moment after which Sunday's regard would change forever. She braced for him to jerk his hands away as if from refuse, to cast her out, to call her a filthy fool.

She waited. One minute. Two. The room seemed to shrink to a small box that pressed in from every side. She couldn't breathe.

A ragged exhale slipped from her when she felt movement. She flinched, as if for a blow—if not a physical one, then a moral.

What followed confounded her. One of his hands slid from atop hers only to settle on her crown. He guided her forward until her face nestled between his neck and shoulder. Then his palm moved to her back, drawing her against his solid body and stroking with such care that her breath caught. His other hand twined their fingers—tight, unyielding.

She turned to stone. She forgot how to breathe, how to move, how to blink. For a mad instant, she thought her mind had conjured a hallucination, because Sunday could not respond like this. He ought to be angry, to question every detail, to be disappointed.

Why, instead…?

"What happened after?" came the soft, careful question at her ear. Sunday's voice was calm; it shattered every preconception to pieces.

Stelle couldn't hold back any longer. She sobbed into his shoulder—another bout of tears today; pathetic. She took her time to gather herself and went on in a small voice:

"After that… I learned who he truly was. And he learned who I was. And now he uses it against me."

"Uses it?" Sunday repeated gently—and there was a dangerous note beneath.

Stelle nodded, swallowing the lump in her throat.

"He wants me to… to meet him in private, 'without witnesses.' And if I refuse, he…" her voice splintered, "he threatens to spread rumors. To ruin my name."

Sunday's fingers tightened around hers. In the hush of the room, only her ragged breathing could be heard. Had she seen his face, she would have found horror in his eyes.

"And worst of all…" her voice slid lower; she burrowed her face into his neck and sniffled. Her hand drifted, hesitant, to his shoulder, as if seeking purchase—as if testing that Sunday was still there. "…he said you would turn away from me if you found out that I… that my innocence…"

She couldn't finish. Her voice broke on a sob.

Very slowly, Sunday withdrew his hand from hers. Her heart clamped in fear. This was it. Now he knew what she was. Now it was over.

She braced for him to pull back. To say what he truly thought of her. All she deserved for her foolishness.

Instead, his other arm cinched around her and held—fully, fiercely. He pressed her to him, and then she felt that he, too, was trembling. Only a little—only in his shoulders.

His face had gone pale. His eyes looked not like warm honey but cold amber burning with contained fury. His jaw was clenched so hard the muscle danced beneath his skin.

"When," he asked in a hushed, deadly voice, "did this happen?"

"This morning," Stelle whispered. "After a meeting we both attended, he came up to me…"

A short silence fell, as if Sunday were thinking hard. He did not let her go—on the contrary, he held her carefully and smoothed her back.

"When I gathered your papers in the corridor," he said, voice oddly even, "there was a letter among them. I recognized Aventurine's seal."

Stelle flinched as if struck. Her eyes flew wide with horror.

"It was him," Sunday went on—and it was no question. "Aventurine. My… brother."

She couldn't speak. She didn't nod. She didn't dare. Her silence spoke louder than any word.

Something in the prince's expression turned almost inhuman. He exhaled through his teeth, jaw creaking.

"He will answer for his words," he said—and the calm in his tone was terrifying, for under it lay something lethal. A cold so deep it raised a chill along the spine.

"No, don't…" Stelle shook her head at once, drawing back just enough to search his eyes. "He is still your brother, and—"

"Brother?" A bitter, low laugh escaped him. "I am not sure I wish to call him that after this."

She saw him fight the rage threatening to swallow him whole.

"Stelle," he whispered, his voice fractured at the edges. "Forgive me. Forgive me that he… that he bears our name and does such things. Forgive me that you were made to suffer because of my family."

"It is not your fault," she said firmly, drawing her brows tight. "You are blameless."

Sunday lifted a hand to her face and gently wiped a tear from her cheek.

"I will not allow him to hurt you again. I swear it to you, Stelle. No one will dare to humiliate you."

Such resolve, such strength—Stelle believed him. When Sunday was near, she felt safe. She knew he did not trifle with vows like these.

And yet… it felt wrong.

Mainer's and Tal's jibes flickered up unbidden—about how she need only whisper a few tender words to the prince and the rest of them would pay for it… Was that how it was? Was she truly using their bond now for political gain?

The thought tightened unpleasantly inside her.

But she didn't voice it, for Sunday went on:

"As for your past," his thumb traced along her cheek, "it changes nothing. You are not dirty, and you are not stained. Nothing can alter that."

"But I—"

"No," he interrupted softly but with finality. "Listen to me. What happened between you and him is a part of your story. It does not define you. It does not define your worth."

She could almost feel the shards of her heart rustling, as if trying to knit back together.

"You… you do not hate me?" she whispered, her voice nearly broken.

"Hate you?" Sunday gave a sorrowful smile. "Stelle, I—" He stopped, as if catching himself on the verge of something weighty. He shook his head. "I admire your courage. That you chose to trust me. After everything you endured today, you still found the strength to tell the truth. That is… astonishingly brave."

She wanted to cry. Again. For the third, the fourth time today. Around him, she turned soft as a child; it was embarrassing. She held it back, managed a jerky smile instead, and at last her cheeks warmed with a gentle blush.

"Thank you… Thank you so much… Sunday."

On a rush of feeling, she leaned in and kissed his cheek. The lightest brush—almost nothing—and yet it froze the prince where he sat, as if someone had turned him to ice. He blinked, stunned; his lips parted.

Stelle only smiled, flustered, and looked away. A pity—she never even saw the faint flush that rose on Sunday's own cheeks.

***

The door to Aventurine's office flew open with such force that the glasses on the shelf rattled. Sunday entered without announcement, without knocking, without a shred of ceremony. His face was pale as marble; his eyes burned with a cold fury.

Aventurine lifted his gaze from the papers. He sat behind his desk in an unbuttoned shirt, hair disheveled, documents strewn before him, and a half-emptied glass of whiskey at his elbow. But instead of the usual smirk or a barbed remark, his face remained improbably calm. Hollow.

"Ah," he said quietly, not rising. "It's you."

No irony. No challenge. Only weariness.

Sunday stopped in the middle of the room, fists clenched. He had expected to find the brazen, self-satisfied Aventurine he was used to fighting. He had braced for a duel of words, for mockery, for the usual attempt to turn everything into a joke.

Not this.

"We need to talk," Sunday said through his teeth.

"I know." Aventurine set the glass aside. "About Stelle."

So simple—direct and honest, as if he already knew why his brother had come.

Sunday frowned. That readiness only fanned his anger.

"You know? And that's all?" His voice dropped to something dangerous. "You blackmailed her. You threatened to ruin her name. You made her suffer. And all you can say is 'I know'?"

"Yes," the blond replied, simply. "I did it."

Sunday had been prepared for denials, for excuses, for another round of games. Not for calm admission.

"And?" Steel rang in the heir's voice. "Is that it? You won't even try to explain? To justify yourself?"

"What is there to explain?" The Second Prince lifted a shoulder, his eyes drifting to the window. "I was disgusting. I hurt her. I used her weaknesses against her."

That readiness to lash himself only poured oil on Sunday's fire.

"Then why in hell are you sitting here playing the victim?" Sunday snapped at last, temper breaking its leash. "If you understand so perfectly what you've done, if you know you hurt her—why are you in your office drinking and pitying yourself instead of fixing it?"

Aventurine flinched as if struck. He didn't argue. His mouth flattened to a thin line.

"She was crying," Sunday pressed on, stepping closer. "She was shaking when she told me your threats. And you? You sit here feigning understanding?"

"Sunday…"

"No." The platinum-haired prince leaned over the desk; his palm hit the wood. "Even your past—even that hell you went through as a child, though I don't know the details—does not excuse what you did to her. You are a grown man, Aventurine. If you call yourself a man, then at the very least apologize to her properly."

Something flickered in Aventurine's eyes. He rose slowly from the chair, his movements heavy, as if every muscle ached.

"You think I don't want to?" His voice came out rough. "You think this is easy for me?"

"Is it supposed to be easy?" Sunday shot back, cold. "It has to be hard. It has to shame you. And you have to do something about it instead of wallowing here in self-pity."

Aventurine covered his face with both hands and blew out a breath.

"I don't know how," he admitted, barely above a whisper, his voice climbing a half-tone. "I have never… felt like this before. I've never felt guilt. I don't know what to do with it."

Something in that voice made Sunday pause. This did not sound like a performance. It didn't look like a bid for sympathy or a lie. Could it be… bewilderment? From Aventurine?

"I think about her constantly," the blond went on, hands still over his face. "Since that night when we… Since she left me. I can't be with anyone, can't think of anyone else. And today, when I saw her… I just… I wanted her to feel something. Anything. I thought even her hatred would be enough."

Sunday lowered himself into the chair opposite. Anger still churned in his chest, but something else bled into it now—surprise. Distrust.

"And to that end, you were willing to destroy her life?" he asked quietly, brow knit.

"I wasn't thinking." Aventurine dropped his hands at last. His eyes were rimmed red. "I didn't plan to truly ruin her. I didn't even plan to blackmail her. I only wanted… to make sure she couldn't forget me while I cannot stop thinking of her. But when I saw her tears… when she said those words…"

He didn't finish. Silence fell, broken only by the clock ticking on the mantel. He slumped back into the chair.

The amber-eyed prince studied him in disbelief, searching his brother's face for any small tell that this was false. But no—the faint tremor in Aventurine's shoulders told its own story.

"Aventurine," Sunday said carefully, as if approaching a wounded animal. "Do you… have feelings for her?"

The question hung in the air like a blade. Aventurine froze, staring at the floor. He kept silent for long seconds—long enough that Sunday thought he wouldn't answer.

At last, he lifted his head. A bitter, almost painful smile tugged at his mouth.

"Feelings?" he echoed, with scorn for himself. "I don't even know what that is. I've never loved anyone, Sunday. Never. I don't know how. But with her…"

He broke off and raked a hand through his hair.

"With her, it's different. She… she makes me want to be better. To deserve the warmth she once gave me. And that frightens me half to death."

His voice shook on the last words. Sunday looked at his brother and barely recognized him. This broken, adrift man was a far cry from the confident prince he had known all his life.

"Then why did you hurt her?" Sunday asked quietly.

"Because I am a coward," Aventurine answered, simply. "Because it is easier to destroy than to try to build. Because I feared she would never forgive what I am."

He let out a joyless laugh.

"How ironic. I feared her rejection so much that I made certain she would hate me."

The Crown Prince watched him for a long time. The fury in his chest cooled by degrees, giving way to something far more complex. He was still angry; he still could not forgive what Aventurine had done to Stelle—he never would. Yet for the first time in years, he saw, not a mask, not a game, but a real person. Broken, tangled—but real.

"And now what?" he asked at last.

Aventurine lifted one shoulder, eyes on the darkening sky.

"I don't know," he said honestly. "For the first time in my life—I don't know how to deal with a woman."

Silence stretched. Sunday drummed his fingers once on the chair's armrest, thinking through his brother's words. Aventurine sat back, looking as if the world had collapsed before his eyes.

Suddenly, Aventurine pitched forward, elbows on his knees, hands fisting in his hair.

"Tell me," his voice came cracked, almost pleading. "Tell me what to do. You always know. So righteous, so correct. You always have answers."

He raised his head—and Sunday saw… despair.

"How do I live with this?" Aventurine went on, his voice unsteady. "How do I bear that I can't get her out of my head, and at the same time know I ruined everything myself? I don't know how to love, brother. I don't know how to be good. All my life, I've only taken, used, and discarded. And now…"

He faltered, dragging shaking hands over his face.

"And now I want to give something. I want to make it right. But I don't know how. Teach me. Please."

The last word sounded like a cry for help. Sunday looked at him for a long moment, something squeezing tight in his chest.

"You want to know what to do?" he said at last, his voice hard now but stripped of the earlier rage. "Then listen carefully—because I will not repeat myself."

Aventurine nodded, awkward, biting his lip.

"First," Sunday crossed his arms, "stop thinking about yourself. About your feelings, your pain, your needs. You've put yourself at the center of the universe your whole life. It's time you learned to think about her."

"But I do think—"

"No." The elder brother cut him off sharply. "You think about how miserable you are without her. How you suffer. How afraid you feel. That is still you at the center. Start thinking about what she needs. What will make her happy. What will make her life lighter."

Aventurine nodded slowly, as if taking mental notes. He'd never imagined he would one day ask Sunday for advice—least of all… about a woman.

"Second," Sunday continued, "go and apologize. Truly. Not because you want her back, not because you hope to be forgiven. Because she deserves to hear the words. Because you hurt her, and she has a right to know you understand that."

"And if she doesn't forgive me?" the blond asked quietly.

Sunday's brow furrowed; his gaze was level and severe.

"Then she doesn't. And you accept it. You have no right to demand forgiveness, Aventurine. You may only ask for it. And if she says 'no,' that is her right as well."

The younger prince swallowed and nodded.

"Third," the platinum-haired man's voice hardened further, "do not try to buy her. Do not shower her with gifts in hopes of pardon. Do not lean on wealth or influence to impress. That is the same selfishness in a different wrapping."

Aventurine looked as if someone had upended the puzzle of his worldview and forced him to start anew. He blinked, as if Sunday had spoken the silliest nonsense on earth.

"Then… what?"

"Help her," the heir said simply. "Make her life better in ways she may never know to credit to you. Remove obstacles from her path. Shield her reputation from those who would smear it. Make it easier for her to reach her goals."

Something sparked in Aventurine's eyes—understanding. His brows lifted.

"And most of all," Sunday leaned forward, pinning his brother with his stare, "expect nothing in return. Nothing at all. Not gratitude, not pardon, not love. Do it because she deserves it. Not because you hope to gain. This is not a business deal. Do not treat her like a transaction, the way you treat everything else."

The prince with heterochromous eyes sat motionless, absorbing the words. He nodded slowly, gaze dropping to the floor.

"But… that means I may never have her again," he said, voice dull and low, barely there.

"Yes," Sunday said, without a shred of softness. "That is exactly what it means. You may spend the rest of your life trying to atone and never earn forgiveness. If you cannot accept that, then leave her alone now."

Aventurine was silent a long time, studying his hands. When he finally looked up, there was fear in his eyes, and uncertainty—but also a shadow of something like resolve.

"I don't know if I'm capable of it," he said softly. "But… I will try."

Sunday rose, straightened his coat. His face did not soften.

"Remember this, Aventurine—I will be watching. And if you hurt her again, if you exploit her weaknesses once more, I will not be so merciful a second time."

The threat in his voice was plain and unyielding. The blond prince nodded, avoiding his gaze.

"Understood."

The Crown Prince moved for the door, but paused on the threshold.

"And Aventurine?" he said, without turning.

A questioning hum from behind. A heartbeat's pause; then Sunday went on:

"I gave you counsel only because it will help Stelle. Not for your sake." His voice dropped a tone. "And I will not hand her to you. You are not worthy of her."

With that, he left his brother alone with his thoughts and the new, frightening prospect of learning to be better without the guarantee of reward.

Aventurine frowned, watching him go a moment longer—and in his gaze, alongside guilt and confusion, a spark of something dangerous kindled.

Notes:

is this the end of Aven's villain arc??? :0

Chapter 17: Stelle's Audit

Summary:

Stelle finally gets her moment in the spotlight.
Shame someone's trying to push her off the stage.

Notes:

hi hi!! i feel like this one turned out too short, and might get a little complicated to read, i'm sorry for new names but don't bother remembering them too much, i just had to do it :C i know it's a pain
but i hope you're still going to think this all is interesting enough,,,👉👈

Noon light poured through the tall windows of Kafka's study, casting long shadows across wine-red velvet wallpaper. The scent of roses wrapped the room like a silken veil, laced with the sharper notes of ink and parchment.

Stelle stood before her mother's desk, hands folded neatly behind her back. The silver-haired girl had learned to read the subtlest shifts in Kafka's face—the faint tension around those violet eyes when displeased, the near-imperceptible lift of her chin when weighing a decision, the way her fingers went utterly still when something truly important lay on the table. Today, those fingers were motionless.

"You sent for me, Mother?" Stelle's voice was as she'd been taught—even, respectful, yet warm enough to soften the formality.

"Yes." The Duchess leaned back, movements smooth and contained as always. "Come closer, little star. There is something of interest that requires your attention."

The endearment filled Stelle's chest with familiar warmth. No matter how often she heard it, it always coaxed at least a small smile. She even stepped forward, unable to hide her quickening curiosity.

Upon the desk lay an envelope: thick cream parchment edged in gold that caught the daylight, the royal seal pressed into dark-blue wax like an emblem of authority itself.

"From His Majesty," Kafka said simply, and Stelle's heart gave a quicker, heavier beat. "Addressed to the both of us."

With practiced grace, the Duchess broke the seal. The sound was crisp and final, like the snap of fate itself. She unfolded the letter with a reverent care befitting a document of such weight, scanning the page before reading aloud.

The Royal Chancellery of Asdana

On behalf of His Majesty, King Gopher Wood

To Her Grace, Duchess Kafka Solaris, and Lady Stelle Solaris

Honored ladies,

It is with great pleasure that we extend to you a most cordial invitation to the Royal New Year's Celebration, to be held at the Royal Palace on the last day of March, commencing at the seventh hour in the evening.

This grand festivity marks not only the turning of the calendar but also the first formal gathering of the season, at which the esteemed families of the realm shall assemble in a spirit of unity and fellowship. The evening shall include an official banquet, dancing in the Grand Ballroom, and the traditional midnight ceremony welcoming the new year.

Your presence would be a singular honor to us, as House Solaris has ever enjoyed our highest esteem. We are particularly hopeful for the favorable continuation of our acquaintance with Lady Stelle, whose recent debut has become the subject of numerous discussions at court.

The festivities shall conclude with a royal address at midnight, followed by the ceremonial lighting of the New Year's Beacon—a tradition rooted in the very founding of our kingdom.

We await your gracious acceptance with the warmest anticipation.

With profound respect and the sincerest felicitations,

His Majesty Gopher Wood,

by the grace of the Crown, King of Asdana.

The words seemed to hang in the air like crystals, each catching the light and refracting it into something changed. Stelle tightened her hands behind her back; her heartbeat grew slow and heavy, a tremor catching in her fingers.

A royal ball. A New Year's ball. Her thoughts raced. Such events were the stuff of legend. Not everyone was fortunate enough to attend them—renowned musicians, exquisite cuisine, nobles from every corner of the kingdom gathered in their most splendid attire…

Her cheeks warmed at the mention of her own name in so generous a light. It felt unreal that His Majesty himself spoke of her and expected her presence. It rang like the echo of a dream.

Kafka's gaze met her daughter's over the rim of the parchment. Stelle searched her mother's face, trying to parse what it meant—what it truly meant. Royal invitations were never accidents. They were statements—a declaration, a move in a game whose rules she was only just learning.

"Well?" Kafka laid the letter down, smoothing its edges with her fingertips. "What do you think, my dear?"

"I…" Stelle cleared her throat, resisting the urge to fidget with her skirt. "I'm, of course, honored. But I admit I'm unsure how to read it. A personal summons issued in the King's own name, not by a secretary…" She paused, then met Kafka's eyes. "It isn't merely a social event, is it?"

A faint smile touched the Duchess's lips.

"My clever daughter. No, not merely." She traced the elegant script with her eyes. "The phrasing is very deliberate. 'Continuation of our acquaintance with Lady Stelle.' 'The subject of numerous discussions.' Those are not expressions used for any debutante."

The subtext settled upon Stelle like a heavy cloak, and she wasn't sure she was ready to bear it.

"Among other things," the violet-haired woman continued diplomatically, "the Crown Prince pays you considerable attention, little star. More than might be expected of a young lady newly presented to society. A concert dedicated to you, his cloak, a private call, a personal gift, the first dance at your debut…" She let the list trail off.

Heat rushed to Stelle's cheeks at the memory—the weight of Sunday's cloak on her shoulders, the closeness of their duet to Robin's song, the way he had looked at her…

"But there are… certain complications," she murmured carefully, knowing the word hardly encompassed the storm that Aventurine's very name could conjure if she dared speak it aloud.

Kafka's expression sharpened a fraction.

"Oh? Complications?"

Stelle hesitated on the edge of confession. The urge to shed the burden, to ask for guidance about her confrontation with Aventurine, pressed on her throat like a boot. But the memory of his threats—those cruel words about a tarnished innocence—quelled it. How could she explain without laying everything bare? How could she risk her mother's reaction to such a revelation? It might be too much.

"Only that… court politics are complicated," she said at last, hating the evasiveness in her own voice. "I wish to be sure I'm not misreading the situation. Or creating difficulties out of inexperience."

It wasn't entirely untrue. And if Kafka didn't fully believe it, she chose, for now, to let it stand.

"Wise," the Duchess said with a nod. "Though I suspect your concerns are somewhat overstated. A royal invitation implies that any… obstacles are not deemed insurmountable by those whose judgment matters most."

She rose and went to the window, where the February day had begun its slow turn toward evening. The light caught on strands of violet hair, rendering her almost unearthly.

"Less than two months," she mused. "We must begin preparations at once. Naturally, you'll need a new gown—one that marries elegance and restraint. Too simple, and you'll look unready for such an honor. Too ornate, and you'll be accused of pretension—as if you fancied yourself the star of the night."

Stelle felt her stomach knot with a mingled thrill and dread. Another ball—and she hadn't quite recovered from the debut. The false smiles still hovered in her mind, the twins' spite, the tug-of-war for her attention that had little to do with her and everything to do with future gain.

Kafka's smile softened, almost maternal.

"And we shall ensure that when you enter that ballroom, every eye sees precisely what the Crown wishes them to see—the future of House Solaris, worthy of His Highness's regard."

The weight of expectation settled once more upon Stelle's shoulders, heavy enough to steal her breath. And yet beneath it, like honey stirred into a barrel of tar, lay something else.

The chance to see Sunday again.

Perhaps she might dance with him once more? Hear that deep, gentle voice and feel the quiet steadiness of his presence. Even the thought sent a shimmer of electric anticipation through her.

But… there was a darker edge to this coin.

Where Sunday would be, Aventurine would be as well. The last thing she wanted was to face him again, to risk further humiliation. His very name sent a cold shiver along her spine and dropped her heart into her shoes, irrevocably. She was honestly… afraid.

"There is something else," Kafka said, returning to the desk to retrieve a second document from beneath the royal invitation. "Given the nature of the occasion, it is time we discussed certain practicalities."

The change in her tone made the girl straighten. It was the voice for serious conversations—allowing neither interruption nor protest.

"You've spent several months at court. You withstood the trials of your debut, showed grace and wit with a variety of political figures." Kafka tapped the desk. "But a royal ball—especially one of this scale—obeys different rules altogether."

"What… rules?" Stelle asked, though part of her suspected she did not want the answer.

"The rules that govern marriages and alliances," Kafka replied simply. "Those that turn casual courtship into formal declarations of intent. Those that make every gesture of a young lady—every dance partner, every moment of conversation—the subject of public speculation and political calculation."

The words struck like a blow. A moment earlier she had allowed herself to drift, to imagine a dance with Sunday as if it were a scene from some late-night novel. But reality was different. Others would read it as something far more binding.

"It may seem the invitation itself is a statement," the Duchess continued slowly. "But I do not believe His Majesty dispenses such invitations lightly. Nor does he name specific young ladies unless he has reason to believe such mention will be… well received by all relevant parties."

All relevant parties. The phrase sent a ripple through Stelle. The King. Sunday. Herself. And… perhaps others whose opinions mattered—others she'd rather not think about.

He would be there, of course. How could the royal brothers miss such an important event? And after their last meeting…

"You've gone pale, little star." Kafka's voice cut through the thickening fog of thought. "Are you well?"

Stelle forced her features back to neutrality, summoning every lesson in self-command drilled into her since childhood.

"Perfectly well. I'm only taking the measure of what this means."

Kafka held still, studying her daughter's face for a few seconds. Sometimes, Stelle forgot how expertly her mother could read every emotion and every thought. Even so, no further questions came, and the silver-haired girl barely restrained a sigh of relief.

"Good." The Duchess's smile returned, approving. "This is precisely the level of careful consideration the situation requires. And… consider carefully whether you are prepared for the direction things may take should your closeness to His Highness deepen."

An invisible hand clenched around Stelle's heart. Her cheeks warmed, traitorously.

The direction things may take...

Did that mean their interactions were being viewed as a prelude to marriage? Of course—at court, 'real feelings' were regarded as child's play. At grand affairs, attention fell only upon those with whom a future alliance might be built.

Yet the notion of a potential marriage to His Highness felt like something out of another world. Despite all that had already unfolded between them, she felt unworthy of such an honor, even setting aside all else. Heirs married for strength, most often with foreign houses. That was the most advantageous outcome.

And House Solaris was already close to the Crown. Why would they require a stronger bond? Yes, her house possessed vital resources, but it hardly seemed enough to justify a match.

Truthfully, she could understand those who called her unworthy of Sunday's notice. In cold terms, it was true. Objectively, the most she should hope for was friendship—and even that was an honor beyond honors.

Objectively.

Properly.

For Asdana's future, it would be best.

Then... why did that realization sting so badly?

***

The next morning, Stelle was in her own office as usual—a space that now felt like an extension of herself, given how many hours she spent within its walls. She was studying the monthly port reports—columns of figures that had begun to bring a quiet satisfaction with their slow but steady climb—when a soft knock sounded at the door.

"Come in," she said, without lifting her eyes from the registry.

One of the new maids—Stelle still couldn't fix her name in memory, though the woman had been in service nearly two months—slipped inside, not at all like the chatter that once filled the room when her old, familiar maids were around. On a silver tray lay a single envelope, its edges crisp and businesslike.

"A letter for you, my lady. From the Royal Chancellery."

Her pen halted mid-stroke, a small blot of ink blooming where the nib lingered too long.

The Royal Chancellery?

Again?

Any hope for a note from Sunday evaporated at once—there was none of the usual sign of his correspondence, neither that elegant hand nor his personal seal. This was something else entirely, and therefore far more troubling.

"Thank you," she managed, setting the pen aside with care. "You may go."

The maid curtseyed and withdrew, leaving Stelle alone with the letter. The envelope was thick, official, stamped with the formal seal of the Crown's administrative offices—not the personal insignia of the royal family. That, at least, was a small relief.

Her fingers trembled, almost imperceptibly, as she broke the wax. The document within proved to be a copy—she knew at once—not an original letter but a transcript, marked with the official stamp of the Chancellery's Archives Office. At the top, in neutral script: "Copy of correspondence submitted for administrative review, Department of the Royal Treasury."

And below—names that knotted her stomach at a glance: Mainer, Tal, Stahlberg.

She made herself read:

To the Minister of Royal Finance,

and the Right Honorable Deputy Minister of the Treasury,

Your Excellency,

We, the undersigned, hereby formally accept the terms of an independent audit as proposed by His Royal Highness Prince Aventurine, Second Prince of Asdana, in his capacity as Director of the Royal Treasury.

The audit is to examine the administrative efficiency and financial management of the Southern Port facilities under the stewardship of House Solaris, as stipulated in the negotiations concerning the Regional Restoration Fund of the previous quarter.

We acknowledge that said audit shall be conducted by Treasury officials at the Crown's expense, with results binding upon all parties to the aforementioned negotiations. We further acknowledge that noncompliance with audit procedures, or any attempt to hinder the investigative process, shall constitute a breach of the agreement and grounds for immediate review of assets.

We await notice of the commencement of the audit and pledge full cooperation with all investigative personnel assigned to this matter.

With the greatest respect for the authority of the Crown,

Duke Gregory Mainer

Baron Arthur Tal

Count Albert Stahlberg.

The letter slipped from her numb fingers and fell to the desktop like a dropped leaf. They had agreed. After a week of deliberation—a week in which she had hardly slept, wondering what intrigues they were plotting—they had accepted her audit proposal on Aventurine's terms.

For a moment, fierce satisfaction surged through her. They had been so certain of their accusations, so convinced her management was inept. Now they would face the cold scrutiny of an independent audit, and she could finally prove that her house had not merely maintained the port but markedly improved it.

Numbers did not lie. A three-percent rise in efficiency, expanded trade partnerships, streamlined logistics, and a reduction in both costs and delivery times. She had poured herself into the work, studying every facet of port administration until she could recite tonnage figures and shipping schedules by heart. Let them examine every register, every contract, every decision she had made. She had nothing to hide.

Yet as swiftly as that satisfaction flared, it was eclipsed by a creeping dread that settled into her bones like winter cold.

The realization is that this audit will be conducted by the Royal Treasury.

Under the authority of none other than His Highness Aventurine.

The very man whose offer of "cooperation" she had rejected so sharply and decisively in that corridor outside the conference room. The same man who had watched her with that unreadable dark gaze when she told him she was not his merchandise and never would be. The same man who had whispered—no, threatened—that without her compliance, he would not help.

Her own words about trusting in impartiality echoed back with bitter irony. How naïve she had been to think she could depend on his sense of justice. That hope lay buried now beneath the weight of his cold remarks.

What if he chose to punish her? What if his version of an "independent audit" became an instrument of revenge? He had the power, knowledge, and resources to conjure problems where none existed, to interpret her careful administration as incompetence—or worse. A single unfavorable report from the Royal Treasury could shatter her standing and perceived competence. Rebuilding that reputation would be painfully difficult. And then, on top of everything, she would be judged all the more unworthy of Sunday's regard…

Stelle's hands curled into fists upon the desk. She made herself breathe evenly, think logically, refuse panic. This was precisely the sort of situation she had been prepared for—intricate political maneuvers where personal relationships crossed paths with affairs of state.

But… no number of tutors had prepared her for this—for the terrible uncertainty, the dependence on a man with every reason to want her downfall.

She rose abruptly from her chair and went to the window, where the morning stretched grey and cold beyond the glass. The audit could begin at any time—such investigations always did. No advance warning, no chance to prepare or tidy loose ends. Treasury officials would simply appear one day with questions and the authority to examine every aspect of the operation.

Which meant there was nothing she could do now to change the outcome. Every decision had been made, every document filed, every contract signed. If there were flaws in her management—and there surely were—those would be found regardless of any last-minute corrections.

Even so, the need to do something drove her back to the desk. She drew a heavy ledger containing copies of every significant document tied to the port's operations over the past year. If officials were going to dissect her work, she needed to know precisely what they would find.

The morning dissolved into a blur of papers and numbers. Stelle spread the documents in tidy groupings—financial reports, cargo manifests, personnel records, maintenance schedules, contract negotiations. Each page represented hours of labor, decisions weighed and chosen, problems solved with patience and ingenuity.

Looking over it all, laid out before her, she felt a renewed steadiness. This was honest work. By any objective measure, she had improved the port's efficiency and profitability. Personal dislike could not twist figures far enough to turn that into failure.

Or… could it?

Despite every effort, she could not banish doubt. Aventurine was brilliant—everyone conceded that, even his enemies. If he wished to find faults in her administration, he would. A contract clause that might be read as favoritism. Maintenance expenditures that could seem excessive without proper context.

By noon, her office resembled a battlefield. Papers covered every surface, a labyrinth of documentation. Stelle sat at the center of it all, disheveled.

She had found nothing disastrous. That did not soothe her; it unnerved her. Her experience and knowledge might not be enough to catch what could be wrong.

She was sitting on a ticking bomb.

Somewhere in the palace, Aventurine was likely reviewing the same letter, making his own preparations for the coming inquiry. What occupied his mind? What intentions guided his plans?

She could not know that even now he might be wrestling with the same doubts and regrets that had haunted her sleepless nights—that their last encounter had left wounds on both sides, scars that made the prospect of this audit as painful to him as it was terrifying to her.

All she knew was that her fate lay in the hands of a man she no longer dared to trust.

Total disaster.

***

Four days after the letter arrived, so did they.

Stelle sat in her office, mechanically scanning the same invoice for the third time that morning as if she could hypnotize it, when the sound of carriages on the gravel drive sent her heart plummeting. The rhythmic clatter of hooves, the well-oiled creak of polished wheels, the authoritative jingle of the royal harness—omens of something frighteningly official.

She set her pen aside with trembling hands and went to the window. Three carriages in the blue-and-gold livery of the Royal Treasury drew up along the estate's main approach, their passengers hidden behind drawn curtains. A fourth followed—larger, more utilitarian—the sort used to transport documents and official materials.

They had come for the records.

Stelle had been bracing for this moment for days, yet when it came, it still felt like a slap. All her fretting, her anxious reviews of the paperwork, the sleepless nights—and in truth, it had accomplished nothing, because nothing was left to fix.

A soft knock roused her.

"My lady, officials from the Royal Treasury have arrived. Her Grace requests your immediate presence in the receiving room."

"Thank you," Stelle replied, keeping her voice steady. "Please let them know I'm on my way."

Footsteps faded, and the silver-haired girl stole a final moment to collect herself. In the window's reflection, she saw a simple morning gown; her silver hair was gathered in a loose bun. Presentable enough, at least on the outside…

All that remained was to look presentable within.

The walk to the main receiving room seemed endless. Each step echoed along the corridors like a countdown to judgment. Voices reached her before the doorway—her mother's even cadence, and at least two men answering with crisp bureaucratic efficiency.

Stelle paused on the threshold, drew a final breath, and entered the room where her near future would be decided.

Kafka sat in a high-backed chair—an unofficial family throne—with perfect posture and a calm expression. Three men in deep navy uniforms stood before her, high-ranking officials of the Ministry of Finance; their silver badges caught the morning light that poured through the tall windows.

Aventurine was not among them.

Relief washed over her so strongly she nearly swayed. Whatever his intentions for this audit, the Second Prince had chosen not to oversee it in person. She would not have to face him across a table piled with the fruits of her labor, would not have to maintain professional composure while every nerve begged her to run and hide, while his eyes hunted for weaknesses to exploit.

"Ah, Stelle," Kafka's voice broke her trance. "Allow me to present the gentlemen from the Royal Treasury. Chief Inspector Jeffrey Verren"—she indicated the eldest of the three, a man with steel-gray hair and the stance of one long accustomed to unquestioned authority—"Deputy Inspector Thomas Calloway, and Archival Specialist Heinrich Mors."

Stelle advanced and dipped a precise curtsey, as befitted officials of their rank.

"Gentlemen. House Solaris welcomes you and pledges full cooperation with your investigation."

The words came automatically—she had rehearsed them threadbare—but beneath the formal courtesy, her heart hammered.

Chief Inspector Verren stepped forward and produced a leather case stamped with the royal seal.

"Lady Stelle Solaris, by order of His Royal Highness Aventurine, Director of the Royal Treasury, we are here to conduct a comprehensive review of the Southern Port's operations under your leadership. We are empowered to examine all relevant documents, interview key personnel, and inspect the facilities themselves."

He handed her the authorization for the audit, as she understood—signed in Aventurine's unmistakable hand. A dull ache stabbed her chest at the sight of his signature, as if a dozen needles had been pressed in at once. Her lips tightened; her fingers gripped the document's edge a shade too hard.

"The scope of our inquiry," Verren continued, "covers the period from your assumption of the port directorship to the present day. We will require access to all financial statements, hiring records, cargo bills of lading, maintenance reports, and correspondence related to port operations during that time."

"Of course," Stelle said with a small incline of her head. "I have prepared all relevant documents and gathered them in one place. If you'll allow me, I'll take you to my office—you will find everything there."

Deputy Inspector Calloway—younger than his chief, sharp eyes behind wire-rimmed spectacles—spoke for the first time.

"We appreciate your preparation, Lady Stelle, but we will need original records, not copies. Our mandate requires verification of primary sources to ensure authenticity."

Naturally, they wanted originals—standard for any serious review. Yet the thought of handing over the painstaking harvest of months, of watching strangers carry away the proofs of her competence in wooden crates, tugged at her with sudden, helpless sorrow.

"Certainly," she said, proud that her voice held even. "I hope you understand some of these documents pertain to ongoing operations. I must retain access to certain files to sustain the port's daily work."

"Copies of critical operating papers will be provided," Archival Specialist Mors assured her. He was the youngest of the three, ink-stained fingers and the vaguely absent look of a man more at ease with ledgers than with people. "We are not here to interrupt lawful business."

Kafka rose with grace.

"Gentlemen, will you take tea before you begin? The undertaking promises to be extensive."

"Thank you, Your Grace, but we prefer to begin at once," Verren cut in. "Time is of the essence in such matters, and we have been instructed to complete the review with all possible speed."

Speed. The word left an unpleasant aftertaste. If they were pressed to finish quickly, would crucial details be missed? Or would urgency incline them to hunt for faults rather than seek understanding?

"Very well," Stelle said. "This way."

The procession from the receiving room to her office felt like a funeral march. Several junior clerks—she had not noticed them before—followed with empty document folders soon to be filled with scattered pieces of her professional life.

The sight that greeted them in her office was, at least, impressive. As if sensing this very morning what would be required, she had cleaned and arranged everything with manic precision—account books aligned in chronological order, contracts sorted by type and significance, correspondence filed alphabetically. It had nearly driven her mad, but she could not simply sit idle.

Inspector Verren surveyed the assembled materials with something that might be called approval.

"Impressive organization, Lady Stelle. This level of preparation indicates a thorough understanding of proper administrative procedure."

The compliment warmed her more than it ought; she barely kept a pleased smile at bay.

"I consider attention to detail essential to the effective management of anything. Every decision must be documented, every transaction recorded, every agreement preserved for future reference."

"Indeed." He moved to the nearest shelf and ran a finger along the spines of bound ledgers. "We'll begin with the principal ledger—that will be the foundational document for our entire audit."

Stelle nodded and went to the locked cabinet where the most confidential records were kept. The principal ledger was her pride: a comprehensive account of every financial transaction, every stream of income, every expense connected to the port's work. She kept it diligently, updating it daily and reconciling each entry with supporting papers.

She opened the cabinet with a small brass key she had worn on a chain about her neck for days, and despite her nerves, her movements were sure. The ledger should be there—its place on the center shelf, bound in dark leather, gold-stamped on the spine: "Southern Port—Principal Financial Records."

Her hand reached for a familiar shape.

And found nothing.

Her blood turned to ice.

For a heartbeat, she stood staring at the gap where the ledger should have been. Perhaps she had moved it amid the frantic preparations? Perhaps it had been misshelved with other documents?

"Lady Stelle?" The inspector's voice sounded very far away. "Is there a problem?"

"I… No, of course not," she said too quickly. She turned to scan the other shelves, movements growing frantic. "The ledger should be… I placed it right here. I saw it this morning when I was tidying."

The three officials exchanged looks. The deputy stepped closer, his sharp eyes tracking the rising panic of the Duchess's daughter.

"My lady," he said carefully, "are you stating that you cannot locate the principal ledger?"

"It is here somewhere," she insisted at once, her voice climbing despite her efforts at calm. "I would never… I keep all critical records in this cabinet. It must be here."

It was not. After twenty minutes of increasingly desperate search—every shelf, every drawer, every plausible hiding place in the office—the ledger remained missing. The one document absolutely essential to the audit, the keystone of her defense, had simply vanished.

"This is… highly curious," Inspector Verren said, his earlier approval narrowing into stern skepticism. "My lady, you understand how this appears? The foundation of our inquiry has mysteriously disappeared on the very day we arrived to collect it?"

Stelle felt the blood drain from her face. Heat and cold chased each other under her skin; the room swam; she could scarcely feel her legs.

"I swear to you, the ledger was here this morning. I saw it myself while preparing for your visit. Someone must have… someone must have taken it."

Even to her ears, the words sounded feeble. Who could have taken it? Who even had access to this private cabinet when the key never left her neck? The implications were ruinous. Without the ledger, the audit could not proceed. Worse, its absence would read as proof of deliberate concealment—an offense of its own, inviting suspicions of tax evasion and falsification.

"My lady," said the archival specialist quietly, "in my experience, documents do not simply vanish. Either they are misplaced through negligence, or they are deliberately concealed to prevent scrutiny. In either case, it reflects poorly."

"I did not hide it!" The protest burst out sharper than she intended. "Why would I… why would I propose an audit if I had something to conceal? It makes no sense!"

The words did not scour the skepticism from their faces. From their vantage, it was all far too convenient.

The deputy drew out a notebook; his pen scratched with ominous precision.

"Lady Stelle, we require a complete list of everyone with access to this office over the past week. Staff, visitors—anyone who might have had the opportunity to remove documents."

"Of course," she said, desperate, nodding. "Whatever you need. You may search the entire residence if necessary. Search my personal rooms, question every servant. I have nothing to hide."

"That may prove necessary," Inspector Verren replied darkly, frowning. "However, such a comprehensive search requires authorization from the Director. We will need to return to the palace to consult His Highness before we proceed."

The mention cut like a knife to the rawest part of her heart. She barely kept her knees from buckling. What would his reaction be when he heard? His satisfaction would know no bounds.

She had handed him the perfect moment to ruin her, on a silver tray. Do nothing, and the storm would raise itself.

There was no reason to hope for mercy. What luck for him—to be able to strip her of the port so swiftly, so effortlessly—and perhaps more: to sanction her, to bar her from any serious administration in the future.

In numb horror, Stelle watched the officials gather what documents they could. Their earlier efficiency was shadowed now by suspicion.

"We will be in touch, Lady Stelle," Inspector Verren said at last. "Until this matter is resolved, I'm afraid the audit must remain suspended. I trust you understand the gravity of the situation."

Stelle nodded bleakly, distrustful of her voice. She could scarcely meet their eyes without breaking. When the carriages disappeared down the drive, she remained in the ransacked office, staring at the empty space where her carefully ordered professional life had stood moments before.

He will never believe me, she thought, as despair yawned like a pit. Aventurine would see this as confirmation of every suspicion. The theft of the one document that could have saved me… too convenient to be a coincidence.

But a quiet voice whispered a more terrible possibility: what if it was not a coincidence? What if someone wanted this to happen?

The thought was so frightening it made her shake. She sank into a chair and covered her face with her hands, a sob escaping despite herself.

Why does everything I do always end in catastrophe?

***

The dim late-afternoon light filtered through the windows of Aventurine's office as Inspector Verren's words dropped into the quiet like stones cast into still water. The Prince sat utterly motionless, his face an unreadable mask, while he considered what he had just heard.

"Missing," he repeated thoughtfully, keeping his tone neutral. "The principal ledger simply… missing?"

"Yes, Your Highness." Inspector Verren shifted in his chair, plainly uncomfortable with the news he had to deliver. "Lady Stelle claims she saw it that very morning. She appeared genuinely shocked by its disappearance, although, of course…"

"Of course, such reactions can be feigned," Aventurine finished, giving nothing away in his voice. Inside, however, his mind raced through possibilities and calculations with the cold precision that made him such a formidable opponent in both politics and cards.

The principal ledger. Of all documents to vanish, that one was absolutely irreplaceable. Without it, the audit was crippled—every other record depended on cross-references to that central ledger. Its absence not only prevented any verification of Stelle's management, it rendered her guilty of deliberate concealment.

Too convenient, he thought darkly. Far too convenient to be mere carelessness or chance.

"How would you assess Lady Stelle's behavior during the search?"

The deputy inspector, silent until now, leaned forward slightly.

"She appeared sincerely distressed, Your Highness. Either she is a remarkable actress, or she truly doesn't know the document's whereabouts. She even invited us to search her room and question all staff."

"Did she, now?" Aventurine tapped his fingers against the desk—a small gesture that anyone well-versed in reading him would recognize as the herald of intense mental activity behind an unruffled exterior. "And your professional opinion, Inspector Calloway? Do the guilty usually volunteer searches of their private effects?"

The deputy hesitated.

"No… usually not. Most people with something to hide prefer to narrow the scope of an inquiry."

Exactly. Stelle could be many things—naïve, stubborn, idealistic to a fault—but she wasn't stupid. If she had hidden the ledger to conceal wrongdoing, she would hardly have invited such a search—unless she had planned it from the start. He also shouldn't forget that she proposed the audit herself. She hadn't done it just to sabotage herself, had she? The very boldness of the proposal argued for innocence… or desperation.

"There is another point, Your Highness," the archival specialist ventured at last. "The timing of the disappearance. If Lady Stelle had wished to remove evidence, she had at least a week to do so—or four days after the audit notice. Why wait until the very morning of our arrival to eliminate crucial records?"

"A fair thought," Aventurine agreed, narrowing his eyes. "Granted, it is only she who says she saw it that morning. But let us assume it is true." He leaned back with a practiced nonchalance. "That would indicate either astonishing stupidity, or…"

"Or that someone else removed the document," Inspector Verren finished with no eagerness. "Though such a possibility raises equally troubling questions about security and access within House Solaris."

Or, Aventurine thought but did not say, it suggests that someone wanted precisely this outcome. Someone who understood that the disappearance of the ledger would harm Stelle far more than any genuine evidence of misconduct.

The question was: who? Who had access to Stelle's private office and any reason to destroy her? From the inspectors' account, the cabinet had been locked, the key on Stelle's own neck. That implied a troubling degree of preparation for anyone who attempted it. This was neither accident nor impulse. The list of people who could move about the Solaris estate without challenge was limited: the family—Stelle and Kafka—and the servants.

"Your Highness," the inspector continued, "given the unusual nature of the situation, we require guidance on next steps. Without the principal ledger, we cannot complete the audit as commissioned. However, its absence in itself raises serious questions that may warrant further investigation."

Aventurine was silent for a long moment, weighing options and consequences. The simplest path would be to declare the audit untenable for lack of evidence, leaving a cloud of suspicion over Stelle and undermining any authority she held within the Regional Restoration Fund—as well as her control of the port. Mainer and his allies would be delighted.

But Sunday's words echoed through him yet again: "Remove the obstacles in her path. Help her achieve her goals."

Not that this was the only reason. Beneath it lay his own firm conviction of Stelle's innocence. Not just that she had not hidden the ledger, but that she had committed no serious administrative offenses at all. He had seen enough unqualified administrators to recognize true incompetence when confronted with it, and everything in her preliminary reports spoke otherwise.

Someone was trying to destroy her—obvious from the moment she stepped into the Marble Hall as a debutante. But this someone had access, capability, and motive. That was dangerous. The ledger's disappearance could be only the beginning if this didn't go according to their plan. And unless he took steps to protect her, that someone would succeed.

His heart tightened at the thought.

Emotion. Real.

And he was slowly becoming accustomed to the fact that Stelle awakened them in him—that's horrifying.

"Inspector Verren," he said at last, his voice carrying the absolute authority of his office. He leaned forward, fixing the man with a cold look. "Tomorrow morning, you will return to House Solaris with a full investigative team. You will close the estate's exits—place it under isolation. You have my authorization to conduct a comprehensive search of the premises—every room, every servants' quarter, every storehouse. Question all personnel individually and thoroughly. Permit no one to leave the grounds, even after being searched, until that order is rescinded."

The trio frowned and exchanged dark glances. Verren cleared his throat. Even with the fear that rose in any man who contradicted Aventurine when he spoke in that tone, he began:

"Your Highness…" His voice faltered at the arch of the blond Prince's skeptical brow, which caught the faintest trace of disobedience. "Such an extensive inquiry may be perceived as… unusually stringent for a case concerning missing documents. There may be questions as to whether the Treasury is exceeding its authority."

Translation: this may look as though I am either persecuting Stelle—or protecting her—and either appearance could damage my reputation for impartiality.

I know it all too well.

Worse still was the fact that the fear of such an outcome was not strong enough to stop him. It should have been.

"Let them ask," Aventurine said coolly. "The principal ledger contains confidential information on Crown revenues and port operations. Its theft—if theft it is—constitutes a matter of national security, not a mere administrative lapse."

The reclassification was elegantly simple. By treating the ledger's disappearance as a potential breach of security rather than mere interference with an audit, he gave himself justification for any level of inquiry. More importantly, it shifted the narrative from "Lady Stelle concealed evidence" to "someone stole vital government records."

"Furthermore," he continued, taking up a pen and drafting an official order with honed speed, "the offer of personal search will be accepted. I want her room, her personal belongings—even her correspondence—examined in detail. If she has nothing to hide, the investigation will prove it. If she does…"

He left the sentence unfinished, the more frightening for it.

Inspector Calloway wrote as meticulously as he spoke.

"And if the principal ledger is not found during this expanded search?"

"Then we proceed on the presumption that it was deliberately removed by a third party with the intent to sabotage both the audit and the reputation of Lady Stelle, heir to our strongest allied house, Solaris." The Prince's voice was ice—unyielding. "In that case, this becomes a criminal investigation of far broader scope."

The three officials exchanged looks. They understood the implications—this could reach far beyond House Solaris. Influential men who had expected a simple audit might find themselves under an unforgiving lens.

A thoughtful silence fell, broken only by the scratch of pen on parchment.

"There is one more concern, Your Highness," Inspector Verren ventured, clearly uneasy; a bead of sweat slid down his brow. "The investigation you are sanctioning… may be construed as an unusual defense of Lady Stelle's interests. Given the political sensitivity surrounding her recent debut and the growing rumors of her connection to the Crown…"

Ah. There it is at last. The mention drew an involuntary curl of his mouth.

A polite warning about appearances—the whispers that would follow if he showed too great a willingness to help her. Court gossip traveled faster than wildfire, and any hint that the Second Prince was favoring the young Lady Solaris would feed speculation for months.

Aventurine set down the pen, folded his arms across his chest, and leaned back, weighing his reply.

He could retreat—authorize only a perfunctory search that would likely find nothing and ruin Stelle's name. It would be the safe political choice, protecting his own position at her expense.

Expect nothing in return. Do it because she deserves it.

The memory of her tears and the despair in her eyes rose so vivid it blinded. Each time he considered doing as he once would have done without hesitation, his mind thrust that image before him, and it called up a dull ache somewhere deep within his chest.

The Aventurine of a few months ago would have laughed at such a decision, but…

"Inspector Verren," he began slowly, lowering his gaze, "in my position, I am often accused of many things. Self-interest, ruthlessness, political calculation. But I have never been accused of professional incompetence." His unusual eyes lifted, level and intent. "This financial ledger contains detailed records of Crown revenues. Were I not to conduct a thorough inquiry into its disappearance, I would be unworthy of the title Director of the Royal Treasury."

His voice dropped a shade at the end. The message was clear: anyone who questioned his motives could be accused of wishing him to neglect his duty to the Crown.

The silence that followed was cold and taut. No one dared speak for fear of sounding insubordinate. Aventurine had efficiently reminded them of their place.

Verren's Adam's apple bobbed.

"I understand completely, Your Highness." He bowed slightly. "We will proceed with a comprehensive investigation at your order."

"See to it." Aventurine sealed the directive as required and extended it with careless ease. "I want reports on everything. Miss nothing." He rose from his chair. "And, gentlemen—"

He paused as they turned toward the door.

"I want the ledger found. Whatever it takes."

The chill of those final words was almost physical. Each man bowed with proper respect, promising to do all that could be done—what else could they say?

When the door closed behind them, Aventurine went to the window and watched the movement beyond the palace walls. He was alone, yet the tension did not ease from his shoulders or face.

Somewhere out there, Stelle must be strangling on guilt and fear, convinced her career and reputation were ruined. She could not know that he intended to bring the full power of the Royal Treasury to bear in her defense.

She will think I am merely doing my duty, protecting the Crown's interests. Perhaps that is for the best.

Yet even as he told himself so, he could not shake the image of her face as she left him: wounded, wholly convinced of his cruelty and indifference.

Tomorrow's investigation might clear her name, but it would not undo what he had done. It would not erase the memory of tears he had drawn forth with his contemptible threat. Still, it was something. The beginning of something better.

Perhaps, for once in his life, he would do a thing out of conscience rather than calculation—however naïve and childlike that might sound.

How strange, to help someone who will never know it was you, who will never repay you in kind. It felt like a betrayal of himself. It sparked a restless need to twist it, to demand compensation—but he drowned that impulse before it could take root.

Find that damned ledger, he ordered the investigators in silence as they set to their work. Find it, and the one who took it. Restore her reputation, even if it cannot turn back time or alter what she feels toward me.

The late-afternoon sun kept sliding toward the horizon, painting the office in bands of gold and shadow. Tomorrow would bring revelations—of that he was certain. The question was whether they would be the kind Stelle needed to survive.

A smile touched his lips, bitter as gall.

Hold on, little raccoon. Help is coming, even if you never learn from where.

Chapter 18: Stelle's Arrest

Summary:

Under house arrest for crimes she didn't commit, Stelle faces the investigation alone. The missing documents could destroy everything she's built—and Prince Aventurine, who oversees her case, has already made his feelings about her perfectly clear.

Notes:

hi babies!! i missed you all <33

At dawn came the clatter of carriages. They hadn't even waited for a proper morning.

Stelle heard it from her bedroom window—a procession far more imposing than yesterday's modest trio. The rhythmic strike of hooves, the creak of wheels, the sharp commands of men used to obedience. She pressed her face to the glass and watched a small army in royal blue uniforms step down from no fewer than twelve carriages. Officials with leather portfolios, clerks lugging wooden crates, and—judging by the way they were stationed at fixed intervals—guards forming a perimeter around the estate.

They had come. Come to turn the manor upside down.

"My lady?"

One of the maids—Stelle had been so deep in thought she hadn't noticed her enter—stood in the doorway with the same neutral expression as always. No warmth, no familiarity, only professional efficiency dressed in starched fabric. The silver-haired girl no longer cared.

"It's time to get ready. The officials from the Royal Treasury have arrived and are demanding you present yourself at once."

Stelle let out the smallest sigh and closed her eyes for a moment. When she turned from the window, her reflection in the morning pane looked like a ghost. She looked awful—red-rimmed eyes from a sleepless night spent crying and staring at the ceiling. Her silver hair hung dull and tangled, and her nightdress was rumpled from restless tossing.

"Of course," she said softly, voice hoarse. "I'm ready."

No, she wasn't. She would never be ready for what awaited her.

A second maid was already waiting in the bath, and the usual routine began—so very ordinary that it almost suggested everything was fine. As if no vultures were waiting to pick her apart, likely sent to ruin her reputation.

Stelle yielded to their care like a doll being dressed. The hot water scalded her skin, yet she barely felt it. The maids' hands were deft but cold as they scrubbed away the salt of dried tears. She stared into nothing, mind fogged with fear.

He'll destroy me, she thought as water streamed down her shoulders. Aventurine will find a way to turn the investigation to his advantage. It's already over.

Mother must be disappointed. Stelle hadn't managed to speak properly with her yesterday—Kafka had said she had business. She only commented on the situation: "I warned you it would be difficult."

So she was entirely alone in this. And what could she do?

Yesterday, she circled the manor several times, questioned the servants, and rummaged through all her belongings—nothing. As if the ledger existed only in her imagination.

Which is why today's preparations felt like the last meal before execution.

When the maids lifted her from the bath and began the delicate work of making her presentable, she watched their faces in the mirror, as if searching for the slightest trace of sympathy or concern. As if she wanted to believe she had at least one person in this world on her side. But there was nothing. These women were chosen for restraint and professionalism. They would neither gossip about what they saw nor offer comfort in moments of weakness.

The first maid—tall, grey-haired, her hands moving like surgical instruments—applied foundation to hide pallor and shadows. The second focused on Stelle's hair.

"Don't move, Lady Stelle," the first instructed as she dabbed concealer beneath the girl's eyes. "We must ensure there are no signs of fatigue."

Fatigue. Such a gentle word for hours of terror and self-reproach. The amber-eyed girl had spent the night imagining every possible catastrophe—her reputation ruined, the port seized, her mother's disappointment, expulsion from court and society. Each scenario worse than the last.

"All done."

Stelle looked into the mirror with an empty gaze. Skilled hands had erased the traces of her collapse, leaving only a faint puffiness around her eyes as evidence. If not for the tremor in her fingers and the dull ache in her chest, she might have believed the illusion herself.

They dressed her in a dark-blue gown. No bright colors, no frivolous ornaments. Perfect for dealing with government officials. Only no dress or makeup would change the outcome. It was all merely a prelude to the inevitable.

The moment she stepped out of her room, she nearly collided with a young man, who recoiled with a startled exclamation. She flinched too, blinking.

He cleared his throat, pulled himself back into formality, and dipped his head in a slight bow.

"Lady Stelle Solaris," he announced, consulting a document. "I am Assistant Inspector Thomas Hartwell. I've been assigned to escort you throughout today's proceedings."

Stelle barely kept from sighing. Judgment day had come; there was nowhere to run.

"Of course. I am at your disposal," she said, folding her hands before her to hide their tremor.

The young man's face was professionally neutral—neither kind nor cruel. He was not much older than she, with chestnut hair and serious eyes hidden behind glasses. In other circumstances, she might have found his obvious nervousness endearing. Today, it only sharpened the sense of a storm rolling in.

"Please, follow me. Chief Inspector Verren wishes to begin at once."

However much she longed to steal another minute of freedom—or to run—she went on ahead. Servants flattened themselves to the walls as they passed and dropped their gazes. The manor's usual morning rhythm was broken by the presence of so many officials, steeping everything in a taut uncertainty.

They found the inspector in the receiving room, surrounded by boxes of documents and flanked by two clerks. The elderly man looked up as Stelle entered. His silver hair was perfectly combed, his uniform immaculate despite the early hour.

"Lady Stelle," he said, giving her a formal nod. "Thank you for your swift cooperation. We have been tasked with a thorough review of all documents and records related to your administration of the Southern Port."

"Of course," she replied, proud that her voice remained even. "I understand the gravity of the situation."

"Given the delicate nature of the inquiry," the man continued, "Assistant Hartwell will remain with you throughout the proceedings. This is standard procedure—both for your protection and to ensure the integrity of our investigation."

So she would be under constant watch, to prevent deception or the concealment of evidence. The young assistant shifted awkwardly at her side, clearly uncomfortable in the role of guard and spy.

"I do not object," the silver-haired girl affirmed, though the words tasted like ash. "I have nothing to hide."

Or almost nothing.

As she had torn through the manor yesterday, she had also asked herself what she owned that she would rather no one saw. First and foremost: Aventurine's ring. It had to be somewhere, didn't it? She had not seen it since the day she, in a fit of irritation, pulled it off and ordered a maid to take it out of her sight.

And… Sunday's letter. There would have been two, had she not lost the first months ago. There was nothing scandalous in it, of course, but with rumors already swirling—even the mere existence of a letter might invite unwanted interest.

"Excellent. Shall we begin with your office?"

The little procession moved through the corridors like a parade, with Stelle at its head. She could feel their eyes fixing on every detail, hunting for the slightest clue to the missing ledger's whereabouts.

Her office—her refuge, the place where she had poured out her soul learning the intricacies of governance—now felt like a crime scene. Most of the documents had been removed yesterday, leaving only those deemed irrelevant. The emptiness was so stark that grief rushed in at once.

"For the record, I must ask: was this where you discovered the absence of the ledger?" the inspector said, stepping to the open, now-empty locked cabinet to examine it. He held a pen and notebook, ready to take down each answer verbatim.

She nodded, not trusting her voice.

He made a quick notation. She watched one clerk methodically examine the cabinet's interior, running gloved fingers over every surface in search of false panels or hidden compartments. The second rummaged through the remaining papers with a focused expression, gathering them into neat stacks and sorting them according to some system of his own.

"Tell me about your work with the ledger," the inspector said, settling into the chair opposite the desk while his subordinates labored on. "How often did you consult it? When did you last see it?"

Stelle hesitated a moment, then uncertainly took her usual chair, which now felt foreign, not of this world. She folded her hands on her knees, forcing herself to sit still, while Hartwell took a place by the window.

"I updated it daily—usually in the evening, after reviewing the day's correspondence and reports. I last used it on the morning of your arrival. I remember it clearly; after learning the audit had been confirmed, I went over my results again and again."

"And the cabinet was locked the entire time?"

"Always." She touched the small key that hung on a chain. "I am the only one with access. I never leave it in the office when I am not here."

The inspector's eyes followed the motion, marking the key's location. "Has anyone else used this key? Borrowed it for any reason?"

She shook her head, gripping the little key as if in proof. "No. The ledger contains confidential financial data—I would not entrust it to anyone else."

As she spoke, one of the clerks approached with a small object in his gloved hand. It caught the light, and her heart dropped to her heels as she recognized the shape—a ring. Cold spread through her. It looked like silver or white gold—could it be…?

"Milady," he said politely, placing it carefully on the desk before her, "we found this beneath your table. Is it yours?"

Now she could study it—and relief washed over her so completely she barely stifled a breath. It was her mother's signet ring, which she had lost several weeks ago while working late one evening. She had searched everywhere, convinced it had been stolen.

"Yes, thank you," she murmured with a small smile, taking it in hands that almost trembled. "I have been looking for it."

Yet even as she slipped the ring onto her finger, her mind ran at full speed through bleak possibilities. If among these sudden discoveries was a ring she'd been unable to find, hidden beneath her desk, what else might be tucked away in places she'd never think to look? What if someone—the person trying to frame her, who might still be in the manor—had planted evidence? Or worse, what if Aventurine's ring was still somewhere here, waiting to be found?

The search continued with methodical precision. Every drawer emptied, every shelf examined, every piece of furniture shifted to check for concealed spaces. With growing despair, Stelle watched strangers unseal her private sanctuary, handling her papers and possessions with clinical detachment.

Hartwell's attention strayed to her little raccoon helper on the windowsill. Perhaps it was imagination, but she thought even he looked frightened, his button eyes gone cloudy.

Stelle allowed herself a small smile at the sight of the beloved toy that had become her truest, most loyal companion in these months. She stepped closer and even tried to sound offhand, though her cheeks warmed of their own accord.

"Ah—this is Smart Paws. My assistant, so to speak."

She could not make herself say more—could not explain that the plush creature stood for one of the few moments of real joy she had known in half a year. The memory of Aventurine's playful smile as he handed her the raccoon, calling him a "long-lost twin," seemed to belong to another life.

The young man nodded with interest, eyeing the raccoon. The soft grey thing with button eyes must have looked absurd among official papers and stern faces. He reached out, asking first, "May I?"

Stelle nodded, only quietly hoping this important member of the family would be treated with due respect. The assistant turned Smart Paws over in his hands, examining him from every angle, feeling as he went. She wanted to apologize to her friend for such a violation of private boundaries.

Soon Hartwell nodded and set him back in place.

The inspector had drawn close without a sound. "Find anything?"

"No, all clear," Hartwell replied, shaking his head. "Nothing inside, and I noticed no hidden cuts."

Without further comment, Verren jotted a note in his book and stepped away to rejoin the clerks. But Hartwell's gaze lingered on her. She wondered what he was thinking—whether he found it strange that a grown woman of her station would prize such a simple toy so dearly.

The search spread beyond the office. Stelle walked in the inspectors' wake as they went through every room where documents might be kept. The bedroom, library, and even the manor's drawing room were all subject to the same methodical scrutiny.

In her bedroom, the officials moved with special care, plainly ill at ease with the intimacy of their task, yet determined to be thorough. They examined her wardrobe and, of course, found her homemade raccoon costume.

A clerk lifted it out, and Hartwell and Verren exchanged a vaguely alarmed look, as if uncertain how to react to so… peculiar a discovery.

The inspector cleared his throat awkwardly.

"An intriguing outfit…"

He jotted something in his notebook. Shame surged hot and sharp; Stelle forced herself to stand straight. She stared off to the side, as if not seeing it might make it not exist.

They also found the clothes she wore on her nocturnal outings, but although their style set them apart, there was nothing in them to seize upon. Still, having all her private belongings turned inside out before strangers' eyes was anything but pleasant. She wanted to crawl into the earth, yet she had to keep her composure. Of course, the eccentric, spooky crown of the "Queen of the Night" was there, too. The more they uncovered, the more the inspectors were getting worried about her mental well-being.

Just now, however, something else in her room worried her far more.

"Milady," called one of the clerks from the dressing table, "we found this letter in your jewelry box."

There it is.

The sight of the familiar dark-blue paper in another's hands froze her blood. With that treasure in someone else's grip, she wanted to snarl and snatch it back, but all she could do was clench her hand into a fist. Sunday's letter—the only tangible proof of their correspondence she still possessed.

"May I?" Inspector Verren asked, extending his hand.

A rhetorical question. Stelle nodded in silence, watching his eyes move over the elegant script. Her heart pounded while she waited for his reaction, like awaiting the judge's verdict.

"A positive reply to an invitation to a private engagement," he murmured, giving nothing away. "From His Highness the Crown Prince."

Hartwell looked surprised, as did the clerks. But Stelle held her ground.

"Yes," she managed—surprisingly steady. "He attended a musical performance here about two months ago."

The inspector lingered over the contents one last time.

"I see." He folded the letter carefully and returned it to her. "It bears no relation to port business. Although, of course, it confirms the excellent relations between House Solaris and the Crown."

The remark hung in the air like a faint threat. Stelle accepted the letter with trembling fingers, keenly aware how it must look—a young heiress corresponding with the heir apparent…

But the inspector seemed more interested in continuing the search than in pursuing that particular thread. The letter was duly recorded and set aside—neither damning nor exculpatory.

The hours crawled by with exquisite cruelty. Every room, every drawer, every possible hiding place was inspected. They even searched the servants' quarters—more delicately than the main house, but no less attentively. Even the outbuildings—storehouses, stables, carriage house—drew the investigators' notice.

By noon, the girl felt hollowed out by anxiety and fatigue. She had answered countless questions, given explanations for every document and entry, and endured constant parsing of her words and reactions. The assistant inspector stayed by her side the whole time, sometimes offering quiet encouragement when his superior could not hear.

"It's standard procedure, my lady," he whispered during one especially tense exchange about her record-keeping methods.

"The inspector is not trying to trap you—he's simply being thorough."

But Stelle could not shake the sense of a snare tightening all the same. With each hour that passed without the ledger turning up, the impression of deliberate concealment grew heavier. Even if she were cleared in the end, suspicion would cling to her. Her competence would forever be in doubt, and what little authority she possessed would be undermined.

They found nothing. No hidden documents, no evidence of financial misconduct, no trace of the missing book. They questioned every servant, interrogated the gardeners, even examined chimneys and attic spaces. The ledger might as well have evaporated—if it had ever existed at all.

When the afternoon shadows lengthened, Inspector Verren assembled his team in the main receiving room. Stelle sat in a chair by the window; Hartwell still stood near her, while the officials murmured among themselves. Their faces were grave, clearly disappointed by the lack of progress.

"Lady Stelle," the chief inspector said at last, turning to her with a look of professional regret, "I must inform you that we have found no sign of the missing book anywhere on the estate."

The words fell like stones into still water, sending ripples of bewilderment through the room. Stelle nodded slowly—she had expected as much, though she had hoped otherwise, and feared the consequences.

"And what… does that mean?" she asked, low.

"It means," the man replied with careful precision, "that we are obliged to widen our inquiry. His Highness the Second Prince Aventurine has authorized a broader investigation into the circumstances of the book's disappearance."

Her heart tightened still more. A broader inquiry meant harsher scrutiny, more questions, more chances for her secrets to be unearthed. It meant, in theory, an investigation that could last forever, casting a shadow over everything she had tried to build.

"At the same time," he continued, "this estate will remain under official seal. No one may leave the grounds without special permission, and all correspondence must be approved by my office."

Just like that, her home became a prison. Stelle could only sit in stunned silence, watching blankly as clerks packed up their papers and the officials prepared to return to the palace with their discouraging findings. She was trapped—not only physically, but professionally and socially. Each day the investigation continued would further erode her already-precarious reputation.

As the carriages departed into the thickening dusk, carrying off any hope of a swift resolution, the silver-haired girl remained in her chair by the window. The manor felt different now—profaned by strangers' presence, stained by suspicion. Even the familiar scent of roses seemed muted, smothered by the persistent smell of official papers and nervous sweat.

Assistant Inspector Hartwell stayed behind, along with two guards who would be on duty through the night. The young man approached her cautiously, awkward in the role of jailer as she was in that of prisoner.

"My lady," he began softly, brows drawing together, "do you need anything? Is there any way I can help?"

Stelle looked at him—this earnest young man thrust into an impossible position, tasked with watching over someone he evidently pitied. She couldn't help a small, corner-of-the-mouth smile. She shook her head.

"No, thank you. You have been… very kind."

And that was the strange thing. Strange that, despite the total overturning of her privacy, she was not being treated as a criminal. The investigation seemed, in truth, quite objective; the inspectors were not so very cruel.

In truth, she had expected anything from Aventurine—that he would send his most unpleasant men, demand that they find any hint of guilt even where none existed, or dispense with any serious investigation altogether. He could simply have confirmed her guilt in concealing documents; with no evidence to the contrary, likely no one would have protested. It would have been simpler—no extra headaches—and he could have spoiled her life easily, neatly, without risk to himself.

So why? What is he playing at?

Surely it could not be that he simply… chose not to drown her. Surely he was not… helping her?

The very thought made her want to laugh. Of course not. The last time they spoke, Aventurine made perfectly clear how he regarded her. If he was helping, it would be only to come later and demand compensation. That sounded plausible on one hand. On the other—why? After she walked out, called him names, and refused him so sharply?

Her heart clenched at the memory of that conversation; a sting rose traitorously in her nose. She blinked hard, pushing back the swell of tears. She still could not understand what she had done to deserve such treatment.

Her mother's words drifted back: that there was no kindness in him, that nothing would help. Was it true? Were all those glimmers of gentleness she had so certainly seen nothing but a game?

Today, remembering how her beloved raccoon first came into her hands, she realized she no longer understood anything at all.

The silver-haired girl lowered her head, pressed her lips into a thin line, and gripped the hem of her dress until her knuckles blanched with pain.

What is in your mind, Your Highness Aventurine?

Do you really hate me so very much?

***

Inspector Verren was finishing his report, while the Prince sat motionless at the desk, fingers steepled, his expression meticulously neutral. Papers and notes lay before him, which he read and reread in turn.

"So," Aventurine said at last, revealing nothing, "no trace of the ledger was found anywhere on the estate. No evidence of financial misconduct. And Lady Stelle's reaction to the search was…?"

"Sincerely distressed, Your Highness," the elderly man replied without hesitation. "If she was pretending, then she possesses remarkable acting talent. She did not resist our search—quite the opposite."

Aventurine drummed his fingers on the desk. Relief spread through him—warm, startling in its intensity. She was innocent. He had known it, never doubted it, but to hear it confirmed by an objective inquiry finally let him breathe.

"The lady strikes one as rather…" Verren paused, lowered his eyes, choosing his words. "…innocent by nature. Perhaps surprising, given her origins and responsibilities. My impression was that she is too infantile to orchestrate a scheme so elaborate."

Aventurine's lids narrowed by a fraction.

"Infantile? In what sense?" The question came out sharper than he intended. He masked the slip by reaching for his pen, feigning note-taking.

"Well…" Verren cleared his throat, uncertain how to remain tactful where a lady's private effects were concerned. "We found several rather… childish things. A plush raccoon in her office, which she calls her assistant. She seems fond of the animal; in her wardrobe, we discovered a homemade raccoon costume."

Aventurine's pen stilled above the page.

A raccoon.

The memory struck like a pail of ice water: Stelle's face alight with pure joy she tried to conceal when he handed her that ridiculous plush toy. He had pretended then that he'd merely bumped into that pink-haired girl—what was her name? Doesn't matter. He had justified following Stelle—Ray, then—by telling himself he wanted to bed the girl who had dared beat him at poker. Just a fleeting game, bending that stubborn creature to his will. But now he wondered whether that had ever been the truth, even then—or only another excuse.

He remembered how Stelle pressed the toy to her chest, her amber eyes shining brighter than jack-o'-lanterns and fireworks, as if the raccoon were the most precious thing on earth—while at her debut, when he lavished her with jewels and gold any girl should have adored, she had looked tense rather than happy. How… very like her.

His heart tightened, ever the traitor.

"A raccoon costume, you say?" His voice was rougher and lower than he meant it to be.

The grey-haired man nodded, smiling awkwardly.

"Yes, Your Highness. Quite impressively made, for a homemade costume. With ears and a tail."

However he fought it—he had to remain cool; he could not betray a flicker of feeling before an official—the image rose all the same: Stelle in that charming costume at the festival, the way she looked at him with those impossibly expressive eyes, a spark of defiance already glinting there that snagged on him and would not let go. The soft weight of her hand, the warmth of her body as they danced—thanks to her outrageous theft of his glasses. The crowd hailing them, calling them king and queen of the night. How natural it had felt to hold her, to spin her, to hear her laughter unbound by protocol.

Sensing, perhaps, the direction of the Prince's thoughts, the inspector added,

"Ah, and among the other ornaments, there was a crown."

"A crown?" The word stuck in his throat.

"Yes, rather intricate. More ceremonial than practical. Decorative—somewhat eerie—gothic motifs. It stood out only for its eccentricity. Perhaps from some performance or masquerade. In any case, it was irrelevant to the inquiry, so we did not pursue the matter further."

He barely smothered a bitter smile. Queen of the Night. His queen—he had even called her that. Back then, neither of them had any notion of the other's true station, nor how well acquainted Aventurine really was with crowns. He, with that ridiculous nickname, the first thing that had come to mind back then—Ace—and his enchanting Ray with the sharp tongue and a laugh too lovely by half. Before everything went so terribly wrong.

Aventurine set the pen down carefully, afraid his hands would betray a tremor. The irony was almost unbearable—she now sat under house arrest, surrounded by echoes of those days, and her fate lay in his hands.

"Your assessment of Lady Stelle's character?" Even to his own ears, his voice sounded astonishingly even.

"She conducted herself with dignity throughout the search, despite obvious anxiety. Answered questions plainly and cooperated fully. If I may speak frankly, Your Highness…" Verren faltered, frowning.

"Proceed."

"She seemed more bewildered than guilty. As though she truly could not fathom how the ledger had vanished. There was no guile in her manner, no calculation. She reminded me more of…" He stopped, unsure whether he had the right to continue, given her position.

"Reminded you of what?" Aventurine's eyes narrowed. He did not understand why every word from this bureaucrat about her should matter to him so much.

"A lost child, sir. Shocked by unjust circumstances." His voice dropped to a near-whisper, as if the thought itself were scandalous.

Of course.

In truth, he could not have agreed more. He could see it so clearly: Stelle forcing composure while strangers rifled through her most private things, turning her house upside down. She had been entirely alone—no doubt striving to appear as dignified and cool as possible, and terrified beneath it. And still she held herself together, watching her world come apart.

When they found these, she must have felt stripped bare. Exposed. Remembering what had been between us—before I ruined it all.

A strange warmth that had earlier spread through his chest was replaced by a dull ache. In his mind, he praised her for not breaking completely, even when her privacy was so brutally violated. For all her sensitivity, she was strong—stronger than anyone who underestimated her could ever imagine.

But inevitably, those thoughts led to something far darker and more unsettling. The intensity of his relief; the way his heart clenched when Verren confirmed her innocence; the surge of protective anger at the thought that someone had deliberately targeted Stelle… It was dangerous territory. These feelings, this… care—they made him vulnerable. Exactly what he'd always feared. Exactly what he'd spent his entire life avoiding, as if it were fire.

Objectively, he had no reason to care what happened to Lady Stelle Solaris, except for the political ramifications for the Crown. She was a valuable potential ally—nothing more. Her fate should only matter to him in so far as it affected the kingdom's interests.

And yet, as he sat there, listening to Verren's dry list of her personal effects and her testimony, all he could think about was her smile. The way she kept surprising him with her sharp mind and unexpected depth. The way she'd made him feel things he'd long believed were dead. And how he had destroyed that rare, precious connection with his own cruelty and feigned indifference—simply because he'd been powerless to stop his own pathetic urge to make her submit, no matter the cost.

I can't leave her alone. Not now, not when all I want is to see her smile again.

This realization struck him like lightning, every single time. It was almost shameful to admit that, after all those nights spent with countless bodies, moans, and perfect smiles, he actually cared about something so trivial. That now, he didn't need any woman in the world—not the most beautiful, not the most skilled—he only needed Stelle and that face when she smiled with her whole being, when he gave her that silly raccoon, or when she so boldly shoved that cursed spider lollipop into his mouth. She wasn't afraid to disobey him, and did it so innocently that he was struck speechless each time. She was so damn seductive, giving him candy that had been in her mouth, but she seemed to pay it no special attention, too focused on introducing him to her favorite treat—even sacrificed her favorite flavor. Or when she managed to draw him onto the dance floor despite his firm refusal. He had wanted to put her in her place for such audacity, for the dirty trick with the glasses, but her radiance made him forget everything in the world.

And that… terrified him more than any political enemy ever could.

Because now he had a weakness. Something—someone—who could be used against him. If anyone ever found out that Stelle Solaris meant more to him than just being the daughter of a powerful ally, it would bring trouble to them both. His enemies would target her without hesitation to get to him. The very fact that he cared put her in danger.

But knowing all this, understanding the risk logically, did nothing to quell the instinct to protect her—a nearly animalistic urge that overtook him the moment he imagined her locked in that manor, convinced he'd orchestrated her ruin and disgrace. It did nothing to ease the ache in his heart at the thought of her fighting back tears during a merciless investigation she hadn't deserved—she had done nothing wrong, other than being born the daughter of Duchess Solaris and automatically falling prey to the vultures.

He had never wanted to be someone's weakness. He'd never wanted anyone to be his. But sitting here, surrounded by evidence of a deliberate conspiracy against an innocent woman—against his woman, though he didn't dare speak the words even to himself—he realized it was already far too late.

"Your Highness?" Only the inspector's voice managed to break through his thoughts. "Your instructions for the next stage of the investigation?"

Aventurine looked up, and for a fleeting moment, his carefully composed mask slipped. Something protective flashed in his unusual eyes before he regained his composure. When he spoke, his voice carried a command that allowed no dissent.

"Inspector Verren, this is no longer a mere administrative matter." He rose and strode to the window, gazing out toward the distant spires of the city. "The deliberate theft of documents from a strategic state facility, an attack on one of the Crown's most valuable allies, an attempt to sabotage an official audit, and the reputation of House Solaris—all of this threatens the security of the realm itself."

He turned back to the inspector; his gaze was colder than winter steel.

"From this moment on, the investigation is classified as a matter of the highest priority. You will return to the capital immediately and report to the Minister of Internal Security. Inform him that I am invoking my powers under the National Security Act to initiate a full criminal investigation into what is now officially an act of sabotage against the interests of the Crown."

Verren's eyes went wide. The National Security Act was invoked rarely—it granted sweeping authority to investigate threats to the kingdom's stability.

"Your Highness, such a classification—"

"—Ensures that we'll find the truth," Aventurine interrupted. "And we'll find it quickly. The reputation of House Solaris isn't just the name of some noble family, inspector. They manage significant Crown revenues and have been loyal allies for generations. His Majesty himself said so at Lady Stelle's debut. He did not make that decision lightly when entrusting them with the Southern Port. An attack on their house is an attack on the Crown itself."

He returned to his desk and began writing official orders with swift, decisive movements.

"Furthermore," he continued without looking up, "Lady Stelle is to be placed under official protection. Post guards at the manor—not just for the integrity of the investigation, but to ensure her safety. Whoever is behind this has contacts within the estate. It's likely the enemy is still on the premises and unsuspected. If someone is willing to go this far to destroy her reputation, they may resort to more direct methods."

The inspector looked genuinely shaken, hardly daring to speak, only scribbling notes as fast as he could.

"Of course, Your Highness. And the lady herself?"

Aventurine paused. For a brief moment, something raw and vulnerable flickered in his eyes.

"Treat her with the utmost respect and courtesy. She's already been through enough." His voice dropped to a near whisper. "Far more than enough."

When he looked up again, his expression was once more composed, but his voice was resolute—brooking no argument.

"I want daily reports on the progress of the investigation. I want every lead followed, every possibility examined. The one who did this—who targeted her—will be found and brought to justice. Is that clear?"

The Prince's icy, unwavering tone made even Verren shudder with sudden guilt. He swallowed and nodded nervously.

"Perfectly clear, Your Highness…"

"Good. Then don't waste time. The longer this drags on, the more damage it does to the reputation of an innocent young woman. I will not allow it to continue."

When Verren—clearly relieved to be dismissed—bowed and left, Aventurine stood at the window, watching the afternoon sun sink behind the city. Somewhere out there, in the manor under official seal, Stelle sat surrounded by memories of better times, probably wondering why the man who once showed her care now seemed hell-bent on her destruction.

If only she knew. That he would burn the kingdom to the ground before letting her come to harm. That her voice haunted his dreams, her tears tore at his chest with a pain he could not name. That the raccoon plush she loved so dearly symbolized, for him too, the only moment in his adult life when he felt truly alive.

But she could never know. It would be safer for them both if she never did.

Even if it meant she would go on believing that he hated her. For the truth was far more dangerous than hatred.

The truth was, the Second Prince Aventurine—master manipulator, political strategist, the most ruthless executor of the Crown's will—had fallen in love with the silver-haired girl who kept plush toys and smiled brighter than the clearest sun.

And though he feared to admit it, he was more than ready to move mountains to protect her and become someone worthy of even a shadow of her attention. Even if she never forgave him for breaking her heart.

***

The news reached Sunday before the sun had even dipped below the horizon.

His secretary's quiet voice delivered the words with cautious neutrality:

"Your Highness, Lady Solaris is implicated in the disappearance of a key document during an audit. The Royal Treasury has placed an official seal on her estate until the investigation is concluded."

He dismissed the secretary with a restrained nod, revealing not a flicker of emotion, though something cold had already settled in his chest. He didn't know the details—making it all the worse. The only thing he knew for certain was that this was bad.

By evening, he stood before Aventurine's office doors. After the customary announcement, he stepped inside.

Aventurine looked up from his desk, where reports and ledgers were scattered like wreckage after a storm. He didn't appear surprised to see his brother—in fact, there was a kind of weary expectation on his face, as though he'd been waiting for this visit.

"Sunday." He set his pen aside carefully. "I assume you've heard."

"That Lady Stelle is now under house arrest pending an investigation? That strangers rifled through her home in search of crimes I’m quite positive she didn't commit?" Sunday's voice was level, but there was ice in it. "Yes, I've heard."

He closed the door behind him—perhaps with a little more force than necessary—and crossed to the chair opposite the desk. But didn't sit.

"I want to hear it from you," he said, fixing those amber eyes on his brother's face. "Everything. Circumstances. Details. All of it."

Aventurine leaned back in his chair, and for a brief moment, Sunday feared he'd dodge the question or answer with one of his usual sarcastic remarks. Sunday remained skeptical of his brother's supposed changes—after all, he likely knew Aventurine better than anyone alive.

But the Second Prince merely nodded.

"A missing ledger," he began quietly. "The primary financial record for the Southern Port vanished the morning of the audit—what should have been a routine inspection to confirm her competence. On the surface, it looks like deliberate concealment."

"On the surface," Sunday repeated, folding his arms. "And in truth?"

"She's innocent," the blond said, without hesitation. "I know she's innocent. But that's not the point. The point is proving it—and clearing her name entirely."

Sunday studied his brother's face, searching for traces of old games, familiar manipulation. Yet, for all his sharpness, this time he couldn't find it. That didn't mean he trusted him—not by far—but it was enough to keep him listening.

"Explain the investigation," Sunday said at last, lowering himself into the offered chair. "Why the theater? Why lock her in the estate like a common criminal?"

Aventurine's jaw tightened—barely perceptible, but there.

"Because of the Regional Recovery Fund."

"…What?"

Recognition flickered in those violet-aquamarine eyes. The blond swore softly under his breath.

"Of course. Such trivial matters would never warrant the attention of His Highness the Crown Prince," Aventurine muttered, smiling faintly.

"And should they?" Sunday snapped. "I don't handle treasury affairs or investment schemes. I have my own duties—more than enough of them."

"I suppose they shouldn't…" Aventurine murmured, almost to himself. He straightened in his chair. "Three months ago, a consortium approached the Crown with a proposal to establish a regional development fund. Duke Gregory Mainer, Baron Arthur Tal, Count Albert Stahlberg—along with their industrial partners."

Sunday narrowed his gaze. Only Mainer's name was familiar. The others were lesser nobles—more involved in commerce than governance.

"And how is Stelle involved?"

"As you know, Father made quite a spectacle of himself at court by gifting House Solaris the Southern Port. That port is critical infrastructure for any mining-region development. The consortium needed close cooperation—or at the very least, her consent."

Aventurine's voice dropped lower.

"The meetings were… not pleasant for her."

Sunday leaned forward, his tone sharpened.

"Not pleasant in what sense?"

Aventurine was silent for a long moment, his fingers drumming faintly against the desk.

"They treated her like an obstacle to be removed. Saw weakness. A chance to push through their interests. Especially Baron Tal—he was more aggressive than the rest. Called her a doll, said she was too young and too naïve to understand real business."

"And you allowed that?" Sunday’s words came out sharper than Aventurine expected.

The blond flinched as if struck.

"I…" He fell silent, eyes drifting to the side, almost shamefully. He took a moment to gather his thoughts. At first, he was about to do what he always did—offer explanations, excuses, speak of objectivity. But in the end, he only exhaled and said, voice low, "I was a coward. I should've stepped in—at the very least, cited protocol. But I didn't. I let them tear her apart. Hell, I contributed to it. By staying silent, I gave them permission." His hand clenched into a fist. "I regret it more than I can say."

Sunday studied his brother closely. His expression was difficult to read, but the tension in his knuckles revealed how hard it was for him to stay composed.

"You said Tal was especially cruel," Sunday pressed. "What exactly did he do?"

"Personal insults, masked as business inquiries. He questioned her competence, her right to sit at the negotiating table—because of her gender and lack of experience. Even made a sneering remark about her 'running back to mommy' when she asked for time to consult on terms." Aventurine's voice turned rough. "He also… implied something about her ties to the Royal Family. Specifically, to you."

Sunday's eyelids twitched.

"Implied?"

"Brought up the attention you've given her. Hinted that control of the port may have come with… unofficial support. Royal favor earned not through merit, but by other means."

The temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees. Sunday's hands gripped the armrests of his chair. His gaze sharpened—colder than any blade.

"And you sat there," he said, deadly quiet, "and allowed them to tarnish her honor. Allowed them to suggest she used improper ties for political gain."

"I did," Aventurine admitted, meeting his brother's gaze. "I stepped in too late. And that is inexcusable."

That admission seemed to temper Sunday's fury somewhat, replacing it with a cold, simmering disappointment—far worse than anger.

"At least you understand that," he said after a moment, waving it off. "But recognizing failure doesn't erase it. That young woman endured insults and insinuations that would be inappropriate for a commoner—let alone the heir of a house allied to the Crown."

"I know," Aventurine murmured, staring down at his folded hands on the desk. "And now she's paying the price for my cowardice—for all my failures. Which brings us back to the investigation."

Sunday forced himself to refocus, though fury still bubbled just beneath the surface.

"You believe someone deliberately took that ledger to frame her."

"It's the only explanation that makes sense. The timing, the method—someone had access to her private office and knew exactly how damaging the loss of that particular record would be. Besides, the ledger was always kept in a separate locked cabinet, and Stelle wears the key around her neck. According to her, no one else has ever touched it."

Aventurine leaned forward slightly, his expression sharpening.

"I've reclassified the case as a full criminal investigation under the National Security Act."

Sunday's brow lifted.

"Bold," he murmured, sounding genuinely surprised. "That act isn't invoked lightly—especially not in matters of treasury."

"Because this is no longer just a treasury matter. Someone deliberately targeted this house. And you know how Father values the alliance with the Solaris family. Kafka's connections span the entire continent. Losing her favor could become a state-level tragedy."

His voice had shifted into formal cadence now—too neutral, even. At the mention of national tragedy, Sunday's mouth tightened slightly. He stared at Aventurine with something unreadable in his eyes. As if searching for something beneath the surface.

"And more importantly," Aventurine continued, "this guarantees that I can conduct a thorough investigation—and no one will question my motives."

Sunday got it instantly.

"Because if you simply dismissed the charges, the rumors would never stop. People would believe the decision was unjust—start whispering about corruption or personal interest."

"Exactly. This way, when the investigation clears her—and it will clear her—no one can accuse us of bias or favoritism." Aventurine's mouth twisted faintly. "Of course, it also means she has to endure being treated like a suspect… until we find the real perpetrator."

The platinum-haired Prince knew that already. But it didn't make it easier. His gaze slid toward the window, distant.

"And the court? What are they saying?"

Aventurine rubbed his brow with a weary sigh.

"As expected," he muttered. "They're saying the Solaris heiress overestimated her abilities. That her meteoric rise was bound to end in scandal. The whispers about her inexperience and naivety are spreading fast. The vultures have gathered—and, of course, they're all salivating for the moment she's declared guilty so they can feast on the corpse."

Something twisted in Sunday's chest at the thought of Stelle enduring all this: the speculation, the careless cruelty from people who never even tried to understand the truth.

"How long," he asked quietly, lowering his head, "do you think the investigation might last?"

"No way to know. But Sunday…" Aventurine leaned forward, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. "If it drags on too long—if we fail to uncover specific evidence pointing to the true culprit…"

Sunday's brow darkened.

"What are you suggesting?"

"I'm saying that public pressure might eventually force us to… name someone. Even if we don't have enough proof."

Sunday's eyes flared with fury.

"You're proposing we frame an innocent person."

"Only if it becomes absolutely necessary—"

"No." The word cracked through the air like a whip. Sunday rose from his chair, his upright figure giving weight to every syllable. "I don't care what kind of political pressure you're under, Aventurine. Don't forget who I am. I will not allow you to sacrifice some poor servant or minor noble just to save face."

"Even if it means Stelle continues to suffer?"

He froze. His eyes widened; his shoulders tightened. He didn't answer right away. And when he did speak, his voice was quieter—less certain.

"We'll find the real culprit. Or we'll find another way… But we won't sacrifice innocents. I'm certain she wouldn't forgive herself if she found out."

Aventurine studied his elder brother's reaction. It was remarkable how deeply her name affected him. Dangerous, even. If anyone ever discovered that Stelle held sway over him—and, truthfully, over Aventurine as well—she would have even more enemies. All it would take is for someone to get their hands on her, and both princes would be caught on a leash.

Sunday stood silently for a moment longer, then finally sank back into his chair.

"Tell me about this Baron Tal."

Aventurine nodded, slipping into a more professional tone.

"Arthur Tal. From an old noble line. Styles himself as one of the 'golden generation' of true aristocrats. His family made their fortune in steel. And—there's a rumor he holds a particular grudge against House Solaris."

Sunday arched a brow.

"What kind of grudge?"

Aventurine crossed his arms.

"I can't say for certain—it's hearsay—but supposedly, Kafka once rejected him." He gave a disdainful laugh. "As if he were ever worthy of her shadow."

Sunday hummed, thoughtful.

"So he has motive."

"Motive is one thing," Aventurine said, twirling a pen between his fingers. "But access is another. He would've needed serious contacts inside the Solaris estate."

"And the others? Duke Mainer and Count Stahlberg?"

"Mainer seemed more focused on political gain and financial growth. Stahlberg looked like a follower. But Tal…" His jaw tightened. "Tal enjoyed hurting her."

The words cut even him. They resonated too much. He hadn't been much better—and that made it worse, somehow. Bitterer. Rawer.

A long silence fell between the brothers. Sunday stared out the window into the night sky, weighing possibilities, consequences, all the futures that might yet unfold.

"She's probably terrified," he murmured at last, almost to himself. His voice had softened.

Aventurine looked up sharply.

"Stelle. Alone in that estate, surrounded by strangers who treat her like a criminal. Forced to watch them rummage through her most personal belongings, knowing her reputation—everything she's worked for—hangs by a thread." Sunday's hands clenched on his knees. His voice wavered, turning low and rough. "She must feel utterly helpless."

Something unguarded flickered across Aventurine's face.

"Yes…" he said slowly. "I imagine she does."

"And there's no way to reach her," Sunday went on, bitterness creeping in now. Helplessness was a rare emotion for him—and it stung all the worse for it. "Any contact from us would only fuel speculation."

"The investigation must appear fully independent. Even harsh." Aventurine's frown deepened. He didn't enjoy saying it—but he knew it was true. "That's the only way to protect her."

Sunday's expression twisted in quiet disgust—at himself. He stood abruptly and crossed to the window. His reflection stared back at him in the glass: the face of justice in the kingdom. And yet here he stood, unable to help when real justice was needed most.

"I'll assist with the investigation," said the Crown Prince at last, not turning from the window.

"Sunday…"

"Not publicly," he cut in, amber eyes still on the night. "I know the limits. But behind the scenes—my resources, my contacts…"

"That might work," Aventurine said slowly. "Your authority over judicial reviews, your oversight of state security…"

"Exactly." Sunday turned to face him. "And as a judge, let me say this plainly: once we find who did this, they'll face the full weight of the Crown's justice. No leniency. No political justifications. They tried to destroy an innocent woman's life. They will pay for that."

Aventurine nodded—and for a moment, something passed between them. Something rare. Something like understanding. Despite their completely different approaches, despite their tangled histories with Stelle, in this, they stood united:

She deserved to be protected.

"There's one more thing," Sunday said, and now his tone was hard as iron. "Once this is resolved—once Stelle's name is cleared—I want a full review of how those Recovery Fund meetings were conducted. If what you told me is true, Baron Tal and his allies showed an inexcusable lack of respect to our ally."

Satisfaction crept across Aventurine's face. He smirked, and something dangerous sparked in his eyes.

"What exactly are you proposing?"

"At minimum, an official reprimand. These men seem to have forgotten that nobility carries duties as well as privileges. And an attack on a young woman under the Crown's protection has a special price." Sunday's voice was calm—but merciless. If it had been anyone but Aventurine in the room, they would've shrunk back in fear.

"And if they are behind the theft?" Aventurine asked, smiling darkly.

"Then they'll be charged with high treason." Sunday met his gaze directly. "And I mean it, Aventurine. Whoever did this—whoever—will be punished."

Those words warmed something in Aventurine's chest.

Finally, this was what he'd wanted from Sunday.

"At last," he murmured, "we understand each other."

Sunday said nothing. He only folded his arms and turned his gaze back to the window, falling silent once more. The quiet between them now was not tension—but agreement. A rare accord between royal brothers.

Their shared attachment to one girl had, by some miracle, united them. In this moment, they both wanted only one thing:

To get her out of this unjust prison.

Notes:

sorry for a lot of build-up and taking so long to actually solve this ledger problem TwT

Chapter 19: The Princes' Investigation

Summary:

Victory tastes like ashes when the price of innocence is paid by someone else's blood.

Notes:

hewo!! i'm pretty early this time :з
but i wanted to make it faster so you don't get bored waiting for actual interactions between stellie and the boys + i miss it too so haha

TW: suicide and descriptions of a body (not any of the main characters)

Over the course of a week, aided by his newly granted authority and Sunday's support, Aventurine had managed to gather more details and compile information on the individuals he most suspected. But it wasn't enough. The time for decisive action had come—there was no room left to stall. Bureaucracy had already stretched the timeline far too thin, and every new day of fruitless investigation meant another day Stelle remained imprisoned.

The meeting was held in a repurposed military chamber. Maps of the capital lined the walls, dossiers stacked thick as bricks, and a timeline covered an entire section of the room—marking every session of the Regional Restoration Fund, each recorded interaction with Stelle, and every financial transaction tied to the missing ledger.

Aventurine stood before the assembled team, no longer just the polished Prince, but something sharper—like a drawn blade. Morning light filtered through the tall windows, catching in strands of golden hair, but his expression was cold as steel. Unyielding.

The team included familiar faces—Inspector Verren and his deputies—as well as new investigators from the Department of National Security, led by none other than its director, Marcus Kane.

The very air in the room was taut with tension—so dense it could have been cut with a knife.

"Gentlemen," Aventurine began, his tone leaving no room for interruption, "we are no longer searching for a misplaced document. We are searching for a saboteur—someone who has committed treason against the Crown."

His words dropped like iron, changing the air itself. If anyone in the room had failed to grasp the gravity of the situation before, they certainly understood now. The officials exchanged glances—many of them had dealt with administrative violations before, but none had ever been under the direct scrutiny of a prince, let alone one this resolute.

Aventurine pointed to the timeline, where three names had been circled in red.

"Duke Gregory Mainer. Baron Arthur Tal. Count Albert Stahlberg. These men had direct access to the audit materials. They knew the scope, the schedule—and most importantly, they understood precisely how damaging the loss of this particular ledger would be."

Inspector Verren cleared his throat cautiously.

"Your Highness, these are prominent members of the nobility. Any accusations against them will require substantial—"

"—Evidence," the Prince cut in smoothly, his eyes still fixed on the wall. "Which we will obtain. Because one of them made a critical error—assuming we would limit the search to House Solaris alone." His smile was sharp as winter frost. "They were wrong."

The Prince approached the first dossier with a predator's grace, opening it with deliberate precision. Financial documents spilled onto the table—bank statements, property valuations, trade partnerships tracing back decades.

"Duke Mainer. Financially stable, politically ambitious. The Regional Restoration Fund was his brainchild—his chance to tighten his grip on the mining regions. He hoped to take advantage of Lady Stelle Solaris's inexperience to bleed more from the Solaris estates."

He paused, studying the financial reports with the intensity of a scholar poring over ancient texts.

"Projected income forecasts suggest he stood to lose significant influence if the Fund continued operating under the original terms. But Mainer is, above all, a politician. A subtle man. He favors influence over direct action."

Too cautious, Aventurine thought, though he said nothing aloud. Mainer would've launched a campaign of whispers and innuendo—not resorted to outright theft. For something like this, they needed someone more personally invested in the outcome.

The next dossier opened with the soft rustle of expensive paper.

"Count Stahlberg. A follower, not a leader. An analyst. Substantial investments in the consortium, but lacking the initiative for such a calculated strike."

Aventurine's fingers drummed against the polished wood—a rare sign of restless energy from a man known for his perfect composure.

"A possible accomplice, unlikely the mastermind. His entire career has been built around attaching himself to stronger figures."

The deputy inspector leaned forward slightly.

"If Stahlberg lacks initiative, could he have been directed by one of the others?"

"Possibly," Aventurine acknowledged with a shrug. "We'll examine his correspondence carefully. But first…"

His hand stilled as he reached the final dossier. For a brief moment, something flickered across his face—not quite satisfaction, but rather the expression of a hunter who had caught the scent of his prey.

"Baron Arthur Tal."

The name lingered in the air like smoke.

The blond Prince opened the folder slowly, almost ceremonially. Inside were documents that painted a picture of old wealth, long-held grievances, and carefully veiled desperation.

"A noble lineage that once held significant sway over the mining territories. His family's steel fortune… has dwindled in recent years. Competition from modern methods, shifting trade routes, poor investment decisions."

Aventurine's voice held the cold precision of a coroner delivering a diagnosis.

"He needed the Regional Fund to succeed—and to succeed under terms that favored traditional steel production over modern alternatives."

The inspector was scribbling furiously, his pen scratching the page with mechanical urgency.

"Your Highness, financial motive is one thing—but access to Lady Solaris's estate…"

"That's where it gets interesting," the Prince cut in smoothly, a calculating smile touching his lips, a gleam of anticipation in his eyes. He withdrew a separate sheet, covered in dates and annotations.

"Tal has a personal history with House Solaris. Specifically, with Duchess Kafka."

Silence settled over the room, broken only by the soft ticking of the wall clock. Even Verren's pen had gone still.

"Twenty-five years ago, Baron Tal proposed marriage to Her Grace. She refused."

The sheer absurdity of such a proposal drew a crooked smile from him.

"Court records show he didn't take the rejection well. There were several instances of harassment, which required official intervention."

Personal revenge. The most dangerous motive of all. Political rivals could be reasoned with, bribed, redirected. But a man nursing a bruised ego for decades?

"A man who sees himself as wronged by House Solaris," Aventurine continued aloud, "would have every reason to view Lady Stelle's success as a personal insult. Her downfall would be a balm to his pride."

At last, Director Kane, who had been silent until now, spoke up.

"But the question remains—how did he gain access to the locked cabinet in Lady Solaris's private study?"

Aventurine stepped toward the wall map and pointed to a section marked with small flags.

"Tal's estate borders the western edge of the capital district. Close enough to pass regularly near the Solaris manor." He turned back to the room. "More importantly, Baron Tal possesses something the others do not—intimate knowledge of the estate's layout and the security procedures of House Solaris from his previous… courting attempts."

A heavy suspicion hung in the air. A man so obsessed that he'd stalked a woman for rejecting him had surely studied her routines, her home, her weaknesses.

"But, Your Highness," the deputy began cautiously, "even with knowledge of the estate, the cabinet was locked. Lady Stelle always wore the key around her neck."

Aventurine's smile turned vulpine.

"Which brings us to the most compelling piece of evidence yet," Aventurine said as he pulled the final document from Tal's dossier—a formal memo from the locksmiths' guild. "Two weeks ago, Baron Tal commissioned a locksmith to produce duplicate keys 'for security purposes' on his estate. This particular locksmith is known for his… discretion regarding his clients' requests."

Perfect, he thought grimly. Almost too perfect. But sometimes, criminals made the most obvious mistakes—precisely because they believed themselves smarter than everyone else.

A low murmur swept through the room as the officials processed this revelation. Verren looked up from his frantic note-taking, his face pale.

"Your Highness… if this evidence holds—"

"It will be verified," Aventurine said firmly. "I want teams dispatched immediately. Search the Tal estate from foundation to rooftop. Interrogate the locksmith—apply any… necessary persuasion to secure his cooperation." A cold smile tugged at his lips. "Review all correspondence between Tal and his associates from the last four months."

He moved toward the window, arms crossed over his chest, eyes cast over the city—where somewhere, a man believed he'd gotten away with destroying an innocent girl's life.

"Most importantly," the Prince continued, lowering his voice to almost a whisper, "I want to know exactly where Baron Tal was the morning the ledger disappeared. Every hour accounted for. Every witness questioned."

The noose tightens, he thought with cold satisfaction. You thought you could hurt her and hide behind your pathetic title and flimsy respectability. What a foolish mistake.

When he turned back to the room, the smile on his face no longer reached his eyes.

"Furthermore," his voice sharpened, "I will personally initiate an audit of the Baron's financial assets. As Director of the Royal Treasury, I am entitled to review the holdings of any noble when crown revenues are in question."

The inspector looked up at once.

"Baron Tal would be notified in advance—"

"No," the word sliced through the air like a blade. "This is an emergency investigation pertaining to national security. The Treasury is not required to give notice—especially when there's a risk of tampering with evidence." He looked off into the distance, drawing out his words. "Baron Tal appeared quite… agitated when I mentioned Treasury reviews during our last negotiations. I wonder why."

You revealed your fear too plainly, Tal. A man with nothing to hide doesn't go pale at the mention of an audit.

"The audit will serve as the perfect legal cover for our investigation," he explained. "Treasury officials will examine financial records, question household staff regarding expenditures, investigate recent unusual transactions—including any payments made to locksmiths." His eyes gleamed with something close to thrill. "And, with authorization from the Minister of National Security, we will gain full access to personal belongings and the right to conduct thorough interrogations."

"Brilliant, Your Highness," murmured Director Kane with genuine admiration. "He won't have time to conceal evidence or fabricate an alibi."

"Exactly." Aventurine returned to his place by the window, one hand in the pocket of his trousers. "By tomorrow morning, Baron Tal will wake to find Treasury and National Security agents at his gates. And when we find the locksmith's receipt… when we uncover the duplicate key… when we retrieve the missing ledger hidden among his possessions…"

He turned just slightly, his voice dropping a few more notches.

"…we will have enough to 'hang' him."

The word hang echoed through the sudden silence, weighted with all the gravity of treason and royal justice. Whether it was meant figuratively or not—no one dared ask. Inspector Verren swallowed hard, suddenly aware that this had moved far beyond a routine investigation. It had become something darker.

"Your Highness…" he began cautiously, "and Lady Stelle? Should we inform her of these developments?"

For the first time since the meeting began, something human flickered across Aventurine's face. Something that might have been pain—or guilt—swiftly suppressed.

He looked away, toward the city beyond the glass, and when he spoke, his voice had lost its usual cunning edge.

"Lady Stelle will be informed once we have concrete evidence. Until then, she remains under house arrest." His jaw tightened, just slightly. "If Baron Tal is willing to commit theft and fraud to ruin her reputation, then there's no telling how far he might go once he realizes he's being hunted."

Forgive me, he thought bitterly, though his face revealed none of the turmoil within. I know you're suffering. I know you feel abandoned and afraid. But I won't let them hurt you any further.

"You have your orders," he said at last, voice ringing with finality—like a judge's gavel. "I want progress reports every six hours. No detail is too small. No lead too minor. We will find the proof—whatever it takes."

As the officials filed out, already murmuring strategies for searches and interrogations, Aventurine remained by the window.

The morning sun washed the city in gold and shadow, but all he could see were silver strands of hair and darkened amber eyes—of a girl imprisoned in her own home through no fault of her own.

His chest clenched.

And this time, he didn't make excuses. He simply allowed himself to feel it.

The pain. The helplessness. The aching need to act faster, to do more—or at least to go to her, to reassure her.

But he knew, with cruel clarity, that first: no one was allowed to see her. And second… Seeing him would only make her suffer more.

***

Dawn was breaking over the Tal estate when the carriages rolled through the gates. Six in total—four bearing the blue-and-gold colors of the Royal Treasury, and two in the stark black of National Security. They moved with the quiet efficiency of a military operation, wheels crunching over the gravel that had been swept clean the night before by servants who had no idea what the morning would bring.

Director of National Security Marcus Kane stepped out of the first carriage. His gray uniform was immaculate despite the early hour. A man in his fifties with silver hair and a calculating gaze, Kane was known for leading investigations that had toppled ministers and uncovered conspiracies. Today, he carried a warrant stamped with Prince Aventurine's seal and the highest level of access to Crown-protected intelligence.

Behind him emerged a task force of investigators, Treasury auditors, and document specialists—twenty men and women authorized to tear an aristocrat's life apart piece by piece.

Before them stretched Baron Arthur Tal's estate: a manor of honeyed stone, manicured gardens, and the kind of old-world respectability built on generations of steel production.

Kane noted, with professional detachment, that it was precisely the sort of place where a man might hide evidence of crimes while preserving the appearance of propriety.

"Remember," Kane said quietly to his team once they had assembled, "this is a Treasury audit connected to a matter of national security. We are fully authorized to review all financial documentation, question all staff, and search every room. The Baron may object—but we do not require his consent."

As they approached, the manor's grand doors opened, revealing a butler who visibly lost his composure at the sight of so many officials. A moment later, Baron Tal himself appeared—still in his robe, face flushed with sleep and rising agitation.

"What is the meaning of this?" he barked, tightening the sash at his waist. "Do you have any idea what time it is?"

Kane stepped forward and presented the warrant.

"Baron Arthur Tal," he said crisply, "I am Director Kane of the Department of National Security. By order of His Royal Highness Prince Aventurine, Director of the Royal Treasury, and in accordance with the National Security Act, we are here to conduct an immediate audit of your financial assets and to investigate potential violations affecting the Crown's interests."

Tal's expression cycled through several shades of disbelief and rage as he scanned the document.

"This is outrageous! I demand to speak with my attorney!"

"You will be free to contact legal counsel once our preliminary inspection is complete," Kane replied with professional politeness, undercut by unmistakable steel. "Until then, I must ask for your full cooperation in this matter."

"Cooperation?" Tal's voice rose an octave. "You storm into my home at dawn with an army of bureaucrats and expect cooperation? This is harassment!"

"This is procedure," Kane said evenly, gesturing to his team. They began filing past the fuming Baron into the estate. "A Treasury audit includes a review of all financial records, including personal documentation that may reveal undeclared income or expenditures. Given the sensitive nature of recent events involving House Solaris, this investigation has been classified as urgent."

The mention of House Solaris made Tal narrow his eyes.

"This is about that Fund, isn't it? Because I dared to speak against that girl's incompetent management, you're all out for blood!"

"Baron Tal," Kane said with measured calm, "we are investigating the theft of government documents and possible threats to national security. Your cooperation—or lack thereof—will be noted in our report."

Inside the manor, the investigation commenced with methodical precision. Treasury officials spread out across the Baron's study, examining ledgers and correspondence with the thoroughness of archaeologists. Document specialists flagged pages and copied contents, while auditors cross-referenced figures with tax filings and trade records.

Tal hovered nearby, alternating between loud protests and barely veiled panic.

"This is entirely unnecessary! My finances are in perfect order!"

"Then you have nothing to worry about," said the lead auditor, eyes still fixed on a ledger that had already yielded several questionable inconsistencies.

The first hour brought immediate results: records of suspicious transactions, payments to unknown parties, and accounting irregularities that would require detailed explanation. But Kane was hunting larger game.

"Sir," came a voice from the far side of the study—an investigator calling from behind a carved wooden desk. "We may have something."

Kane approached the desk where Morris, one of his best men, was inspecting a locked drawer.

"The baron claims he has no key, but the lock shows recent signs of use."

"Open it," Kane ordered, his voice firm.

The lock gave way to professional tools in a matter of minutes, revealing a collection of documents that immediately prompted several investigators to exchange meaningful glances. Purchase receipts—and most damning of all—a receipt from Greywick & Sons Locksmiths, dated two weeks prior, for "duplicate key fabrication and security consultation."

"Well, well," Kane murmured, lifting the paper. "Baron Tal, would you care to explain this transaction?"

Tal craned his neck to see the document, frowning.

"I… it was for estate security! Entirely legal."

"I'm sure it was," Kane replied in the voice of a man who had heard every excuse known to mankind. "Naturally, we'll be verifying the details with the locksmith."

As the morning progressed, the investigation took on the rhythm of a hunt. Every room revealed new leads: more financial inconsistencies, correspondence with unknown smugglers, records of bribes paid to port officials to avoid inspections on steel shipments.

"Baron," called the lead auditor from his place at the main desk, "can you explain these payments to the port inspector? They do not appear in your declared business expenses."

"They're… consultation fees," Tal replied weakly.

"For what services?"

"Advice on optimizing trade?"

The auditor exchanged a look with Kane. That particular inspector was well-known in the capital's investigative circles—as rotten as week-old fish.

But it was in the private chambers that they found the crown jewel.

Kane personally oversaw the search of Tal's bedroom, knowing full well that men often hid their most damning secrets closest to where they slept. Behind an oil painting bearing the Tal family crest, they discovered a small safe.

"Baron, the combination, if you please," the director requested firmly.

"I refuse! This has gone far enough."

Kane's smile was as cold as winter frost.

"Very well. Specialist Hendricks, if you would?"

Their lock and safe expert had accompanied them for exactly this kind of situation—criminals rarely cooperated when it mattered. Hendricks worked quietly, efficiently, while Tal watched with mounting dread, unable to stand still. And when the metal door gave a soft creak and clicked open, the Baron visibly held his breath, like a man awaiting execution.

Kane nodded his thanks and stepped forward. Without hesitation, he reached inside—and frowned when his hand brushed leather binding. He pulled it out at once, and the title gleamed back at him in gold-embossed lettering.

"Southern Port – Principal Financial Records."

Kane read the words aloud, eyes widening.

Silence fell over the room, broken only by Tal's sharp breathing. For a moment, no one moved, as if disbelieving what they saw. It felt like a dream—finding the very thing they'd been searching for, just like that. The weight in the air was suffocating. Everyone understood instantly: this was the document. The one whose disappearance had sparked the entire investigation.

"That's not mine!" Tal shouted. He clearly hadn't grasped the full gravity of the situation. "I've never seen that before! Someone must have planted it!"

"Someone, is it?" the director repeated with professional skepticism. "A shame, then, that this someone had access to your personal safe."

"You don't understand—it's a setup! I've been framed!"

Kane had heard these protests before. Dozens of times. They always sounded the same—desperate, clearly false, the product of a mind grasping for any excuse, no matter how implausible.

"We will, of course, consider that possibility, Baron. In the meantime, the evidence speaks for itself."

But they weren't finished yet. As Kane examined the contents of the safe more closely, he found a bundle of letters tied neatly with a red ribbon. Elegant, feminine handwriting on the envelopes made him lift a brow.

"More correspondence?"

Tal's reaction was immediate and even more panicked than before. He jerked forward on instinct.

"That's private!—" he cried, lunging, only to be restrained by two investigators.

Kane calmly untied the ribbon and skimmed the first letter. His expression remained professionally neutral, but a few of his team caught the faintest flicker of a grimace.

"My dearest Arthur," he read aloud. "I can't stop thinking about our last night together. When will we meet again? Yours with love, Isabelle." The director glanced at Tal, something almost resembling pity in his eyes. "I take it your wife's name is not Isabelle?"

The nobleman's face turned red, then white, then red again. His voice dropped, unsteady.

"That… that's not what it looks like."

"Baron," Kane said with quiet weariness, "I've been investigating crimes for thirty years. I know exactly what this is." He motioned to his team. "Document everything. The love letters are to be entered as evidence of the Baron's character."

"Evidence of my character?" the Baron's voice cracked. "What does my personal life have to do with any of this?"

"A man who lies to his wife," Kane began, with methodical precision, "evades taxes, bribes port officials, and engages in illicit trade—is precisely the kind of man capable of stealing government property to sabotage an innocent young woman out of personal spite."

"I didn't steal anything!"

The protest rang hollow in a room already overflowing with proof to the contrary.

"Baron Tal," Kane said, his voice carrying the finality of a verdict, "you are under arrest for the theft of government property, treason against the Crown, tax evasion, bribery of public officials, and conspiracy to defame House Solaris. You have the right to legal counsel—though I suspect you'll need help no lawyer can provide."

As the cuffs closed around the nobleman's wrists, he made one last desperate attempt to break free, shoving the investigators aside—but lacked the strength to do more than stagger.

"You have to believe me! I never stole that ledger! Yes, I… I may have dodged a few taxes, yes, I've made some… personal mistakes, but I never touched that document! Someone planted it!"

Kane studied him with the seasoned gaze of a man who had arrested hundreds like him. Some were master manipulators. Others, fools driven by desperation. But they all shared one thing in common: when caught, they lied.

"Baron," he said gently, almost kindly, "save your strength for the trial."

As Arthur Tal was led away in chains, Kane remained behind to oversee the final documentation of the evidence. The stolen ledger. The locksmith's receipt. The records of bribery. The letter confirming marital infidelity. All of it painted a clear portrait: a man whose greed and personal vendettas had driven him to betray the Crown.

It struck Kane as one of the most airtight cases he'd ever handled. Every piece of evidence aligned perfectly with the suspect's character and motive. Almost too perfectly—if he were one to believe in conspiracy theories. But after three decades of service, he knew the truth: criminals often were their own worst enemies.

As the carriages pulled away from Tal's estate—soon to be confiscated by the Crown—the director mentally composed his report for Prince Aventurine. The case would be closed. Justice served. And Lady Stelle Solaris would be cleared of all suspicion, emerging from this ordeal stronger than before.

Sometimes, Kane thought with quiet satisfaction, the system does work.

***

Aventurine was buried in Department of Finance correspondence when the doors to his office were thrown open without ceremony. He looked up sharply, ready to deliver a scathing reprimand to whoever dared show such insolence—only to see Director Kane striding across the marble floor with barely contained urgency.

"Director Kane," Aventurine said coldly, setting his pen aside with deliberate precision. "I trust there's an excellent reason for this breach of protocol."

"Your Highness," Kane began, slightly out of breath from haste, "forgive the intrusion, but I felt you needed to see this immediately."

The Prince narrowed his eyes. The investigation into Tal had only begun that morning—he'd expected weeks of meticulous searching, interrogations, financial analysis. He had prepared himself for a long, methodical siege.

"What is it?" he asked, though something in Kane's expression already made his chest tighten.

The director signaled to the investigator standing just behind him, who stepped forward holding a leather-bound volume that Aventurine didn't immediately recognize. Only when the man brought it closer did the Prince manage to read the familiar words—words that had haunted his thoughts for over a week.

"Southern Port – Principal Financial Records."

The world seemed to still. The blond stared at the ledger as if it were a ghost materializing before him. When he spoke, his voice was barely audible.

"Where?"

"In Baron Tal's personal safe, Your Highness," Kane replied. "Hidden behind a painting in his private chambers." His satisfaction was unmistakable. "Alongside a great deal more incriminating evidence."

Aventurine slowly rose from his chair, losing his composure for the first time in years. Relief. Vindication. A dizzying wave of triumph. He had braced himself for a drawn-out war—and instead, victory had come in a single, crushing blow.

Perhaps, his luck did have its uses after all.

"Details," he said sharply, his voice tight with restrained emotion. "I want every detail. Now."

The director began laying out documents on the desk with the precision of a prosecutor building a case.

"The locksmith's receipt for a duplicate key, dated two weeks ago. Financial records indicating systematic tax evasion over the past five years. Correspondence with known criminals. Bribes paid to port officials."

Aventurine picked up the locksmith's receipt, studying it with the focus of a scholar poring over scripture. The conclusions struck him like a tide—Stelle was not only innocent, but the case against Tal was ironclad.

"How did he gain access to Lady Stelle's study?" The question came out sharper than intended.

"That aspect is still under investigation, Your Highness. We know he had a duplicate key, but haven't yet identified his contact within the Solaris estate. Someone must have granted him access—or done it on his behalf, which seems more likely."

An internal accomplice. Aventurine clenched his jaw. This wasn't just theft—it was betrayal. A crime committed by someone Stelle trusted—at least as a servant. Someone who had watched her suffer. And was likely still watching her suffer, knowing they had helped orchestrate her downfall.

"And Tal's reaction?"

Kane's expression twisted with faint disdain.

"Complete denial. Claims he was framed, insists he never saw the ledger—standard protestations of a man caught red-handed."

"Framed," Aventurine repeated, disbelief and fury curling in his voice. "The audacity. He's found with stolen government property in his personal safe, and he has the nerve to plead innocence."

"Indeed, Your Highness. Though I must say—his performance was rather convincing. His shock felt almost genuine." Kane gave a slight shrug. "They always put on a show when the evidence is this damning."

Aventurine walked to the window, arms folded behind his back, staring out at the city—where, somewhere, Stelle was still under house arrest, likely still believing her name was ruined. The urge to send her word at once, to end her suffering, was nearly unbearable.

Soon, he told himself. It must be done properly—by the book—so no one can ever question her innocence again.

"Director Kane," Aventurine said, turning with renewed focus, "I want all this evidence submitted to the prosecution immediately. Full documentation, chain of custody, everything prepared for trial."

"Already in progress, Your Highness."

"Good. The Ministry of Justice will need to review the charges and issue formal indictments." Aventurine's smile was sharper than any blade. "Baron Tal has certainly earned himself quite the collection."

Kane gave a grim nod.

"All the evidence supports itself perfectly. One of the most complete cases I've ever worked."

Excellent. Aventurine felt a satisfaction deeper than any poker victory he had ever achieved. It wasn't about power or influence—it was about justice. A justice he rarely believed in. About protecting someone who deserved it, regardless of what she thought of him.

"One more thing, Your Highness," Kane added, drawing out a bundle of letters tied in a red ribbon. "Personal correspondence that… complicates the baron's character."

Aventurine raised an eyebrow as Kane explained the contents. By the time the director had finished, the Prince's expression had shifted from satisfied to something closer to revulsion.

Keeping letters from mistresses in the same bedroom where he slept with his wife and whispered words of love? It was so pitiful it almost offended him.

Then, with a pang of bitterness, he reminded himself that he hardly had the right to judge the moral principles of others—considering his own… chaotic private life.

"Well. I suppose it rounds out the picture," Aventurine said coldly, narrowing his eyes. "A man who once stalked a woman who rejected him, and now cheats on his wife—that's exactly the type to frame an innocent girl."

"The case speaks for itself."

Aventurine picked up the ledger again, fingers brushing over the gold lettering Stelle had touched countless times as she recorded her careful work. Soon, it would be returned to her—along with her freedom and restored reputation.

"The port documents and the ledger will remain with me. I will complete the previously interrupted audit of House Solaris and deliver my official verdict on Lady Stelle's administrative competency. This time, I have the full record."

Kane nodded, but Aventurine wasn't finished. He leaned back in his chair, flipping through the ledger pages.

"Director, I want you to coordinate this case directly with the High Judge. Given the severity of the charges and their political implications, this case requires judicial oversight at the highest level."

"Of course. I'm sure His Highness the Crown Prince will want to review the evidence personally."

Sunday. The thought stirred a complicated mix of feelings in Aventurine. His brother had been furious over how Stelle was treated—barely keeping his rage in check over the necessity of an investigation. When he learns that she had, in truth, been the victim of a calculated scheme… perhaps he would finally reconsider his naive moratorium on capital punishment.

Perhaps, if Stelle mattered to him enough, he'd be willing to forget his noble ideals about mercy and humanity.

And if not—then maybe she didn't matter to him quite as much as she seemed to.

"Ensure he receives the full report immediately," Aventurine ordered. "Include everything—the evidence, Tal's criminal background, and the systematic nature of the plot against House Solaris."

"It will be done, Your Highness."

As Kane and the investigators gathered their files and began to leave, Aventurine stared off into the distance. Justice now lay in Sunday's hands—and all that remained was the hope that his brother's judgment would be harsh enough.

"Director Kane," Aventurine called, his voice quieter, more contemplative, just as the man reached the door.

"Yes, Your Highness?"

"When you brief the prosecutors, make sure they understand the full extent of Tal's crimes. I want every minor infraction noted and punished to the maximum extent. This man attempted to destroy the reputation of our most loyal allies. That cannot go unanswered." His voice dropped lower, his gaze darkening. The room seemed to chill with the shift in tone, and a shiver crept down the director's spine.

"Of course, Your Highness."

Even after Kane departed, Aventurine remained still. Part of him was relieved—it was finally nearing an end. And yet the fact that Stelle was still not safe, that the traitor who had betrayed her might still be near her—that thought chilled him more than anything.

***

Sunday stood behind the judge's table in the high-ceilinged chamber that served as his private office within the Ministry of Justice. The room bore the weight of centuries: walls lined with leather-bound legal texts, portraits of former high judges gazing down with austere authority, and the great seal of royal justice looming over the space behind his chair.

He read and flipped through the evidence laid before him, listening with complete focus to every word spoken by the Director of National Security, and to the additions provided by Chief Prosecutor Valdris—a woman with a razor-sharp gaze whose reputation for building unbreakable cases was legendary throughout the kingdom.

The Prince's face remained unreadable, professionally restrained as always. His hands were folded behind his back, and they slowly tensed with each new fact presented.

But what gave him pause were Kane's next words:

"There is one critical gap in our case. While we possess overwhelming evidence against Tal, we have not yet identified his accomplice within House Solaris."

Sunday looked up from the evidence and met Kane's gaze with laser-like intensity.

"Internal betrayal."

"Yes, Your Highness. Someone serving within House Solaris—someone Lady Stelle trusted—assisted in orchestrating her downfall."

The silence that followed landed with enough weight to make anyone flinch.

"This accomplice remains at large," the Prince said, and his voice carried the force of the Crown's justice. "Which means Lady Stelle is still in potential danger."

He narrowed his eyes, scanning the documents laid out before him. His mind moved at full speed, weighing competing priorities: justice for Tal, protection for Stelle, the need for a meticulous investigation versus the urgent necessity of ending her ordeal.

"Your Highness," the prosecutor said carefully, "the evidence against the Baron is irrefutable. We can bring official charges immediately."

Sunday turned to them, and something in his expression made both officials instinctively straighten. This was the Crown Prince who had reformed the entire justice system, who commanded the respect of hardened criminals and seasoned judges alike.

"Baron Tal will be formally indicted and held as the primary suspect," he declared, his voice carrying the finality of royal decree. He gestured toward the documents on the table. "Given the completeness of the evidence, I trust you will be able to construct an airtight case."

"Without question, Your Highness," the prosecutor replied with professional certainty. "It's one of the most comprehensive cases we've ever seen."

Too comprehensive, whispered a quiet voice in the legal corner of Sunday's mind. Almost suspiciously so.

The evidence aligned with extraordinary precision—motive, means, opportunity, physical proof. All neatly packaged in a way most prosecutors could only dream of. Years in the field had taught him to be cautious when a case looked too clean, too convenient.

But that thought was quickly drowned beneath a rising tide of relief. Stelle was innocent. The nightmare was over. Justice had prevailed.

"Lady Stelle must be informed at once and released from house arrest," he continued, momentarily setting aside his instinctive skepticism. "However, given the unknown identity of the accomplice, she cannot return to normal life without protection."

Kane nodded gravely.

"We were hoping for your directive on security measures."

Sunday fell into a moment's silence, calculating risks and countermeasures.

"Until the accomplice is found, double the security at the Solaris estate. No one enters or leaves without thorough inspection. Every servant, every delivery, every visitor must be vetted." His voice hardened. "And Lady Stelle is not to be left alone with any member of the household staff until the traitor is identified."

"Understood, Your Highness."

"In addition," Sunday continued in his formal, commanding tone, "I want Baron Tal held under maximum security. His crime is grave, and his punishment must reflect that."

Both officials recognized in his tone a promise of severe justice. Sunday had abolished capital punishment in practice, believing in the possibility of redemption—but that did not make him lenient. Baron Tal would serve decades in a prison that would make him regret the day he chose to target House Solaris.

***

The numbers on the page blurred for the third time in just a few minutes. With a trembling hand, Stelle set her pen aside and rubbed her eyes, but the fatigue went deeper than sleeplessness. It was a soul-deep exhaustion that made every breath feel like lifting stones.

Her office—once a sanctuary—now felt like a tomb. The walls seemed closer with each passing day, pressing in with the weight of suspicion and failure. Documents lay scattered across the desk in hopeless disarray. She had tried to go over port schedules, study for exams, maintain the illusion of normalcy, but her mind refused to focus. Every line felt like a record of incompetence. Every figure, another nail in her professional coffin.

It had been over a week since the estate had been sealed. A week of being treated like a criminal in her own home.

She wasn't even allowed to walk around alone—right now, even while in her office, Hartwell stood just beyond the door, never straying far. And while he had been kind, even gentle, his presence was a constant reminder of the burden of accusation.

The tutors hadn't come—no one was allowed in or out of the Solaris estate, and thus, no lessons. She hadn't seen her mother in days. Even when their paths briefly crossed, Kafka had only cast her a weighted look and disappeared without a word.

She must be disappointed.

I've brought her nothing but trouble—after she trusted me.

The thought made her heart ache, a quiet, bitter throb that never truly left.

She leaned back in her chair and gazed out the window, where the afternoon sun painted everything in shades of gray. Even the roses in the conservatory looked weary, as if the investigation had begun draining the life from everything it touched.

Her eyes drifted to the windowsill, where Smart Paws sat in his usual silent watch. The little plush raccoon's button eyes reflected the dimming light. Once a comfort, he now seemed to mock her with his eternal smile.

"What?" she muttered aloud, her voice hoarse from hours of silence. "Having fun?"

The raccoon stared back at her with its artificial cheer, and something inside her finally gave way. All the carefully maintained composure, the strained dignity, the desperate attempt to keep hope alive—it all shattered, like a dam finally bursting.

"I'm tired, Smart Paws," she whispered, leaning forward until her forehead touched the desk. "So tired. When is this going to end? I'd rather have the sentence handed down already than be kept like this… suspended."

Silence stretched, long and suffocating. No reassuring words, no assurances. Only the choking stillness of a house under siege.

"Remember," she went on, her voice muffled against the wood, "when we first met? Back when everything already felt hard, even then. When March tried to win you just for me, called you my twin brother. How good she was at shooting—though she was half-drunk. And then he showed up… and for some reason, gave you to me. I wonder why he did that. Not that it matters now…"

Tears should have come, but her eyes stayed dry. She'd cried them all out days ago. All that remained was a dull ache, a numbness that made everything around her feel distant and unreal.

"God, I want to go back to those days. When I could just run off and be Ray for a while—no noble titles, no burdens heavier than choosing where to wander with March and Dan Heng." She lifted her head and gave the raccoon a hollow, bitter smile. "Before I learned just how rotten this society really is. Before I realized that having a title just makes you an easier target."

The plush raccoon's permanent smile now seemed almost sarcastic, and Stelle let out a laugh—one without even a flicker of humor.

"Of course, you won't answer," she muttered, resting her head in her hand. "I'm just going mad, talking to toys like a child. Maybe that's what I'll use in my defense—insanity brought on by acute stress-induced schizophrenia."

She exhaled sharply and stood up so fast her chair scraped loudly against the floor, scattering papers across the room. She couldn't sit here anymore, couldn't look at these meaningless documents while her life crumbled piece by piece.

"I need air," she announced to the empty room. "Before I suffocate in my own misery."

The walk would be another humiliation—escorted like a common criminal, trailed by Hartwell with his apologetic manners. But even supervised freedom was better than this stifling confinement.

She found Hartwell stationed faithfully outside her office. The young man looked up as she stepped out, and his face lit up with what might have been relief.

"Lady Stelle," he said, quickly rising to his feet. "Do you need anything?"

"A walk," she answered simply. "Through the conservatory. I need… I need to see something other than these walls."

Hartwell nodded with understanding.

"Of course, my lady. I'll accompany you—with the guards."

The procession that formed was both absurd and quietly heartbreaking. Stelle at the center like a dangerous prisoner, Hartwell nervously jotting in his notebook, and two royal guards maintaining professional distance while still clearly watching her every move. It was meant to be a simple walk through her own conservatory—but instead, it felt like a parade of shame.

They passed manicured flowerbeds, shaped hedges, and strange blossoms that seemed to mock her with their perfect order. Everything else in her life was chaos, but the roses still bloomed on schedule.

"It's rather pleasant today," Hartwell ventured, trying to fill the heavy silence.

"Is it?" she replied flatly, not really hearing him. The sunlight felt dim and cold, like everything else in her world.

Yet the sight of the flowers did bring a faint warmth—just enough to stir a memory. She remembered walking here with Sunday. It felt like a lifetime ago, in another world. The way he had looked at her… the moment he tucked a rose into her hair, called her beautiful. The memory made her heart beat faster.

And yet it only deepened the ache. Surely that could never happen again. Not after all this—after the accusations, the disgrace. He wouldn't want to see her. He was a judge. A man of law. He didn't tolerate criminals.

She wasn't even aware of her surroundings anymore—her legs moved on autopilot, carrying her through familiar paths without thought. Only muscle memory kept her from stumbling.

They reached the far side of the estate, near the servants' quarters, when suddenly—

A scream tore through the air like a blade.

High-pitched. Female. Full of terror—the kind of sound that bypasses thought and speaks straight to the primal mind.

Stelle's head snapped up. Her body tensed, adrenaline flooding through her limbs—pulling her into reality for the first time in days.

"What was that?" she whispered, her voice uneven.

A second scream rang out before anyone could answer, followed by the thunder of running footsteps and panicked voices. The guards immediately moved in closer, their hands going to their weapons.

"My lady," one of them said, "perhaps we should return—"

"No." Stelle was already moving toward the sound, led by an instinct she couldn't name. "Someone needs help."

They rushed through the rear gardens, following the growing chaos—toward the old oak that had stood on the edge of the estate for generations. Servants were running in the same direction, their faces white with shock.

What they found there would be seared into Stelle's memory forever.

She stopped in her tracks. Her eyes went wide. The color drained from her face.

Hanging from one of the lower branches of the great oak was a figure in a plain gray maid's dress. The rope creaked gently in the afternoon breeze, and the woman's face was turned away, hidden by dark hair that had fallen loose from its pins. Her dress was stained—marked by the bodily signs that always followed death.

Stelle's knees buckled. The world tilted. Color vanished, leaving everything stark in black and white. A deafening ring pierced her ears, from skull to spine. Behind her, Hartwell let out a strangled sound, and one of the guards muttered a curse—but all of it felt distant. Muted.

"Get her down!" she managed to breathe, though her voice sounded strange even to herself. "Someone—get her down!"

"My lady," Hartwell said gently, taking her hand with the delicacy of a jeweler, "it's… already too late."

Stelle stared at the motionless figure, trying to comprehend what she was seeing. Her mind refused the truth, scrambled for any other explanation, any fiction to make it not real. She recognized the dress. The hair. One of the new maids. Maria? Martha? She couldn't remember the name—and somehow, that made it worse.

"Why?" Her voice trembled uncontrollably.

The question hung in the air, unanswered—and perhaps unanswerable. More servants began to gather, faces pale with shock. Some women wept, others stood frozen in stunned silence.

As the guards cut the body down, Stelle's thoughts raced to the investigation, to the thick cloud of suspicion hanging over the estate. Had this young woman been interrogated? Had the pressure become too much to bear?

Was it my fault? The thought hit her like a slap. Did my problems push someone else to this?

One of the guards examining the body suddenly called out, his voice taut with tension.

"Sir—there's something here."

Hartwell stepped closer, while the silver-haired girl remained rooted in place. Her legs were barely holding. The world around her swayed and buckled, colors blurring into a nauseating kaleidoscope.

"What is it?" the assistant asked quietly.

"A note, sir," the guard replied. "Written on cloth—ripped from her undergarments."

The words struck Stelle like a new blow. A note. The image of the lifeless body swam in her vision, doubling and warping until she could no longer distinguish what was real.

"What does it say?" Hartwell's voice sounded very far away.

The guard cleared his throat, visibly unsettled.

"It's… hard to read. Looks like someone barely literate wrote it, and in a hurry. But I can make out… I see the word 'Stelle' and something that looks like the beginning of 'forgive.' The rest is… illegible."

The world swayed again. She couldn't stand anymore. Her knees gave out, and the ground rushed up to meet her. Her stomach turned violently.

The maid had written her name. While dying.

Forgive me, Lady Stelle.

"My lady!" Hartwell's voice was sharp with alarm as he caught her by the shoulders, the only thing stopping her from collapsing completely. "Guards—help!"

But the Duchess's daughter barely heard him. The image of the rope, of that still body, of the desperate final words scratched onto torn fabric—it all crashed down in a wave of primal horror. Her vision went dark at the edges, and she doubled over, retching onto the grass.

She was sorry.

For what?

What had she done?

What couldn't she live with?

"Lady Stelle, breathe," Hartwell said urgently, hand firm against her back. "Just breathe."

But breathing felt impossible. The air itself seemed poisoned—thick with the weight of some terrible secret the poor girl had carried to her grave. A secret that, somehow, had something to do with her. Something the maid could not live with. Something that demanded forgiveness.

Was it her? The thought emerged through the fog of shock and sickness. Was she the accomplice? Did she help steal the ledger—and then… and then…

Another wave of nausea crashed through her. If the maid had been involved—if guilt had driven her to that final, horrifying act—then Stelle's own exoneration would rest on someone else's grave.

"The note," she gasped between heaves. "Keep it safe. It's… it's evidence."

"Already secured, my lady," one of the guards said grimly.

Eventually, Stelle managed to straighten, though only with Hartwell's steady hand supporting her. The world still rocked dangerously around her. The taste of bile scorched her throat, but she forced herself to look back once more—at the oak.

Forgive me, Lady Stelle.

"We must return to the manor immediately," Hartwell said quietly. "This… changes everything. Investigators must be informed at once."

As they slowly made their way back through the gardens, Stelle couldn't shake the image—the hanging figure, and the desperate words that had both condemned and exonerated her.

Her own despair now seemed hollow, selfish beside the darkness that had driven that young woman to the edge. She had been so focused on her own suffering, she hadn't seen someone else's unraveling.

We're all prisoners here, she thought, as the manor came back into view and her legs trembled beneath her. Some of us just don't realize it until it's too late. And some of us… some of us never make it out alive.

***

It hadn't been long when the sound of approaching carriages echoed across the estate. Curled in her chair by the window, Stelle lifted her dull eyes and stared out at the familiar blue-and-gold livery of the Royal Treasury pulling up the front drive. Behind those carriages came something that made her heart tighten—a black-and-silver carriage from the Ministry of Justice.

More investigators. They were here to pile yet more accusations onto her grave.

Hartwell appeared soon after at the door. His face was serious—but there was something different about him today. A certain energy beneath the solemnity. Something almost… eager, though he was clearly trying to suppress it.

"Lady Stelle," he began carefully, as though addressing a wounded kitten, "Director Kane of National Security and Chief Prosecutor Valdris are here. They request an immediate audience with you."

Stelle didn't move. The image of the maid's body still flickered behind her eyes. Her entire body felt heavy, too heavy. Even standing seemed like something beyond her physical ability.

"Let me guess," she said in a low voice. "They've found more proof of my incompetence. Maybe they want to discuss how my failures pushed someone to take their own life."

And truthfully, she wasn't afraid anymore. Sitting there now, she felt... nothing. If they announced every mortal sin in the book and pinned them to her name, she wouldn't resist. She didn't have the strength.

A flicker of confusion passed over Hartwell's face.

"My lady, I believe… I believe you may wish to hear what they have to say. In person."

Something in his tone made her glance up. There was something strange in his voice—like tightly contained relief. But that made no sense. Nothing about this investigation had given anyone reason to feel relieved.

"…Very well," she muttered, forcing herself upright.

Her legs were still unsteady from the morning's horror.

"Let them in."

Director Kane entered first, his posture as precise as a soldier's. Behind him came Prosecutor Valdris, carrying a leather case that seemed to radiate importance.

"Lady Stelle," Kane began with a curt nod, and there was something in his voice—something that made the room hold its breath. "Thank you for seeing us on such short notice. We have… important news."

"News?" Stelle sank back into the chair, bracing herself for whatever blow was coming next.

Kane exchanged a glance with the prosecutor before continuing:

"Lady Stelle, I am pleased to inform you that you have been fully cleared of all suspicion regarding the missing financial ledger."

The words landed like thunder in a cloudless sky. Stelle froze, statue-still, sure she had misheard him. Her heart plummeted.

"I… what?"

"The true perpetrator has been identified, arrested, and formally charged," Valdris added, placing her case on the nearest table. "Baron Arthur Tal was taken into custody this morning on charges of theft of government property, treason, and conspiracy against House Solaris."

The world flipped upside down. Stelle gripped the arms of her chair, struggling to process what she'd just heard.

"Baron Tal? But… how?"

Kane's expression darkened.

"We discovered the missing ledger in his personal safe, along with overwhelming evidence of his crimes. Irrefutable."

The ledger. Her head swam. They'd found the ledger.

"This… this can't be real," she whispered. "You're not… you're not joking?"

"The evidence is conclusive, my lady," the woman said gently. "And his motive is clear—revenge against House Solaris for old wounds. He could not bear the thought of your success. It was a personal insult to him. And so he devised this elaborate scheme to destroy your name."

Stelle felt tears rising at the corners of her eyes. This time, they were tears of… relief, laced with disbelief.

"I… I'm free? The investigation is over?"

"Officially, yes," Kane nodded. "His Royal Highness Prince Sunday has ordered your immediate release from house arrest. The cloud of suspicion has been entirely lifted."

But even as the wave of relief crashed over her, a thought forced its way into her mind—one she could not ignore.

"If Baron Tal stole the financial ledger… how did he access the estate? Someone must have helped him."

Kane's brow furrowed.

"That brings us to a… complicated matter. We believe Baron Tal had an accomplice among your household staff."

The maid.

The image flashed before her eyes again—that lingering shadow that had followed her all morning, refusing to leave her even for a moment. She swallowed hard.

It was one of the guards who broke the silence, his face grim, the seriousness etched into the lines around his dark eyes.

"Reporting that earlier this morning, around two hours ago, a body was discovered. Behind the estate, in the oak grove—a maid was found hanged. There was also a note, which we've already sealed and preserved as evidence."

A stunned silence fell over the room. Kane's gaze sharpened with razor focus, and Valdris instinctively reached for her notebook.

"A note?" Kane asked sharply.

"It's poorly written, but it references Lady Stelle… and a word that appears to be an apology."

The director and the prosecutor exchanged a bleak glance of mutual understanding. Stelle watched their expressions shift—from shock to something that looked… like resolution.

"An accomplice," the woman murmured. "She couldn't live with the guilt of betraying Lady Stelle."

"It seems that way," Kane said gravely. "Baron Tal's conspiracy has claimed yet another victim—the very person he manipulated into helping him."

Any remnants of relief that Stelle had felt moments ago were now swept away by a crushing wave of guilt and horror. She began to shake uncontrollably, wrapping her arms around herself in a feeble attempt to stop.

"She took her life because of me… because she helped destroy me?"

"She took her life because she was manipulated by a corrupt nobleman who exploited her better nature," Valdris corrected firmly. "You are not responsible for Baron Tal's crimes or their consequences."

But Stelle barely heard the words of comfort. Her mind was reeling from the connections—the dreadful symmetry of it all. The very moment she was exonerated, the price of her vindication had already been paid—in blood.

"Where is the note?" Kane asked the guard.

"With the body, sir."

He nodded approvingly. "We'll need to study it carefully. As tragic as it is, that note may offer the clearest confession we'll get—and help us fully understand the scope of the plot."

As Kane and Valdris began discussing the formal investigation into the maid's death, Stelle remained in her chair, stunned by the collision of triumph and tragedy. She was free, absolved, her name restored... but at what cost?

Forgive me, Lady Stelle.

Notes:

i left you hanging

anyways, in the next one Stelle will finally see Aven and Sunday no way no way😇

Chapter 20: The Princes' Judgment

Summary:

The princes deliver the final judgment to the traitor.

Notes:

TW: gore
if you're sensitive skip the last fragment of the chapter :3

i planned to make the romantic interactions in this chapter but plans changed a bit, but in the next one for 10000% XDD

The Grand Hall of Justice stood as a monument to royal authority, its vaulted ceilings arching high above rows of polished oak benches arranged in strict military formation. Tall windows cast angular beams of morning light across the stone floor, illuminating the raised tribunal where the throne of the High Judge presided over all proceedings. Behind the judge's chair, the royal seal loomed—a grim reminder of the gravity of the crimes judged here.

Stelle had never felt so small in her life.

She sat to the left of the tribunal, on the bench reserved for plaintiffs, her hands clenched tightly in her lap to keep them from trembling. The formal mourning dress she wore—charcoal-gray, with only the barest of adornments—felt far too appropriate in more than one sense. Beside her sat Chief Prosecutor Valdris, clad in dark robes lined with burgundy.

It had been nearly a week since that day—both triumphant and tragic. The day she was declared innocent… and the day she first witnessed death. She couldn't forget. The image returned over and over again: the maid's body swaying gently in the morning breeze, and the hastily scrawled note. She still woke in the middle of the night, running to the washroom, helpless against the waves of nausea. That first night, even closing her eyes brought back the lifeless voice asking for attention, and those ashen-gray eyes.

The memory surged again, making her stomach twist. She pressed her lips into a thin line, willing the rising sickness back down. She managed to hold it in—but it brought no relief.

To her left, in the gallery reserved for observers, among the curious nobles who'd come in search of spectacle, sat Kafka. Her mother's presence should have comforted her, but the Duchess's face remained a perfect mask of aristocratic composure. No warmth. No comfort. Only the cold dignity expected of the head of House Solaris. Stelle wondered whether her mother blamed her for the maid's death—saw it as yet another example of how her daughter's failures brought ruin to their house.

Baron Arthur Tal sat on the defendant's bench, flanked by two grim-faced guards, his lawyer beside him in a black robe with green trim. The baron, once the picture of polished nobility, looked markedly worse after a week in custody. A patchy beard darkened his normally clean-shaven face, and his once-slicked hair now fell in chaotic strands. His clothing, plain and wrinkled, had nothing of aristocratic finery. His eyes kept darting around the room like a cornered animal—searching for escape. When, for the briefest of moments, they met Stelle's, what she saw made her skin crawl. Not remorse. But burning resentment. As if she were to blame for his disgrace.

The heavy doors at the far end of the hall opened with a deep, echoing rumble that seemed to shake the palace itself. All conversation ceased as if sliced away with a blade.

"All rise for His Honor, the High Judge of Asdana, Crown Prince Sunday."

The audience stood in a smooth wave—no one dared remain seated. Stelle was no exception. Her heart tightened, with nerves or something else entirely. She hadn't seen the Prince since that day he comforted her with Robin's song. So much had happened since then. Could he still look at her the same way? Or would she now be a burden—just another headache she had caused him?

She held her breath as her heart skipped a beat.

Sunday entered with the composed gait of absolute authority. All trace of the gentle man who once wiped her tears and laughed at her clumsy jokes was gone. The figure now approaching the judge's throne moved with the terrifying inevitability of justice itself. His robe—similar to those worn by the prosecutor and defense, but adorned with violet accents—hung heavy on his shoulders, and around his neck gleamed the chain of office, bearing the weight of centuries of royal law. When he finally sat behind the judge's desk, silence fell so completely that Stelle could hear the frantic beating of her own heart.

No matter how often she saw him, his icy beauty always left her knees weak.

His amber gaze swept the hall with clinical precision, cataloguing every face, every detail, every possible disruption to the order he upheld with iron discipline. And when those eyes passed over her—there was no recognition. No warmth. No sign they had ever spoken.

The complete absence of any personal acknowledgment struck like a slap. Stelle flinched, just barely.

Of course, she reminded herself bitterly. He's a judge. The Crown Prince. We're not alone here. He can't show emotion. He must remain cold and impartial. But even as logic offered this comfort, a traitorous whisper crept in—what if that coldness meant something else? What if he truly was disappointed in her, repelled by the chaos that followed her wherever she went?

And really, who was she to expect acknowledgment from the heir to the throne and the High Judge of the realm? A foolish girl who brought scandal and death into her own home?

"I hereby declare the court in session," Sunday's low voice rang out. Each word crisp, cold as winter marble, leaving no doubt who ruled this space.

The court clerk stepped forward and began to read:

"Today's hearing concerns the criminal case of Baron Arthur Tal, accused of high treason, theft of royal property, conspiracy against House Solaris, tax evasion, bribery of government officials, and related crimes against the Crown."

The formal reading of the charges took several minutes, each offense spoken with meticulous precision. With every count, Baron Tal's face grew paler, his breath heavier. When the clerk finally finished and returned to his seat, the silence in the hall stretched tight—like a bowstring drawn to its limit.

"Chief Prosecutor Anna Valdris may now present her opening statement."

The woman rose with poised grace, her movements fluid and assured. She appeared to be in her mid-forties, with dark hair pulled into a severe bun and eyes like a winter morning—clear, sharp, and utterly merciless.

"Your Honor, esteemed members of the court," she began, her crisp voice piercing through the chamber, "today, you shall witness a tale of greed, vengeance, and betrayal—one that strikes at the very heart of our system of governance. The accused, Baron Tal, stands before you not as a victim of circumstance, but as the architect of corruption, who used his noble title and a position of trust to commit crimes against the Crown and to conspire against an innocent young woman—whose only fault was her devotion to duty."

She gestured toward the evidence table, where the recovered ledger lay like a silent accusation.

"You will hear testimony that will, without a shadow of doubt, prove that Baron Arthur Tal, driven by personal animosity toward House Solaris and by unrestrained greed, devised and executed a carefully calculated scheme. A scheme involving the theft of a critical government document, the falsification of taxes, the bribery of state officials, and the deliberate attempt to destroy the reputation of Lady Stelle Solaris. This was not a crime born of desperation or passion—it was a deliberate assault on the institutions that uphold our kingdom's very foundation."

Her gaze swept across the hall, resting momentarily on each member of the audience before continuing.

"The evidence will show that Baron Tal created a duplicate key to gain access to Lady Stelle's private cabinet. That he removed the primary financial ledger on the very morning of the audit—timed precisely to inflict maximum damage to her reputation. That he systematically evaded taxes owed to the Crown, bribed port officials to avoid inspection of his steel shipments, and corresponded with known criminals."

She paused then, letting the weight of the accusations settle upon the room like a shroud.

"And most damning of all—you will hear testimony revealing the full extent of Baron Arthur Tal's conspiracy. How he manipulated a vulnerable maid into becoming his accomplice, a woman whose eventual death by her own hand was the result of guilt and remorse too heavy to bear."

A horrified murmur rippled through the chamber. Some exchanged startled glances.

Stelle felt her chest tighten into a hard, breathless knot at the mention of the maid.

"The prosecution will present irrefutable evidence of these crimes," Valdris continued, her voice unwavering. "Physical evidence discovered in the defendant's personal safe. Testimony from the investigators who uncovered the plot. Expert witnesses who will confirm both the means and opportunity the accused possessed. And when all the facts are laid before you, I am confident you will find Baron Arthur Tal guilty on every count."

She inclined her head toward the judicial bench.

"Thank you, Your Honor."

Sunday remained impassive as Valdris resumed her seat. With the same cool professionalism, he turned his attention to the defense.

"The accused will rise," he ordered.

Tal struggled to his feet, his legs unsteady. His voice came out hoarse:

"Your Honor, I—"

"The accused will remain silent unless invited to speak," Sunday's rebuke sliced through the air like a blade. His gaze was so intense that the baron visibly flinched. "You will have your chance to respond. Until then, you will observe absolute silence or be held in contempt of court."

Stelle watched the exchange with mounting tension. That voice—his voice—sent a chill down even her spine. She had seen Sunday exercise authority before—how he had put those girls in their place at her debut ball, how he handled officials and servants alike—but never had she seen him like this. So severe. So commanding.

It struck her as a revelation—perhaps only because she had grown so accustomed to the gentle way he spoke to her. She had started to forget who he truly was.

Sunday continued, composed as ever:

"It is also my duty to inform you that you retain the right to remain silent and refuse to answer questions. However, doing so may influence the final judgment," he stated coolly. "Do you plead guilty to the aforementioned crimes?"

Tal immediately began shaking his head, speaking quickly, his voice rising.

"I had nothing to do with the ledger—I'm innocent of that crime, I swear I never would have considered treason! I admit that I…" He looked away, his voice dropping slightly. "I am guilty of other offenses. Yes, my dealings were not always clean. Yes, I sometimes failed to declare all my earnings. Yes, I had certain contacts with… the wrong people. Yes, I paid certain individuals to gain advantage. And yes, I was unfaithful to my wife. But I swear—I did not steal that ledger!"

His voice sounded so desperate that for a brief moment, Stelle almost believed him—if not for the circumstances. But she would never forgive him. Because of him—because of the pressure he must have put on that poor maid—she had taken her own life. Because of him, all her meticulous work had nearly come undone. So any pity quickly gave way to bitter resentment.

The judge listened with an unchanged expression. When the baron finished speaking, he said:

"The court will take your statement into consideration," he nodded, then turned his gaze to the defense table. "Counsel Alexander Whitmore, your opening statement."

Defense attorney Whitmore rose slowly, and Stelle could see the weight of an impossible task pressing down on his shoulders. He was a young, ambitious man with a reputation for thorough preparation—but even his considerable skill and determination seemed inadequate when set against the mountain of evidence amassed by the prosecution.

"Your Honor, esteemed members of the court," he began, his tone still confident for now, "my client, Baron Arthur Tal, stands before you today not as a criminal mastermind, but as a man who has made mistakes—serious mistakes, for which he is prepared to take responsibility. However, the most serious charge against him—the theft of government records—is based on circumstantial evidence and speculation."

He gestured toward Tal, who sat motionless at the defendant's bench, pale but defiant.

"Yes, my client admits to financial misconduct. He acknowledges errors in his tax declarations and his involvement in questionable business dealings. These are serious matters, and he expresses genuine remorse. But he categorically denies the accusation that he stole the financial ledger from Lady Stelle's private office."

Whitmore's voice grew stronger as he continued.

"The prosecution will present evidence found in Baron Tal's possession, but they cannot prove how it came to be there. They will show you a receipt, a locksmith—but they cannot prove that this key was ever used. They cannot produce the duplicate key itself. They will argue motive and opportunity—but they cannot prove the act of theft."

He paused, letting his words settle.

"I ask you to listen closely to the testimony, to examine the evidence critically, and to remember that in this kingdom, a person is presumed innocent until proven guilty beyond all reasonable doubt. The prosecution must demonstrate every element of every charge—not merely suggest that guilt is likely or possible."

Sunday's eyes remained fixed on the attorney, unreadable.

"Thank you, Your Honor," Whitmore concluded, and returned to his seat with visible relief after finishing the statement.

Stelle felt a surge of irrational bitterness—and even a touch of irritation. After everything that had happened, she could no longer maintain impartial judgment. Hearing someone try to defend the man who had nearly destroyed her made her feel disrespected. Or perhaps it was pity she felt—for the lawyers, whose job it was to do just that.

"The prosecution may proceed with its case," Sunday announced, turning back to the Chief Prosecutor. "You may call your first witness."

"Your Honor, the prosecution calls Inspector Geoffrey Verren to the stand."

The door to the witness room opened, and the inspector entered with the measured gait of a seasoned civil servant. His uniform was immaculate, his demeanor professional—but Stelle noticed the tension in his shoulders as he approached the witness stand. Giving testimony before the High Judge was a rare honor—one most officials never experienced—and a pressure that could break careers if mishandled.

The court clerk stepped forward and asked in an official tone:

"Do you swear to speak the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?"

The inspector laid a hand on the constitution and replied clearly, his voice firm:

"I swear."

The prosecutor remained unchanged in expression. She gave a single nod.

"Please state your full name and position for the court."

"Geoffrey Verren. I am a senior inspector with the Royal Treasury's Audit Division. On the fifteenth of February, by order of His Highness Prince Aventurine, I was assigned to conduct a comprehensive audit of operations at the Southern Port, which is under the management of House Solaris."

Stelle leaned in slightly. It was the first time she had heard an official account of the events that had nearly destroyed her life.

"The audit was requested by Lady Stelle Solaris herself," Verren continued in a neutral, professional tone. "She had assumed administrative responsibility for the port following her debut and wished to ensure that all records met the Crown's standards. The audit was approved by the Director of the Royal Treasury after concerns regarding her competence were raised during a meeting about the Regional Restoration Fund. Lady Stelle requested the audit in order to refute these concerns and prove the contrary."

I was so sure that my careful documentation would speak for me, she thought bitterly. How naive I was.

"Please describe what happened upon your arrival to conduct the audit," the prosecutor prompted.

Inspector Verren's expression grew more serious.

"It was clear that Lady Stelle had prepared thoroughly for our visit. All documents were organized, all records meticulously catalogued, all procedures documented with exceptional care. Her level of preparation demonstrated a proper understanding of administrative protocol."

"And the missing ledger?" the prosecutor asked.

"The primary financial ledger—the cornerstone of our audit—was found missing from Lady Stelle's locked cabinet. She assured us she had last seen it that very morning, just prior to the audit." There was a note of professional disappointment in Verren's voice. "She appeared genuinely shaken by its disappearance. To my experienced eye, her distress seemed sincere."

Stelle's mind flashed back to that morning—her frantic search through every shelf, every drawer, growing more frantic with each moment as the truth began to dawn. The memory brought with it the full weight of that panic, that sinking realization of what was about to happen.

"In your professional opinion, Inspector," Valdris asked evenly, "did Lady Stelle's behavior suggest guilt? Or any attempt to conceal the facts?"

"Objection!" Whitmore was on his feet at once. "The question invites speculation."

Sunday's gaze moved with cold precision toward the defense table.

"Overruled. The witness is permitted to assess suspicious behavior within the bounds of his expertise. Inspector Verren, you may continue."

"In my opinion, Lady Stelle's reaction was entirely consistent with shock and concern. When someone is attempting to conceal evidence, they usually try to restrict the scope of the investigation. Lady Stelle did the opposite—she offered immediate and unrestricted access to her personal quarters, encouraged us to question all staff, and allowed full review of any documents we requested. That sort of behavior… is unusual for someone with something to hide."

A rush of something—almost like gratitude—rose in Stelle's chest. At least someone had believed in her innocence, even when everything seemed hopeless.

"What actions did you take following the discovery of the missing ledger?"

"I reported the matter at once to the Director of the Royal Treasury. His Highness authorized a full investigation of the Solaris estate, including staff interviews and a thorough search of all rooms. Despite significant effort, we found no evidence suggesting Lady Stelle had concealed the document. On the contrary, the precision of her audit preparations indicated no intent to hide anything. Our interviews with household staff also yielded no information as to the ledger's whereabouts. Lady Stelle's mother, Her Grace Duchess Kafka, confirmed that she had entrusted her daughter with full administrative control of the port and had not involved herself with financial records since."

Valdris gave an approving nod.

"Based on your investigation, did you form any theories as to how the ledger might have disappeared?"

"Given the fact that Lady Stelle was the sole possessor of the cabinet key, which she wore on a chain around her neck, the most plausible explanation was that someone close to her gained access to the key and used it to create a duplicate."

"Thank you, Inspector," the prosecutor concluded. "Your Honor, I have no further questions for the witness."

Sunday turned his attention to the defense table.

"The defense may proceed with cross-examination."

Whitmore rose, his expression thoughtful.

"Inspector Verren, during your initial investigation of the Solaris estate, did you uncover any physical evidence indicating that Baron Tal was present on the premises?"

"No, sir."

"Did any member of the household report seeing Baron Tal—or anyone matching his description—on the morning the ledger went missing?"

"No, sir."

"Did you uncover any fingerprints, traces, or other forensic evidence linking my client to Lady Stelle's office?"

"We did not conduct a forensic analysis of the office," Verren replied evenly. "Initially, we assumed the ledger had been misplaced, not stolen."

"So would it be fair to say your investigation uncovered no direct evidence placing Baron Tal inside Lady Stelle's office at any time?"

Verren narrowed his eyes slightly.

"Correct. Which only strengthened my suspicion that he may have had an accomplice within the estate staff."

Whitmore gave a soft snort.

"Thank you. No further questions, Your Honor."

"The witness is dismissed," Sunday declared. "The prosecution may call its next witness."

"Your Honor," Valdris said, "the prosecution calls Director of National Security Marcus Kane to the stand."

The atmosphere in the chamber shifted the moment Kane entered. Where Inspector Verren exuded the restrained authority of a civil servant, Kane moved with the lethal composure of a man who had spent decades hunting criminals and traitors. His very posture spoke of interrogations and midnight raids, of extracting secrets and dispensing justice in the shadows. Even Baron Tal seemed to shrink further into his seat as Kane approached the witness stand.

He took the oath, hand steady, and the prosecutor began:

"Please describe your role in the investigation."

"Your Honor, I serve as Director of the Department of National Security. When the ledger was reported missing, His Highness Prince Aventurine personally contacted me to assist with the investigation. Given the sensitive nature of the document and its potential implications for the security of the Crown, the matter was deemed a top priority."

Stelle leaned forward slightly. From this point on, the events had been entirely unknown to her—this was the investigation that had unfolded while she was under house arrest, convinced her life had come to an end.

"His Highness assembled a comprehensive investigative task force," Kane continued. "Treasury auditors, document specialists, forensic analysts, and my own security personnel. We compiled a list of potential suspects based on access, motive, and opportunity."

"How was Baron Tal identified as the prime suspect?" Valdris asked.

Kane's expression turned grim.

"During meetings of the Regional Restoration Fund, the baron was an outspoken opponent of Lady Stelle's appointment. He made derogatory, often sexist remarks about her capabilities, and voiced strong resentment toward House Solaris's growing influence. These comments were echoed in his conversations with other noble allies whom we later interviewed. Furthermore, a financial review indicated that he had both the means and connections to carry out the theft. House Tal was in a period of financial strain—securing the Fund's favorable decision was critical to his interests. Should House Solaris have forfeited the Southern Port and its copper reserves, it would have significantly boosted his profits."

From the defendant's bench came a faint, scornful snort. Sunday's amber eyes snapped toward the baron with laser-like intensity—and the noise ceased at once.

The prosecutor continued smoothly.

"What did the investigation reveal?"

"The most significant findings were uncovered at Baron Tal's estate. We identified major financial violations by comparing the documents he submitted to the Treasury with his private records—tax evasion, undeclared business partnerships, and evidence of bribes paid to port officials. But the most damning discovery was made in his personal quarters."

Kane's voice grew harsher.

"Behind a painting in the baron's chambers, we located a hidden safe, which he refused to open voluntarily. We were forced to enlist our safecracking specialists—and inside, we found the missing financial ledger, along with romantic correspondence from a woman named Isabella."

"Objection," Whitmore interjected, frowning. "Personal correspondence has no bearing on this case."

Sunday did not even glance at him. His voice, laced with cool irritation at the obviousness of the point, rang out:

"Overruled. The court will consider all aspects of the suspect's character that may confirm his capacity to commit the crime. Proceed."

Valdris stepped to the evidence table and picked up a small slip of paper.

"Director Kane, I am showing you Exhibit Four. Do you recognize this document?"

Kane studied it carefully before giving a curt nod.

"Yes. This is the locksmith's receipt, found in a locked drawer at Baron Tal's estate—which he also refused to open voluntarily. It confirms that he commissioned a duplicate key shortly before the audit began."

"In your expert opinion, what significance does this receipt hold?"

"Combined with the presence of the stolen ledger in his safe, it proves that Baron Tal had both the means and opportunity to commit the theft. The timing of the act—commissioning a duplicate key just prior to the audit—indicates clear intent. He planned to steal the ledger at the moment it would cause the greatest damage."

"How did Baron Tal react when this evidence was presented to him?"

Kane's jaw clenched slightly.

"He continued to deny stealing the ledger, claiming he had been framed. Yet when confronted with irrefutable proof, he admitted to several other crimes that he had previously denied with equal intensity."

"Did the baron offer any explanation for how the stolen ledger ended up in his possession?"

"He insisted he had never seen the document before and had no idea how it came to be in his safe. Claimed someone planted it there to frame him. In my experience, suspects caught with damning evidence always say the same thing—that they were framed—regardless of whether they're truly guilty or not. The baron's reaction matched that of a man attempting to deflect blame, not someone offering a credible explanation."

"Director Kane," Valdris went on, "was there any evidence suggesting the presence of an accomplice within the Solaris estate?"

That question struck Stelle like another blow to the heart. Her hands clenched the fabric of her dress. Kane's expression darkened as well. His voice dropped, becoming quieter.

"Yes. We believe someone among the household staff assisted in the theft. In order to open the locked cabinet, one would need to know Lady Stelle's daily routine in detail and have access to her private office."

He paused again, lowering his gaze to the floor. When he continued, his voice was hoarse.

"On the morning of Baron Tal's arrest, when Prosecutor Valdris and I arrived at the Solaris estate to inform Lady Stelle of her release from house arrest—by order of His Highness the Crown Prince—we learned…" He cleared his throat. "We discovered that a maid in the Solaris household had taken her own life. She left a note that, evidently, was an apology addressed to Lady Stelle."

The image pierced through her again—so vivid it felt like reliving it: the creaking of the rope, the sway of the body. She had to cover her mouth with her hand and breathe deeply to keep from drawing attention, to stop the nausea from rising. Her shoulders trembled. The courtroom spun around her.

She died because of this. Because of me. Because someone forced her to betray me—and she couldn't live with the guilt.

Even Valdris looked slightly uneasy now. She stepped toward the evidence table and lifted another item—a crumpled scrap of fabric with uneven, crooked lettering.

"Before you is Exhibit Five. Do you recognize it?"

Kane pressed his lips together. He hesitated before taking the cloth into his hands. His voice cracked.

"Yes. This is the suicide note I was shown when we discovered the body. The writing is nearly illegible—likely because the person who wrote it was poorly educated, and the girl seemed to be using the wrong hand. She was clearly in a highly distressed state. But if you look closely, you can make out one word resembling Lady Stelle's name, and another that appears to begin an apology."

He placed the note back down with fingers that trembled ever so slightly, then added:

"The maid's suicide, combined with the timing of her death, suggests that she had been manipulated into assisting Baron Tal in his scheme," Kane concluded. "In the end, her conscience overcame her fear."

"No further questions, Your Honor," Valdris said calmly, stepping away.

Sunday gave a nod to the defense.

"You may cross-examine."

Whitmore rose and gave Kane a sharp, scrutinizing look.

"Director Kane, did you recover the key that, according to your claims, was used to open Lady Stelle's cabinet?"

Kane frowned. "No. We did not find the key."

"Did you discover any tools that might have been used to force the lock?"

"No, sir."

"Is it possible someone else placed the ledger into Baron Tal's safe without his knowledge?"

Kane's jaw tightened.

"In theory, yes. But that would require access to his private quarters and knowledge of his safe's combination."

"And did you investigate any other plausible explanations for how the ledger ended up in my client's possession?"

There was a defensive note in Kane's voice.

"We followed the evidence, wherever it led. The combination of physical proof, motive, and opportunity painted a clear picture of Baron Tal's guilt."

Whitmore's lips twitched into a barely-there smile.

"But you acknowledge that you did not exhaust all alternative theories?"

Kane paused. The tension in his posture was visible—his knuckles turned white as he gripped the edge of the witness stand.

"Our investigation was thorough and professional. We stand by our conclusions."

"And do you have any concrete proof that the maid who committed suicide had any direct connection to my client? Personally, I find the note rather uninformative. Its interpretation seems subjective. The handwriting is so illegible that, if one wished, they could see whatever they liked in it."

That cold, detached tone made Stelle's brow crease in indignation. A surge of irrational fury flared in her chest, and she gritted her teeth. She knew this was a courtroom. Knew this was how trials worked. But hearing the death of that girl discussed so clinically—so casually—was unbearable.

A wave of whispered murmurs rippled through the hall, but Sunday silenced them all with a single, sharp glance.

Kane hesitated before answering.

"Of course, there is no direct proof. We… were unable to question her. However, the estate had already been under lockdown following the initial search—no one entered or left after that point. The implications were clear."

"And what did the coroners' report determine?"

"Cause of death was asphyxiation. There were also signs of frostbite from exposure—likely from being outside without proper clothing."

Whitmore gave a thoughtful hum. Then he smiled—a smile with something unpleasant curled at the corners.

"Thank you. No further questions."

Stelle felt her blood boil. How could he smile?

What was funny about any of this?

Was a servant's life really worth so little in this society?

That bitter sense of injustice gripped her chest like an iron hand.

"The witness is dismissed," Sunday said. "Prosecution may call the next."

Stelle watched as Kane stepped down from the witness stand, his posture still rigid with military discipline, despite the defense's efforts to cast doubt on the investigation. Sunday's expression had not shifted once during the entire exchange—his features still and cold, as if carved from stone.

And for a moment, Stelle wondered how he could listen to all of this… and not so much as flinch.

It was impressive.

It was terrifying.

"Your Honor, the prosecution calls locksmith Harold Graywick to the stand."

A nervous-looking man in his fifties entered the courtroom—his hands bore the roughness of someone who'd spent decades working with metal, and his clothes carried the faint scent of oil and heated steel. Graywick was the owner of one of the most prestigious locksmith workshops in the capital, trusted by nobles and wealthy merchants alike to protect their most valuable possessions.

After taking the oath, he stood stiffly at the witness stand, visibly uncomfortable in the formal atmosphere of the High Court. It was clear he wasn't used to such crowds—let alone standing in front of the Crown Prince himself, a man most citizens would never glimpse in their lifetime.

"Master Graywick," Prosecutor Valdris began gently, "please tell the court about your profession."

"I'm a locksmith, ma'am. Been working with locks and keys for thirty-three years. I make keys, repair locks, design security systems for those who need them."

"Do you recall Baron Arthur Tal commissioning any work from your shop?" she asked, gesturing lightly toward the defendant—who gave a disdainful snort and turned away.

Graywick glanced at the baron and gave a curt nod.

"Oh yes, ma'am. The baron came to my shop… oh, three weeks ago, maybe a month. He asked me to make a duplicate key. I remembered him because he treated me—and my other non-noble clients—like we were his servants. Wasn't very polite."

That sounds like him.

"Can you describe the meeting in detail?"

"Well, he brought a key—small, brass, looked like one for a cabinet or desk. Said he needed an exact duplicate for security reasons. Nothing strange about that; people come to me for that sort of thing all the time."

Valdris approached the witness stand, holding a small object wrapped in cloth.

"Master Graywick, I am showing you Exhibit Seven. Do you recognize this key?"

Graywick took the key and examined it thoroughly, turning it over in his timeworn hands. The silence in the room grew thick as he studied it. He was meticulous—his trained eyes noting every ridge and notch.

"Yes. This looks like the key the baron brought me. Same material, same size and shape. It could be the original—or the duplicate I made."

"You're certain it matches the one Baron Tal asked you to copy?"

Graywick squinted, bringing the key closer to his face, his expression narrowing with concentration.

"See here? These wear marks on the shaft… yes. This is the original key. It has a distinctive scratch near the head. I noticed it while working on the duplicate. I pay attention to details."

"Did Baron Tal explain what the key was for?"

"He said something about a cabinet in his office. About keeping important papers and wanting a spare in case he lost the original."

At the defense table, Baron Tal suddenly straightened, his face reddening with outrage.

"That's a lie!" he shouted. "I told him it was for my wife's jewelry box, not some cabinet!"

The courtroom erupted into murmurs and shifting. Sunday raised his gavel and brought it down with a sharp crack.

"Order," he commanded, his voice like cut glass. The room fell silent instantly. "Mr. Whitmore, control your client. This is your final warning."

The defense attorney placed a hand on Tal's shoulder and whispered something urgently. Though still flushed with anger, the baron forced himself to sit down.

Sunday's pale gold gaze settled on the locksmith.

"Master Graywick. Please continue."

Shaken by the outburst and the sheer weight of the Crown Prince's authority, Graywick cleared his throat.

"Well—as I said, the baron told me it was for a cabinet. I made the copy exactly as he asked and delivered it the next day."

"Did you retain any documentation of this transaction?"

"Yes, ma'am. I always keep receipts for my work."

"No further questions, Your Honor," Valdris concluded, stepping back.

Sunday gave a slight nod.

"Mr. Whitmore, you may proceed with cross-examination."

Whitmore rose. His expression betrayed the tension his client's outburst had caused, but his tone remained composed:

"Mr. Graywick, in your thirty-three years of locksmithing, you've made duplicates for all kinds of locks, haven't you?"

"Oh, hundreds. Maybe thousands."

"And would you agree that locks for cabinets, desks, and boxes often use very similar key designs?"

"Certainly. Especially if they're from the same manufacturer."

"So even if this key resembles the one Baron Tal brought to you, it's possible it could open a completely different lock?"

Graywick nodded slowly.

"Yes, that's possible. Though the wear patterns would likely be different…"

"But wear patterns could be similar too, if the keys were used with the same frequency, yes?"

"Yes, sir."

Whitmore smiled faintly and inclined his head.

"Thank you. No further questions, Your Honor."

Soon it was time to call the next witness. With the Crown Prince's permission, the prosecutor announced:

"The prosecution calls His Highness, Second Prince Aventurine."

A perfect, absolute silence fell.

Stelle instinctively straightened, her heart skipping a beat, knocking the air from her lungs. She hadn't seen him since that cursed conversation in the corridor after the meeting with the Fund...

All eyes in the courtroom turned toward the witness room doors as the Prince entered with his usual fluid, almost leisurely grace. He wore formal court attire—a dark jacket over an emerald-green shirt and a matching vest. His only ornaments this time were a long earring and several rings worn over gloved fingers. His fair hair was immaculately styled, as always. And on his face—the familiar calculating smile that revealed nothing of what he might truly be thinking or feeling.

The room stirred immediately. Ladies of the court exchanged glances, some giggled softly, others fluttered their fans and cast coy glances his way, as if hoping for a flicker of attention. But he didn't look at any of them. He looked only forward.

For Stelle, watching him approach the witness stand felt like seeing a ghost. The last time she faced him, he had crushed her with the effortless cruelty of someone who knew how to wound without raising his voice—his callous remarks about her place in the world, his humiliating suggestion. She had left that encounter convinced that he saw her as nothing more than an amusing distraction, something to mock and use as he pleased—because he could.

And yet… her feelings now were conflicted. Because she sat here not as a defendant, but as a victim. Someone had intervened. Someone had shifted suspicion away from her without any concrete evidence.

And could it really have been…

"Your Highness," the prosecutor began, once Aventurine had taken the oath, "please describe your role in the investigation."

"I was present at the Regional Restoration Fund meetings as the Crown's representative and regulator," Aventurine replied smoothly, his tone sharp with authority. "At the final session, several committee members voiced concerns about Lady Stelle's management. According to their projections, profits could have been twenty percent higher had someone more 'competent' been placed in charge. They subsequently proposed an amended charter reducing House Solaris's stake in the Fund to five percent, with oversight of the Southern Port transferred to collective administration."

His words were delivered with the precision of a man used to giving the same lecture a hundred times. Unhurried, exact, professional.

"Lady Stelle objected to the proposal," he continued. "To demonstrate her capabilities, she requested that a neutral party conduct an audit and issue an impartial report. As Director of the Royal Treasury, I accepted that proposal."

Stelle listened, breath held. He remembered every detail. Even ones she'd nearly forgotten herself.

He went on.

"On the day of the audit, I received a report from the inspector regarding the missing financial ledger. I immediately recognized the seriousness of the situation. The document in question contained sensitive financial data tied to a state-owned port—although managed by House Solaris, it is still property of the Crown. The circumstances surrounding its disappearance were suspicious. An immediate and comprehensive investigation was necessary."

"What actions did you take?"

"I authorized a full search of the Solaris estate, including Lady Stelle's private quarters, her records, and interviews with all household staff. The search yielded no results. I therefore elevated the case to a matter of National Security," he said with practiced precision. "I assembled an investigative team composed of Treasury personnel and national security officers. I personally oversaw the drafting of the suspect list."

"The investigation required significant resources, did it not?"

Aventurine gave a careless nod. "Indeed. I allocated all necessary staff and funds. The theft of royal financial records is a matter of utmost importance."

Stelle stared at him, the world spinning around her as the truth fell into place. She had suspected, but had refused to believe it. But now she heard it spoken aloud—his voice confirming what no one else had dared.

He had personally led the investigation.

He had deployed Crown resources.

He had categorized her case as one of national concern.

This wasn't the behavior of a man trying to destroy her.

This was the behavior of a man who had chosen to protect her.

And the moment that realization hit her, it struck like an arrow through the ribs.

"Your Highness, some might argue such resources were disproportionate for a missing document," the prosecutor ventured carefully.

Aventurine's smile was sharp as frost.

"They would be mistaken. The document in question contained detailed information on royal revenue streams, port operations, and strategic economic data. Its theft constituted not mere administrative negligence—but potential treason. I treated it with the seriousness such crimes deserve."

The thought she had feared more than any other hit like a stone to the forehead:

He saved me.

Her pulse quickened. She clasped her hands tightly together, trying to still their trembling.

When everyone else might have welcomed her downfall, when the easiest thing to do was quietly declare her guilty and move on—he chose to investigate.

And the only question that rang through her head in that moment of clarity was:

Why?

What would he want in return?

"How did you evaluate Lady Stelle's management after the ledger was recovered?" the prosecutor asked.

Aventurine adjusted one of his gloves, his tone almost disinterested.

"After the document was returned, I resumed the previously interrupted audit. I reviewed the full scope of her financial records and found them to be—" he paused briefly "—satisfactory. Detailed. Accurate. Her oversight of port operations showed a sound understanding of fundamental principles, particularly given her age and lack of experience. The financial reports reflected efficient budgeting, expenditure control, and a notable increase in operational effectiveness over her tenure."

Stelle felt her eyes sting.

After weeks of believing she had failed—that she had brought nothing but disaster to those around her—hearing those words from him of all people… was like stepping from darkness into sunlight.

"Were there any violations in her management?"

Aventurine shrugged lightly.

"I found none. Naturally, there were mistakes—as even seasoned administrators make. But nothing suggesting abuse of power or blatant incompetence. The committee's remarks were unrealistic. Yes, efficiency could have been slightly higher, but by no margin approaching twenty percent. In fact, Lady Stelle brought the Southern Port out of stagnation for the first time in years. Profits rose by three percent—a respectable figure. Besides, too little time has passed to draw broader conclusions."

Stelle sat in stunned silence. A wave of warmth swept through her—relief, even gratitude. But beneath it, there was fear. What could he possibly ask in return for such a monumental act of help? She wasn't even sure any favor could repay the scale of what he had done.

And this, after what she had called him… after she rejected him?

It made no sense.

If he had wanted something in return, wouldn't he have come to her before the trial? Threatened to twist the narrative unless she agreed? He could have issued an ultimatum before risking his own reputation for her sake.

The more she thought about it, the less sense it made.

And yet… deep in her chest, there remained a tiny, flickering spark of something like faith. Nearly extinguished, barely clinging to life—but still there. The faint hope that maybe he had done it simply because he believed she was innocent. Just because. No matter how foolish or naive that sounded. No matter how loudly the rational part of her mind screamed it was absurd—she couldn't shake it. And she couldn't stop her heart from racing.

"Do you believe the Southern Port should remain under Lady Stelle Solaris's management?"

"I see no grounds for removing her from the position."

The prosecutor gave a respectful nod.

"Your Honor, I have no further questions for His Highness."

It was time for the cross-examination. Aventurine remained calm. Whitmore rose slowly, clearly aware of the risks involved in challenging a royal prince in open court.

"Your Highness," he began carefully, "when you authorized the investigation into my client, did you have any direct evidence of his involvement?"

"The investigation was based on well-founded suspicion," Aventurine replied smoothly, "supported by his questionable behavior and clear motive. The goal of the investigation was to find evidence—not to confirm guilt already presumed."

"But you admit that your decision to focus on Baron Tal was rooted in assumptions and suspicion, not hard evidence?"

Something flickered in Aventurine's gaze—something sharp, fleeting, like irritation.

"All investigations begin with suspicion. The integrity of an investigation is judged by the evidence it produces, not by the doubts that initiate it."

"Is it not possible," Whitmore continued, "that Baron Tal's nervousness during your previous meetings was the result of legitimate financial strain, rather than criminal guilt?"

"It is possible," Aventurine admitted. "However, the subsequent discovery of extensive criminal activity validates the original suspicion."

"You stated that Baron Tal had a strong motive to harm Lady Stelle. But wouldn't Duke Mainer and Count Stahlberg also have motive?"

"They had political and financial incentives to undermine Lady Stelle's standing, yes. But neither harbored personal animosity toward House Solaris."

"Did you consider the possibility that someone other than those three might have committed the theft?"

Aventurine paused. His face turned thoughtful.

"The investigation was thorough and professionally conducted. While alternative theories may exist in principle, the evidence clearly supports Baron Tal's guilt."

Whitmore looked slightly thrown by the firmness of Aventurine's answers, but he wasn't finished. He still had one tactic left.

"Your Highness," he said slowly, "it's no secret that you are popular with the fairer sex—and not above returning that interest. May I ask: do you share a personal relationship with Lady Stelle?"

Aventurine's expression didn't change. But in his eyes… something flashed. Colder than winter.

A hushed stir rippled through the courtroom. Stelle stiffened. This was it. This was the moment he could weaponize her past. All it would take was a mention of her birthmark, and her life would unravel.

But his words—when they came—dispelled her fears. And once again, he caught her off guard.

"I fail to see how that question is relevant to the charges brought against your client."

"Oh?" Whitmore raised an eyebrow. "It pertains to possible bias in your investigation, Your Highness."

"The investigation was conducted by multiple agencies, with extensive documentation and cross-verified evidence. My personal connection to Lady Stelle, whatever it may be, does not alter the physical evidence recovered from your client."

Whitmore narrowed his eyes slightly.

"So you don't deny a connection with Lady Stelle?"

Stelle's fingers clenched tightly around the fabric of her dress.

Aventurine didn't react. He answered evenly, without a hint of emotion:

"My private affairs are not the court's concern. But since you press the matter—no, I am not involved with Lady Stelle in any way beyond our meetings at the Fund's Investment Committee and my required presence at her debut, as commanded by His Majesty."

"And is there anyone who could confirm that?" Whitmore asked, squinting slightly.

"Forgive me, but I don't have a secretary following me around to record my every interaction with every woman. Nor do I keep a log."

Whatever Whitmore was about to say next was cut off by Sunday, who until now had been silent.

"Mr. Whitmore," he said, voice stern, "the witness has answered your relevant questions. I ask that you refrain from delving into personal matters in this court. Cross-examination is concluded. The witness is dismissed."

Aventurine stepped away from the stand without looking at anyone.

And Stelle sat there, her mind spinning with everything she had just heard.

He had fought for her. Used his power, his resources, his political capital—all to ensure justice was served.

And she was only learning about it now.

What do you want from me, Aventurine?

"Your Honor," Valdris finally declared, "the prosecution has concluded the presentation of its evidence."

Sunday's cold gaze swept across the courtroom before settling on the defense table.

"The defense may present its arguments."

The attorney stood. And though the mountain of evidence against his client was overwhelming, he showed no signs of defeat.

"Your Honor, the defense calls Baron Arthur Tal to the stand."

A murmur stirred through the courtroom as the defendant was escorted from his bench to the witness stand. Baron Tal moved stiffly, his face pale but resolute. This was his chance to tell his version of events, to convince the court of his innocence on the most serious charge.

"Baron Tal," his attorney began gently, "please tell the court in your own words what happened to the missing ledger."

Tal's voice was hoarse, but impassioned.

"I swear before this court, before God, and before the Crown—I never stole that ledger. I never entered Lady Stelle's office, never laid eyes on that document until it was presented as evidence against me. Yes, I've made mistakes—serious ones, which I've already admitted. I accept those charges and am prepared to face the consequences. But I did not steal that book!"

"How do you explain the fact that the ledger was found in your personal safe?"

"Someone planted it there! Someone who wanted to destroy me, who wanted to frame me for this crime. I don't know who or how, but I swear on my children's lives—I never touched that ledger!"

His voice rose, breaking with desperation.

"Why would I steal it? What would I gain? I had no use for Lady Stelle's financial records—my conflict with her was political, not personal. If I had wanted to tarnish her reputation, there were easier ways than breaking into her office!"

"And what of the locksmith's receipt found in your possession?"

Tal's face flushed with frustration.

"That key was for my wife's jewelry box! The locksmith misunderstood—or he's lying to protect himself!"

"Why would the locksmith lie?"

"I don't know! Maybe he got confused. Maybe someone paid him to change his story!"

The baron's desperation was evident as he pushed on.

"I've been in business for thirty years. Yes, I've made enemies—but I've never stooped to theft. Why would I start now? Why risk everything over a document that meant nothing to me?"

His attorney nodded with sympathy.

"Baron Tal, if you didn't commit the theft, who do you believe is responsible?"

"I don't know," Tal answered bitterly. "Someone who wanted to see me ruined. Someone with access to my home, who knew the combination to my safe, and had the connections to manipulate this investigation. But I swear to you—I did not steal that ledger!"

"No further questions, Your Honor."

Sunday turned to Prosecutor Valdris. She rose with the graceful menace of a huntress.

"Baron Tal, do you admit to evading taxes?"

"Yes," Tal replied grudgingly.

"Do you admit to bribing port officials to avoid inspections of your steel shipments?"

"Yes."

"Do you admit to maintaining undisclosed business relationships with individuals of questionable reputation?"

"Yes…"

"Do you admit to being unfaithful to your wife?"

Tal hesitated, looking away. His voice dropped.

"…Yes."

"Then you admit that over the years, you engaged in deceit, fraud, and criminal dealings?"

Tal clenched his jaw.

"Yes, but—"

"And yet you expect the court to believe that a man capable of such extensive criminal deception would draw the line at theft?"

"The theft accusation is different! I had no motive—"

"Baron Tal," Valdris interrupted sharply, her voice like a blade, "did you not publicly question Lady Stelle's competence?"

"Yes, but—"

"Did you not describe her appointment as 'an insult to qualified administrators'?"

"Yes, I may have said something like that."

"And did you not tell Duke Mainer that Lady Stelle's success would be, and I quote, 'a personal insult' to you?"

Tal's face turned red.

"I don't recall saying that."

"But you don't deny believing it?"

After a long pause, Tal answered.

"No. I did not agree with her appointment."

"So you had the means—a duplicate key—and the motive—personal resentment—to commit this theft?"

"I didn't do it!" His voice rose to a shout. "No matter how it looks, no matter what evidence you've fabricated, I swear—I did not steal that ledger!"

The courtroom erupted into whispers and murmurs. Sunday struck his gavel with a sharp crack.

"The defendant will control himself, or he will be held in contempt of court."

Prosecutor Valdris pressed on, ruthless in her precision.

"Baron Tal, how many people had access to the private room where the ledger was found?"

"Only… only my wife and I."

"So your wife placed the ledger in your safe?"

"Of course not!"

"Then explain its presence."

Tal's desperation was written in every line of his face as he fumbled for an answer.

"Someone… someone found a way. Maybe they had a key, maybe they knew the combination—"

"Who could have had such access?"

"I… I don't know. Someone who wanted to frame me."

"Someone with the resources to orchestrate a complex conspiracy, gain access to your personal safe, manipulate multiple witnesses—and all of that to frame you for a crime that has been thoroughly investigated and documented?"

Tal's voice broke.

"I know how it sounds—but I'm telling the truth!"

"No further questions, Your Honor."

Baron Tal was escorted back to the defendant's bench, his shoulders slumped in defeat. His impassioned denials had only served to highlight the overwhelming weight of evidence against him.

"Mr. Whitmore," Sunday announced, "do you have any further witnesses?"

"No, Your Honor. The defense has concluded its presentation of evidence."

Sunday gave a brief nod. The trial was entering its final phase, and soon, the fate of Baron Arthur Tal would be decided.

"Prosecutor Valdris, you may proceed with your closing statement."

This was her final opportunity to strike the final blow—if one was still needed.

"Honorable court," she began, her voice clear, "throughout the course of this trial, you have heard irrefutable evidence of Baron Arthur Tal's guilt. Physical evidence—the stolen ledger found in his personal safe. Documentary evidence—the locksmith's receipt. Witness testimony establishing his means, his motive, and his opportunity to commit these crimes."

She gestured toward the defendant's table.

"The defense would have you believe that Baron Tal is the victim of an elaborate conspiracy. They ask you to disregard the evidence, to dismiss the words of seasoned investigators and honest tradesmen, and instead place your faith in the testimony of a man who has already confessed to years of deception and criminal dealings."

Her voice grew stronger, each word landing like a hammer stroke.

"But conspiracy theories do not erase physical evidence. They do not negate his hatred for Lady Stelle, nor his obvious motive for revenge."

She paused, allowing her words to settle in the minds of the listeners.

"The crimes of Baron Tal extend far beyond a simple theft. His actions endangered national security, undermined the justice system, and led to the death of an innocent maid who could not live with the guilt of her unwilling role in his plot. These were the calculated actions of a man who believed that his noble title placed him above the law."

She turned her sharp gaze directly on the baron.

"The man before you is not a victim. He is the architect of his own downfall. His greed, his spite, and his arrogance brought him here. Justice demands that he be held accountable for every one of his crimes."

And then she ended—not with drama, but with a quiet, resolute statement that resonated with authority:

"Find Baron Arthur Tal guilty on all charges. Deliver the harshest sentence permitted under the code. Let the verdict serve as a clear message to this kingdom: no one—regardless of title or position—stands above the law."

She returned to her seat, and the silence that followed her speech was almost deafening. It rang in Stelle's ears, heavy and undeniable.

Her heart swelled with something close to gratitude, hearing Valdris speak with such conviction—for her, even if it was just part of the job. There was something fiercely comforting in having someone fight on her side.

And by the stern looks now directed at Baron Tal from every corner of the courtroom, it seemed Valdris had managed to convince even the last doubters.

Sunday remained the only one untouched by persuasion. His expression was still composed, reserved—impervious to rhetoric. He gave a calm nod to the defense table.

"You may proceed with your closing argument."

The defense attorney rose with dignity, despite the hopelessness of his position. To his credit, he held himself remarkably well, given the disastrous circumstances surrounding his client.

"Ladies and gentlemen of the court, Your Honor," he began, bowing his head respectfully, "I do not stand before you today to defend the character of Baron Arthur Tal, nor to excuse the crimes he has already confessed to. He has admitted to serious wrongdoing and will face due punishment for his financial misconduct."

He frowned, casting a firm, unwavering look across the courtroom.

"But this trial is not about tax evasion or bribery—crimes for which my client has already taken responsibility. This trial is about theft, a specific allegation that he stole Lady Stelle's ledger. And on that central accusation, the evidence is far less convincing than the prosecution would have you believe."

Whitmore's voice grew steadier, stronger as he continued.

"Yes, the ledger was found in Baron Tal's personal safe. But the prosecution has provided no proof of how it got there. Not a single witness saw the baron enter Lady Stelle's office. No one can place him in contact with the maid who took her own life. There is no physical evidence connecting him to the scene of the alleged crime. The entire case is built on circumstantial evidence and the assumption that possession equals guilt."

He gestured toward the evidence table.

"There is a locksmith's receipt, yes—but that only shows Baron Tal requested a duplicate key. There is no proof it was a copy of that key—Lady Stelle's cabinet key. There is a receipt, but no key. And the locksmith's statement that this 'was probably his work' is speculation. That is not evidence. If that counts as proof, then I suggest we cast suspicion on every customer Mr. Graywick served during that same week. Even if we assume the key was made, it proves nothing about whether it was used, let alone for theft."

Whitmore's voice had taken on a persuasive rhythm, measured and deliberate.

"The prosecution asks you to believe that Baron Tal—despite his other crimes—would risk everything to steal a document of no direct value to him. They ask you to dismiss his emotional denials, his consistent account of what happened. Yet when Lady Stelle showed distress, that became a mark of sincerity. When he does the same, it's seen as performance."

Stelle clenched her hands into fists. Her shoulders trembled with restrained fury.

He paused, casting a brief glance toward her—and that glance only deepened her anger.

"Baron Arthur Tal is guilty of many things, and he will answer for them. But the theft—the most serious charge leveled against him—is built on assumptions and indirect inferences. And in this realm, we do not deliver verdicts based on probability or suspicion. We require proof—beyond reasonable doubt."

His voice lowered, almost intimate now.

"I ask you to separate your rightful anger over my client's admitted crimes from your judgment of this specific charge. If there is any doubt—any reasonable doubt—about whether he stole the ledger, then justice demands a verdict of not guilty on the count of theft."

With those final, fervent words, he drew his argument to a close:

"At the time of sentencing, I ask the court also to consider that my client has three young children and a wife. He has no prior convictions and has cooperated fully with the court regarding the crimes he has admitted to." He gave a courteous nod. "Thank you. That is all."

Then he sat down.

And Stelle… didn't know how to feel.

Perhaps some part of those words was meant to make her reflect. But she couldn't. She wouldn't sit there and entertain justifications for a man who hated her so much, he had been willing to destroy her life without a second thought.

She couldn't forgive him—not for that, not for the way he never once showed guilt.

And even if he had... it wouldn't bring back the life that had already been lost.

The silence that followed the defense's final words was nearly tangible. Every soul in the courtroom understood: the moment of reckoning had come. The moment when the fate of Baron Arthur Tal would be decided, once and for all.

Stelle felt the pressure in her chest tightening as she waited for the words that would either bring justice… or leave behind the bitter taste of unfulfilled retribution.

Every gaze was fixed on the regal figure in the judge's mantle, every ear straining for the voice that would descend like thunder from on high. His amber eyes swept the hall with the cold resolve of a man bearing the full weight of royal justice.

"Baron Arthur Tal," he said, his voice ringing through the chamber with unwavering authority, "stand for the pronouncement of your sentence."

Tal rose with difficulty, his face ashen, hands trembling so violently that he had to grip the railing just to remain upright. His wife in the gallery covered her mouth with a trembling hand, her eyes glistening with withheld tears—despite everything. Despite even the betrayal.

Sunday held a pause, letting the gravity of the moment settle over the crowd like the fall of snow before a storm. And when he spoke again, each word fell like a hammer against an anvil.

"This court has thoroughly reviewed the evidence presented, heard the testimony of witnesses, and weighed the arguments from both prosecution and defense. The evidence against you, Baron Arthur Tal, is conclusive and comprehensive."

His voice grew even more formal, imbued with the solemnity of the Crown's justice:

"On the charge of treason through theft of Crown documents, this court finds you guilty."

The words fell like the blade of an executioner. Tal staggered, knees buckling, and only his grip on the railing kept him from collapsing. A soft rustle swept the room—gasps, fans pressed to lips, hearts skipping.

"On the charge of theft of royal property, this court finds you guilty."

"On the charge of conspiracy against House Solaris, this court finds you guilty."

"On the charge of tax evasion, this court finds you guilty."

"On the charge of bribery of state officials, this court finds you guilty."

"On the charge of criminal affiliations with smugglers and illicit organizations, this court finds you guilty."

Each guilty struck the baron like a physical blow. By the end, he was gripping the rail with both hands, his skin the color of parchment, breath ragged and shallow.

Sunday paused again, his gaze fixed on the baron—stern, but contemplative. When he spoke again, there was a new note in his voice—not softness, but the weight of a judge considering the entirety of a man's life:

"The crimes for which you have been found guilty carry a range of penalties under Crown law. The charge of high treason alone traditionally carries the sentence of death."

A collective breath swept the gallery. Tal's wife broke into a muffled sob, burying her face in her hands. The baron himself turned an even paler shade, if such a thing were possible, and his lips began to move silently—perhaps in prayer.

Stelle felt her heart pounding. Death. She knew that treason was a capital offense, but hearing it spoken aloud—knowing that she had been so personally entangled in it—was heavier than she ever imagined.

"However," Sunday continued, and something in his tone made the entire courtroom hold its breath, "it is no secret that I have personally imposed a moratorium on the death penalty. And I do not go back on my word. Furthermore, this court has deemed it necessary to consider several mitigating factors."

Stelle's brow furrowed. Her heart dropped like a stone.

Mitigating factors? After everything this man had done?

She was not the only one unsettled by this. Even Aventurine, watching from the gallery, showed a flicker of surprise—his eyelids twitching ever so slightly.

Sunday continued, his voice as precise as ever:

"The stolen document, while containing confidential material, was not altered, copied, or distributed to hostile forces. Your association with enemies of the Crown appears more opportunistic than ideological. You cooperated in parts of the investigation and confessed to the majority of your crimes. You have no prior convictions."

His tone shifted subtly—not gentle, but deliberate:

"And most notably—you are the father of three minor children who depend on your support, and you have a wife who played no part in your offenses."

Stelle felt her face drain of blood.

He's... showing him mercy? To the man whose treason he himself had declared?

Aventurine sat motionless, but his fingers tightened into a white-knuckled grip, the tension in his hands betraying a storm behind his impassive expression. The calm mask was cracking.

"Therefore," Sunday declared, his voice now carrying the full force of a royal decree, "this court sentences you to life imprisonment, with the possibility of parole in twenty-five years, conditional upon exemplary conduct, full contrition, and complete restitution to both the Crown and House Solaris."

The words struck the room like a lightning bolt. A collective murmur of disbelief rippled through the benches. Many had expected a death sentence. Life imprisonment—even under harsh conditions—seemed almost… merciful.

Tal staggered—not from fear this time, but from the dizzying weight of relief. His wife burst into tears—but this time, tears of gratitude, not despair.

But Sunday was not yet finished.

"In addition," he said, "you are hereby stripped of all noble titles and lands, which shall revert to Crown ownership. Your assets will be liquidated to repay damages to House Solaris and reimburse the Crown for the cost of the investigation. A modest pension will be granted to your family, sufficient to provide for their basic needs."

His amber eyes locked on Tal with steely intensity.

"You will serve your sentence in Iron Gate Prison, where you will have ample time to contemplate the consequences of betraying the trust placed in you as a member of the nobility. Let your fate serve as a warning to any who would place personal greed above loyalty to the Crown."

Stelle sat in stunned silence, struggling to absorb what she had just heard. Life imprisonment was, undoubtedly, a serious sentence. The man would spend the rest of his days behind stone walls. And yet… he could walk free in twenty-five years?

It felt like mockery. A slap in the face to every other traitor who had paid with their lives.

Not that she wished for blood. She didn't crave Tal's death. But something about it felt fundamentally wrong—that someone so rotten, so unrepentant for what he had done to her and to that maid, could escape the highest punishment the law permitted.

The image rose in her mind again, vivid and terrible: the maid's lifeless body, swaying gently on the morning breeze. Dead, because of his schemes. Did that not merit the harshest sentence?

Yes, the girl was already gone. No judgment would bring her back—Stelle understood that. But still… this was about justice. And how could a life, cut short and discarded, be worth only twenty-five years?

She couldn't stop the wave of disappointment rising in her chest. It felt like something inside her was unraveling, like trust torn at the seam.

Up in the gallery, Aventurine sat like a statue, but his thoughts were a tempest of fury. Twenty-five years. With the possibility of early release. For treason. For crimes that shook the foundations of the Crown. For trying to ruin an innocent girl—in truth, for nearly destroying Stelle.

And all because Tal had a family? Because he "cooperated" with his pitiful groveling? Aventurine had to force himself not to rise and shout his outrage into the courtroom.

He had hoped—hoped—that Sunday, who had seemed so deeply invested in Stelle's well-being, who had once burned with fury over far lesser slights against her, would now demonstrate true strength when it mattered. When justice was on the line.

Instead, his brother had once again chosen his idealistic notions of mercy and humanity. Even now. Even after everything.

The moratorium on capital punishment, Aventurine thought bitterly. That precious decree Sunday had enacted years ago in a burst of youthful idealism. And now he clung to it still. Even now, even for her.

If Stelle truly mattered to him—if he truly cared, had fought and clashed over her before—then shouldn't he have been willing to cast aside those lofty ideals in the name of real justice?

But no. Sunday remained loyal to his principles, even if it meant the man who had very nearly destroyed—would have destroyed, if not for Aventurine's own intervention—the life of the girl he supposedly wanted to protect… would now escape true punishment.

Aventurine ground his teeth. His face stayed composed, but his fingers tightened until his knuckles whitened. This was not the time nor place to show his disgust.

And Sunday—Sunday remained unshaken, continuing with ruthless formality:

"The baronial seal, all official documents, and symbols of your station must be surrendered to the Crown immediately. Your estate is to be sealed until the completion of the confiscation process. All bank accounts will be frozen pending an audit of assets for restitution."

He paused. His gaze fell once more on the broken figure of the once-proud baron.

"Arthur Tal—do you understand the sentence handed down to you by this court?"

Tal, still clutching the railing, nodded weakly. His voice barely reached above a whisper.

"Yes… Your Honor. I understand."

"Do you have any final words before the sentence is executed?"

Tal raised his head. Something flickered in his eyes—perhaps the last dying spark of the arrogant man he had once been. His voice trembled, but there was a pitiful echo of resolve in it:

"Your Honor, I accept the punishment for the crimes I have admitted to. But I swear before God and the Crown that I am innocent of stealing that ledger. Until my final breath, I will claim my innocence in that charge."

Sunday received the statement with the same stone-faced expression he had worn through the entire trial.

"This court has acknowledged your words. But the evidence speaks for itself. The court remains satisfied with the correctness of its verdict."

He turned to the guards:

"Escort the prisoner to Iron Gate to begin his sentence. He is to be delivered before sunset today."

Two guards approached. One took each arm. The former baron did not resist as they lifted him and guided him toward the exit. His legs barely supported him. His face was waxen, as though only now had he begun to truly grasp the finality of his fall.

As the procession moved slowly toward the door, Tal suddenly turned. His desperate gaze swept across the room—until it found Stelle.

For a heartbeat, their eyes met. And what she saw was not hatred, not even rage—but something far more tangled: defeat, despair… and a warped, broken plea for understanding.

"Lady Stelle!" he cried, his voice echoing through the vaulted hall. "I didn't steal your ledger! Whatever else you believe of me—know that!"

But all his final words stirred in her was a sharp stab of irritation. Her lips curled, barely noticeably, in disdain, and she threw him a look so scornful it could have cut glass. She would've spat in his face if etiquette allowed. How dare he still claim innocence? Even now?

The guards pulled him forward, silencing whatever further protests he might have conjured, and soon the echo of his footsteps faded into the corridor. The courtroom was left suspended in strained silence, everyone still digesting the drama they had just witnessed.

Sunday waited until even the last fading sounds were gone before speaking again.

"This case is closed," he declared. "Justice has been served according to the laws of this kingdom. Let all present remember—no one in this land, regardless of title or station, stands above the law."

He raised the gavel and struck it down upon the bench with a finality that rang like a funeral bell.

"This court is adjourned."

Slowly, the crowd began to disperse. Voices rose from whispers into the low hum of conversation as nobles clustered in their silken little circles, heads bent close together, already speculating about the sentence and what it might mean for the realm.

Stelle remained seated.

Justice has been served according to the laws… Sunday's words echoed in her mind.

Had it really?

Where in the law did it say that traitors to the realm could be spared simply because they had children? That one's prior crimes—unpunished only because they had gone unnoticed—were somehow redeeming rather than damning?

The knot of confusion in her chest was unraveling into something heavier. Bitter. Even… hurt.

All that pain. Not just hers—but the pain of everyone swept up in this, most of all that poor maid… all of it now weighed against Arthur Tal. And it seemed, somehow, they came up short.

She felt unseen.

Yes, she had been declared innocent. Yes, her name had been cleared, her reputation restored.

But the realization hit her with quiet violence: it wasn't Sunday who saved her. It had been Aventurine—the man she once thought cared for nothing but his own pleasure, the man who had wounded her more deeply than anyone. He had believed her. When there was no proof. When the risk of being wrong was immense. He had pushed the investigation forward, seen it through to the end.

Sunday… Sunday had helped, yes. But when the moment came to show who he truly was—he spared the man who nearly destroyed her.

And something inside her curled in on itself. Her chest tightened. Her throat burned. Her eyes stung with heat she refused to let fall. The tears wouldn't help her now. And she knew her feelings were childish, knew they were naive. But knowing did nothing to soften the hurt.

A gentle hand settled on her shoulder, pulling her out of her spiral.

She flinched—then turned to see her mother. Kafka was watching her with quiet concern, the faintest trace of a smile at the corner of her lips. And even that much was a balm to Stelle's trembling resolve.

"Let's go home, my little star," came her mother's soft, elegant voice.

Only then did Stelle manage to force a smile, faint though it was. She nodded.

When she finally stood to leave, her eyes—drawn by some invisible force—sought one last glimpse of the dais.

And there, across the now-empty courtroom, Sunday was watching her.

His honey-pale eyes no longer held the cold impartiality of the judge who had presided all morning. Now they bore something more human—exhaustion, perhaps.

But the sight did not comfort her. Instead, it ached.

And this time, she was the one who looked away first.

She turned from him and left at her mother's side. She didn't look back.

Her name was clear. Her future, untarnished.

So why did it feel so bitter?

Why did it hurt like nothing had been healed at all?

***

The door to Sunday's study burst open with such force that the hinges groaned in protest. The Crown Prince didn't even lift his eyes from the sentencing papers spread out across the dark oak desk before him.

"Have you completely lost your mind?"

Aventurine's voice sliced through the room like a blade—sharp, incredulous, carrying the fury he had barely contained in the courtroom. He strode across the carpet with purpose, the impeccable lines of his coat disrupted by tension. Strands of gold hair had fallen across his brow in wild disarray, and his violet eyes burned with a heat that could have melted steel.

Sunday continued writing. His pen moved with deliberate precision across the parchment, each stroke calculated and calm—a jarring contrast to the storm that had just crashed into his sanctum.

"I assume this is about the sentencing," he said at last, without looking up. His voice carried the same cold composure he'd worn throughout the trial. "If you have objections to the judicial proceedings, I suggest you file a formal appeal through the appropriate channels."

"Judicial proceedings?" Aventurine let out a sharp, bitter sound that was almost a laugh. He leaned down, planting both hands on the desk, looming over his elder brother. "You call that justice? The man committed treason, Sunday. Treason against the Crown. And the best you could offer him was a lifetime in prison with the possibility of parole? After just twenty-five years?"

The pen did not stop moving. Sunday's amber eyes remained fixed on the page, reading each line with the same unshakable diligence he applied to all matters of state.

"Parole contingent upon demonstrable exemplary behavior, full remorse, and complete restitution of damages—"

"Congratulations!" Aventurine's voice surged upward, nearly a shout now. "Now the entire kingdom gets to pay taxes for the next quarter-century to keep a traitor warm and well-fed—because their Crown Prince lives in some utopian delusion where mercy solves everything!"

That, at last, made Sunday pause.

The pen hovered above the parchment for a moment before he set it down with deliberate care. When he finally looked up, his face was a marble mask—beautiful, cold, and utterly unyielding.

"If you have objections," he said with glacial calm, "I suggest you submit them in writing to the appellate court for review. In the meantime, you would do well to remember where you are… and to whom you are speaking."

Aventurine straightened, the fury radiating from him only more palpable now. His hands clenched at his sides, knuckles pale with restraint.

"Oh, I know exactly where I am," he replied, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "I'm in the office of a judge who just demonstrated that treason against the realm earns a state-sponsored holiday for a few decades. Do you even understand the message you've just sent?"

With a grace that seemed more supernatural than human, Sunday rose from his chair. His long cloak unfurled behind him like the wings of a great predatory bird. Even standing, he remained calm—eerily calm—but there was something else beneath it now. A charge in the air, like the tension before a lightning strike.

"The ledger," he said, his voice shifting to the precise, clinical tone of a legal mind, "posed minimal threat to the actual security of the Crown. I classified it as treason to ensure a comprehensive investigation. The defense raised valid concerns regarding gaps in the chain of evidence. There remains the possibility that new facts may emerge which could exonerate the accused."

"Gaps?" Aventurine's voice cracked with disbelief. "What gaps? The stolen document was found in his bedroom. In his private safe. The locksmith confirmed he ordered a duplicate key. His motive was crystal clear—twenty-five years of spite toward House Solaris!"

"Circumstantial evidence," Sunday replied evenly. "Compelling, yes—but not absolute. Not enough to erase all doubt, and true justice demands the absence of doubt. I considered acquitting him on the charge of theft, or at the very least, suspending the trial pending further investigation."

Those words struck Aventurine like a slap. His jaw clenched subtly, and his stare could have sliced through metal.

"You considered…" He broke off, shaking his head as though trying to dispel the words. "You actually considered letting him walk?"

"Only on that particular charge," Sunday answered calmly. "The rest—the charges he admitted to—carry heavy penalties on their own. He would have been sentenced regardless. But in the end, I did find him guilty. In spite of the gaps in the case. In spite of the questions left unanswered. I delivered justice according to the law and the evidence presented."

"Justice?" Aventurine's laugh was twisted and bitter. "You want to talk about justice? Let me tell you what kind of justice you've just served, brother." He stepped closer, eyes narrowed to slits. "Every would-be traitor in this kingdom now knows he can commit treason and still have a perfectly good shot at bouncing his grandchildren on his knee. Every bitter noble with a grudge knows the worst he'll get is a cozy cell and three meals a day—paid for by the very people he betrayed."

He scoffed and began pacing, movements sharp and restless like a caged predator.

"And it's not just about future threats, though those are considerable. The man you just spared still has connections, Sunday. Still has allies. Prison walls don't make conspirators vanish. They write letters. They send messages. They plot revenge. And if, by some miracle, he survives those twenty-five years—he'll walk free. A traitor. Alive and unshackled, ready to carry out his own version of 'justice,' and start over like none of this ever happened."

Sunday's jaw twitched—almost imperceptibly—but it was the first crack in his impassive facade.

"My position on the death penalty has been public for years," he said, his voice now carrying a note of warning. "Its suspension applies across all cases, regardless of severity—"

"Oh, spare me your philosophical purity!" Aventurine snapped, turning on him sharply, eyes blazing. "I hope you're proud of your principles, because now the whole kingdom knows exactly what the price of treason is. Be a good boy for twenty-five years, and you get your freedom back. What a deal!"

The temperature in the room seemed to plummet.

Sunday's amber gaze iced over, and when he spoke again, his voice carried the weight of the Crown—not the lull of a gentle prince, but the steel of a future king.

"Enough."

But Aventurine no longer cared for protocol or restraint. The carefully honed mask of courtly decorum had been discarded like worthless scrap.

"Enough?" He stepped closer, meeting Sunday's commanding stance with a dangerous, unyielding energy of his own. "The only thing that's enough is your pathetic performance today. I handed you everything on a silver platter—every tool, every piece of evidence—and you came to me, Sunday. You told me you would see him punished. You were the one who called it high treason from the beginning. All you had to do was take the tools I gave you."

Even now, his voice trembled with rage.

"But no. Even if your bleeding heart can't tolerate the idea of an execution, you could have barred parole. You could have had him isolated, cut off from the outside world. Forced to endure hard labor. There were a dozen ways to make him pay without violating your precious moratorium. But you chose the softest interpretation of justice available—because it let you feel noble."

Sunday's composure finally cracked. He stepped out from behind the desk, closing the space between them to mere inches. His presence filled the room like pressure behind stormclouds. When he spoke, it was low, cold, and commanding—the kind of voice that made hardened criminals fall to their knees.

"You forget yourself, Aventurine." Each word was precision-forged to wound. "You forget that you're not just speaking to your elder brother—you're speaking to the Crown Prince. You forget your place."

But Aventurine didn't flinch. On the contrary, he leaned in, eye to eye with Sunday, defiant and unmoved. His heterochromic stare met the golden blaze without a flicker of submission.

"My place?" he echoed softly. "And what exactly is my place? To stand and clap while you disgrace the ancient laws of treason?"

Sunday's smile was sharp as winter frost—beautiful, and cruel.

"Since you're so fond of punishments in their full severity," he murmured, his voice turning almost gentle, which made it all the more threatening, "perhaps we should take a closer look at your behavior."

Aventurine narrowed his eyes, but said nothing.

"Do you think I'm not aware of your persuasion methods? How many noble wives," Sunday continued, beginning to circle him slowly like a shark scenting blood, "have found themselves… charmed by your passionate arguments, only to end up with you in their marital beds afterward? How many unfortunate incidents have befallen those bold enough to disagree with you?"

The accusation hung between them, heavy and unmistakable.

But Aventurine didn't respond with guilt. He responded with fury.

"Don't," he said, voice deadly quiet. "Don't you dare lecture me about methods—not when you failed at the one moment it mattered most."

"Failed?" Sunday let out a breath of cold laughter. "I brought justice—according to the law—"

"You brought disappointment," Aventurine snapped, his voice rising again. "You want to lecture me about my methods? Fine. Yes, I used every tool I had. Yes, I dirtied my hands. But I got results. I acted when someone I cared about was in danger!"

His words echoed like cannon fire in the sudden silence. Sunday's composed expression faltered for a flicker of a second—but Aventurine didn't stop.

"You condemned me for how I treated her—rightfully so. You lectured me about respect, about gentleness, about earning her trust. Beautiful words, Sunday. Easy to say when it costs you nothing."

"Aventurine—"

"But is true care found in symbolic gestures? In music recitals, and wiping tears with silk gloves?" Aventurine's voice was a snarl. "You don't know how many empty words and romantic performances I've given to people I didn't care about. But the moment I cared—I acted. I fought. Even if it meant betraying my own values. Do you think that was easy for me?"

Sunday's brows twitched—just slightly—but the mask of calm had begun to crack.

"She looked at you like a knight in shining armor," Aventurine went on, voice dark with contempt. "She trusted you completely. She believed in you. And when the time came to prove that trust was earned—when she needed you to show her pain mattered—you chose your moratorium. Not her."

"I chose justice—"

"You chose cowardice!" The words exploded like a gunshot. "You had everything. All the evidence. Every legal rationale. The entire kingdom would've applauded you for a decisive sentence. But you chose the path that lets you sleep easier at night—without caring how she would feel."

Aventurine shook his head, a bitter smile twisting his lips. His voice dropped to a low, lethal murmur.

"You once called me pathetic, didn't you? When you came asking about the ring." His eyes met Sunday's, unflinching. "But at least I never pretended to be an angel. At least I didn't look her in the eye and play perfect—only to abandon her the moment it mattered most."

Silence fell like snowfall in a tomb. Sunday stood frozen, all the eloquence drained from his face. In his pale gold eyes, something flickered—raw, unguarded—regret, perhaps. Or realization.

"And do you know what's truly pathetic?" Aventurine whispered, barely louder than a breath. "You had a choice. You could've shown her that her pain mattered to you."

He turned toward the door, shoulders stiff with contempt.

"But you didn't. You gave him the softest sentence possible. And to hell with the way she looked like her whole world had collapsed. To hell with how she sat there, barely holding back tears, because her perfect protector—Sunday—"

"Enough," Sunday snapped, his voice cracking like a whip, losing its composure at last. "You will not speak to me that way."

Aventurine halted at the door. He glanced back, and for the first time in the conversation, something like pity flashed in his eyes.

"Why not?" he asked quietly. "Because it's true?" He gave a dry, mirthless laugh. "Then I'll leave you to your imaginary paradise of perfect justice, Your Royal Highness. I hope you're prepared for the rise in national treason now that people know they've got such an understanding prince."

The door slammed shut behind him with such force it made the room tremble.

Sunday was left standing in silence, surrounded by the trappings of power—the royal seal, the portraits of long-dead kings, the scrolls bearing his signature that shaped the fate of his people. But for the first time in years, those symbols felt hollow.

He sank into his chair, hands trembling slightly. And instead of returning to his work, he found himself staring into nothingness, as the echo of Aventurine's words reverberated in his mind.

She trusted you completely. She believed in you.

And then that moment—clear as glass—surfaced again: at the end of the trial, when Stelle met his eyes across the emptied courtroom.

And in those eyes—not warmth, not gratitude. But disappointment.

He had told himself it was exhaustion. Overwhelm. Natural after such a trial.

But now, with brutal clarity, he stopped lying to himself.

It had been betrayal.

Sunday closed his eyes, fingers pressing to his temples where a headache throbbed with growing intensity. For all his deliberations, for all his elegant legal arguments, for all his principled positions on mercy and justice—he had failed the one person who mattered most.

And Aventurine—reckless, immoral, dangerous Aventurine—had been the one to save her.

The Crown Prince didn't know how long he sat there, alone with the weight of the Crown and the echo of his brother's scorn, finally beginning to understand the true cost of his justice.

Outside, the kingdom went on, unaware that their future ruler had just learned the difference between being right, and being worthy of the trust placed in him.

And somewhere, across the city, in the Solaris estate, a girl sat alone in her chambers—wondering why her pain hadn't been important enough to the man she once entrusted with her deepest fears.

And Sunday's heart stung with doubt.

The bitter doubt that, perhaps… Aventurine had been right.

But why did it take him this long to see it?

***

The sun had long dipped below the horizon by the time Aventurine tugged his hat low over his brow and adjusted the dark lenses over his eyes. The familiar weight of the disguise held a different purpose tonight—not the costume of a gambler chasing pleasure, but the armor of a man with a singular objective.

Sunday's words echoed in his skull like dull, old bruises. Principles. Justice. Noble, principled, useless words.

His hands were steady as he slid on his gloves—not the silken kind worn at court, but plain leather, designed not to leave traces. The reflection in the mirror stared back at him, unrecognizable: shadows beneath the hat's brim, glasses veiling his telltale gaze, no trace of royal insignia. No velvet, no jewels.

There was no place for Prince Aventurine tonight.

Only a man who understood that sometimes, justice required methods the law would not—could not—sanction.

Arthur Tal.

The name was poison in his thoughts. The man who orchestrated Stelle's fall, who tore her reputation from beneath her feet, who shattered her spirit and drove a maid to her death. The man who nearly destroyed the girl Aventurine—

…the girl Aventurine loved.

He could admit it now, in the quiet of his private chambers, where no spies lingered and no masks were needed. He loved her. Desperately, consuming, terrifyingly so—and Sunday's merciful sentence had just painted a target on her back for every ambitious noble who saw her as an obstacle.

If the Crown's justice was too soft to protect her…

Then Aventurine would provide a justice of his own.

The prison of Iron Gates loomed against the night sky like a monument to forgotten sins. Aventurine approached the service entrance with silent steps on weathered stone. The guard posted there—Henrik, a man whose gambling debts had long outpaced his wages—looked up with the wary expression of someone who knew exactly when not to ask questions.

"Sir…?" Henrik said, carefully neutral. His eyes flicked to the man's gloves, his hat, his silence.

Aventurine offered a thin, cold smile—the kind that had made seasoned players fold with a winning hand.

"Good evening, Henrik. I trust your wife's… medical situation has stabilized?"

The color drained from the guard's face. Six months ago, his wife had fallen gravely ill. Her treatment had cost more than three years' salary.

"I—sir, what do you need?"

"Access to maximum security wing," Aventurine said, his tone casual, conversational. "Seventh block, specifically. I believe a certain Arthur is being housed there."

Henrik's hand trembled slightly as it touched the ring of keys at his hip.

"Sir… the rules—"

"The rules," Aventurine repeated mildly, "state that no outsiders may enter without proper documentation." He reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a heavy leather pouch, laying it on the table with a telltale clink of gold. "Luckily, my paperwork tends to be… persuasive."

Henrik stared at the pouch. He didn't even need to open it. By weight alone, it was more than he'd earn in five years. Enough to pay for treatment. Enough to secure his children's education. Enough to buy silence.

"I… I'll need to make a patrol," Henrik said finally, his voice hollow. "Eastern wing. Won't be back for at least an hour. If someone were to slip into the west corridor during that time… I wouldn't notice."

"Your commitment to duty is commendable," Aventurine murmured, slipping the keys into his coat. "Truly… inspiring."

The corridors of the maximum-security wing were silent as the grave. The only sounds were the distant drip of water and the occasional groan behind closed doors. Aventurine moved like a ghost through the shadows, his expensive shoes making no sound on the stone floor.

In the warden's office, Victor Webb sat across from three men with faces like carved granite. Aventurine knew them for what they were—former soldiers, men who had served their time and come out to find no work waiting for them. Men with debts. Men with families to feed.

"Tal is a traitor," Aventurine had told Webb earlier that evening, his voice carrying the absolute authority of the Crown. "A man who conspired against the royal family itself. Regrettably, our merciful justice system saw fit to let him live."

He'd laid a second purse on Webb's desk—larger than the first.

"Of course, accidents do happen to prisoners. Especially those who've made enemies. Especially traitors. I've been informed Baron Tal made some rather… pointed remarks about individuals close to the royal family. About their supposed incompetence."

Webb's eyes—already fixated on the gold—gleamed with naked greed. The warden's salary was generous, but not nearly enough to support both his wife and his mistress, his taste for fine liquor, and the private education of his children.

"Inmates do get into fights," Webb had said slowly. "Especially when riled up about politics. Sometimes the guards… well, sometimes we don't get there quite in time."

Now, as Aventurine neared the seventh cell block, he heard voices—quiet, angry voices. A man's pleading.

Three of the former soldiers stood at the door of Tal's cell, their expressions grim and resolute. The tallest—his throat scarred from an old wound—looked up as Aventurine approached.

"Sir. Everything's ready."

Through the barred window of the cell, Aventurine could see Tal cowering against the far wall, his face pale with terror. The once-proud aristocrat wore prison garb, torn and stained. Blood trickled from a split lip.

"Did he understand why?" Aventurine asked, his tone almost conversational.

"Yes, sir. We explained—about the young lady. About the dead maid. About his betrayal." There was a quiet satisfaction in the man's voice—the kind born of witnessing too much injustice. "He doesn't seem to think he deserves what's coming."

A desperate voice rang out from inside the cell.

"Please! I told you—I was framed! I never meant for the girl to get hurt! The death sentence was banned—His Highness the Crown Prince showed me mercy!"

Aventurine stepped closer to the bars, his face still veiled in shadow.

"The Crown Prince," he began softly, "is a better man than I am."

Tal's eyes went wide at the cultured accent, the clipped diction—an educated voice, unmistakably noble. Something about the tone, the silhouette, triggered recognition, but it hadn't yet clicked.

"Wh-who are you? What do you want?"

Aventurine tilted his head just enough for the light to catch his features—just enough for Tal to glimpse the cold smile beneath the brim of his hat.

"I want you to understand something, former Baron Tal. You caused irreversible harm. You tried to destroy a girl who is dear to me. An innocent girl. You committed treason against the Crown." His voice dropped to a whisper, low and dangerous. "And you will pay for it."

"The trial is over! I've been sentenced! This—this is murder!"

"No," Aventurine corrected gently. "This is justice. The kind Sunday was too noble to deliver."

He nodded to the soldier.

"Go on."

The cell door creaked open on rusted hinges and that sounded scarier than any sentence.

What followed was anything but quick. Aventurine was meticulous on that account. Tal needed time—he needed to truly understand what was happening and why. To make him suffer until he begged for death—and even that, Aventurine thought, would hardly suffice. He would answer for every second of Stelle's torment with his own flesh and blood.

The three men were professionals; they knew exactly how to ensure their victim remained painfully aware, never letting unconsciousness steal him away from agony.

Aventurine watched from the shadows of the cell, his expression unchanging.

He watched as the swine who had dared to imagine destroying Stelle was hauled up by the collar, an adrenaline shot plunged into the vein of his neck. Tal tried to struggle, to scream, to protest—but his pathetic resistance was doomed from the start.

Arthur was going to feel everything.

They twisted his limbs behind him, tying him up until he resembled some helpless insect flipped on its back, squirming in vain for escape.

His clothing was ripped away in seconds, revealing a pitiful, scrawny body. The first blow—a fist to the gut—left the traitor coughing up blood with a wet, choked sob. Then the face. Then the solar plexus. Then a savage kick to the groin, which drew out a hoarse, guttural scream.

The fists and boots of the men spared no inch of that wretched body. Soon it was covered in bruises, the sound of cracking bones signaling broken ribs, and his face swelling grotesquely—looking more like a wounded animal than a man. Though even that, Aventurine thought, was an insult to animals.

"Please—" Tal rasped, gasping, blood foaming on his lips. "Please… I have children… I have a wife…"

"You should have thought of that," Aventurine replied coolly, sliding his hands into the pockets of his trousers, "before you tried to destroy another life."

Tal's wife was unfaithful, his children would inherit nothing but debt and scandal, but Aventurine left that unsaid. Let the man die with whatever comfort he could salvage from his illusions.

Blood pooled from open wounds, from his nose and mouth; Tal was already choking, but they would not let him die from asphyxiation—not yet. That would have been far too merciful. The real fun, Aventurine thought, was only just beginning.

A sob of pure terror from Arthur echoed with ugly satisfaction in Aventurine's chest, as the man realized what was about to happen—when they forced him onto his stomach. One of the men planted a heavy boot on Tal's bloodied head, pinning him in place.

"Why?!" the former baron wailed, his voice stripped of anything human.

Aventurine adjusted his glove with studied nonchalance before stepping closer. He crouched, gazing down at the dying man from above—close enough for Tal to see his eyes, even behind the glasses.

"Because she matters to me," Aventurine said simply. "Because she is worth more than a million like you. Because anyone who threatens her will learn what real consequences look like."

And in Tal's bloodshot, tear-filled eyes, comprehension finally dawned—the realization of the intensity, the utter devotion behind this cold cruelty.

"You… you're one of the… princes… you…"

"I'm her protector," the blond said coldly, rising to his feet and brushing invisible dust from his cloak. "And you were foolish enough to covet what I guard."

He stepped away, not wanting the man's blood to stain his clothing—Tal wasn't even worth that.

The cries and sobs were muffled against the hard stone floor as a knife—deliberately left less than razor-sharp—was driven into the traitor's rectum. Each movement tore fresh wounds through sensitive flesh, and the former baron howled in agony, twisting, struggling for escape, only making it worse.

The metallic scent of blood filled the air, thick and suffocating, while crimson droplets pooled and splattered on the stone. The men knew their work—they crippled without killing, ensuring the condemned man felt every second of his punishment.

The knife moved downward from that wound—now a macabre, blood-dark rose—toward his groin, slicing through everything in its path. It was blunt, so the executioner had to "saw" with each pass, and Tal's screams ricocheted off the cold stone walls, nearly deafening in their intensity. The dark-pink flesh opened in layers down to the very testicles. Then the men gripped his head, forcing open his jaw with a crack, and shoved that useless, bleeding ball of flesh into his mouth, demanding he chew and swallow it. They repeated the gesture with the other half.

"Finish chewing," the senior soldier laughed—and the others joined in.

For Tal, already bleeding more profusely by the second, there could be no pause. The knife pressed on—soon the blade plunged into his abdomen, and the cell filled with the sickening stench of spilled entrails. Meanwhile, another man took up a second knife and methodically—but agonizingly slowly—skinned Tal's face as if peeling a potato. The hide came away with wet, tearing sounds, and was tossed into a corner like worthless refuse. What remained of his head looked more like an anthropologist's cadaver model, muscles stretched taut over bone. From Tal's throat came a chorus of slurping, hissing noises—he still clung to consciousness, jolted by the adrenaline, forced to feel every moment.

With pliers, they pried out each of his fingernails, one by one. They crushed out his eyes, and finally cut out his tongue. Through it all, Aventurine watched, memorizing every detail. This was not brutality for its own sake—it was instruction. A lesson meant to be learned not just by the dying man, but by any who might contemplate threatening Stelle.

He had orchestrated death before. He had not always been just a spectator. But this time… this time he took pleasure in the spectacle.

When Tal at last drew his final breath, his body a mangled pulp and drenched in blood beyond recognition, Aventurine felt a deep satisfaction. True justice—real justice—had finally been served.

"Clean it up," he ordered the leader of the three men. "Make it look like inmate violence. Political unrest."

"Yes, sir. And the others? The ones who'll talk?"

This time, Aventurine smiled genuinely—though the smile was colder than any blade.

"They'll talk," he said. "That's the point. Word will spread from every prison to every noble house, through every corridor of power. Let everyone learn what happens to those who threaten House Solaris."

He handed off a third coin purse—smaller than the others, but still lavish.

"For your discretion and service. If anyone asks, Tal died in a prisoner brawl. Unfortunately, the guards were slow to respond."

As he retraced his steps down the dark corridors, the Second Prince felt lighter than he had in days. Sunday could cling to his principles, his mercy, his naive faith in systematic justice—such luxuries were for those who did not understand what was truly at stake.

Stelle was now safe. Not because the law protected her, but because her enemies would think twice before acting against her. They would remember Baron Arthur Tal's fate and know that some forces lie outside any court's jurisdiction.

Outside the prison, the night air—sharp with winter cold—felt pure and refreshing. He removed his hat and glasses, ran a hand through his pale hair, and gazed up at the stars.

He felt no guilt. No remorse. No shame for what he had done.

Arthur Tal had chosen his fate the moment he conspired against Stelle. He died not as an innocent, but as a criminal at last punished for his crimes.

If that made Aventurine a monster in some eyes—including, perhaps, in Stelle's eyes—so be it. He would rather be the monster who protected her than the saint who let her suffer.

Returning to the palace, he already plotted his next moves. He would need to attend to the other members of the Investment Committee, root out any other potential threats. Tonight's message was but the opening salvo.

The clock tower chimed one o'clock as the Second Prince slipped into shadow, leaving behind only the memory of a dreadful justice carried out. His hands would never be clean again—but his conscience was clear. The goal had been achieved.

And somewhere, in her own estate, Stelle was safe—whether she knew it or not, whether she welcomed his protection or not, whether she thanked him or cursed him. None of that mattered.

He was prepared to remain a monster in her eyes, so long as she remained unharmed.

Notes:

well.... rip (rot in pieces)

Notes:

follow me on twitter