"Please accept our deepest apologies, young master. We did not realize the road was in use today." The words tumbled hastily from Ivy's lips, trembling yet formal, as dust still clung to the hems of her dress. Thanks to her and Clover's desperate shove, Fatima had been spared a brutal strike from the horse's hooves, her breath still caught in her throat as the memory replayed in her mind. Her heart
pounded violently, not from the near-death encounter, but from the figure who now stood before them.
The rider dismounted with effortless grace, and it was as though the world itself stilled in his presence. A tall young man, shoulders broad beneath a finely cut coat, with golden hair that shimmered like molten sunlight, strands fluttering across a sculpted jawline. His deep green eyes, piercing and unblinking, fixed squarely upon Fatima, refusing to release her from their grasp.
She felt her stomach twist. Her body screamed at her to lower her gaze, to obey, to kneel, but her mind was a traitor, ensnared by his beauty. Her lips parted slightly, breath shallow as though he had stolen the air itself from her lungs. "What are you doing, Fati?" Ivy's urgent whisper yanked her back to reality. Ivy's fingers pinched at the edge of Fatima's dress, her voice sharp with panic.
"Kneel before the young master and keep your head down."
But Fatima could not. Not at once. Though once a crown princess, deference had been demanded only by her parents, the rulers of her kingdom. Never had she been forced to bow to another mortal. Yet here she stood, shackled not by iron but by the green flame of a stranger's eyes, ignorant of how grave an insult it was to meet his gaze directly. Just as her knees began to fold, the young man's voice cut across the air like a clear bell. "You
may all remain on your feet, ladies."
His command was steady, resonant, and it sank into Fatima's heart like a song. She lowered her head at once, both to honor his words and to hide the heat rising to her cheeks. Her pulse throbbed in her ears. That voice, how could something so simple make her heart ache so sweetly? "I presume you are the girl my father mentioned," he continued, his tone measured, though his eyes had not once left her. "If I am not mistaken, your name must be Fatima."
Her name upon his lips made her chest flutter violently. She wanted to beam, to bask in the recognition, yet chains of reality reminded her cruelly: she was nothing but a bond servant now. Her hands fumbled nervously together as she stammered, "Yes, young master. My
name is Fatima, though everyone calls me Fati. It is an honor to make your acquaintance."
Her curtsy was flawless, yet the moment
she rose she wanted to bury herself in the dirt. I sounded like a baby chick just now! What utter nonsense, what humiliation! She screamed silently in her mind, biting down the urge to cringe at herself.
The young nobleman tilted his head, an eyebrow lifting as though he had caught her unspoken turmoil. His lips curved faintly. "Raise your head, Fatima. I'd like to see your face." Each step he took toward her was heavy with command. His presence pressed down upon her like the shadow of a storm, and her body trembled despite her efforts to still it. Swallowing, she forced her voice
to remain steady. "Respectfully, my lord, I fear that would violate the rules I was given upon my arrival. We are to always keep our eyes down in the presence of a household member."
Her words earned a sudden burst of laughter, rich and startling. Fatima flinched, her curiosity rising like a flame she dared not fan. Still, she kept her head bowed, though her
fingers twitched to lift it. "Fatima," he said at last, crouching before her so his voice seemed to echo only for her ears. "You are quite an intriguing one. The first of your kind, I must admit." His smirk softened into amusement as he continued, "I am Dimitriu Kartier, heir to this duchy, and when I order you to raise your head, you must obey."
Her blood ran cold at his command, fear coursing through her veins. Yet when she lifted her head at last, her breath caught in her throat. His eyes, radiant green, like sunlight through a forest canopy, were not cruel, not cold, but alive with kindness. That warmth
melted her fear, replacing it with a strange, tingling ache in her chest. She was accustomed to masculine beauty before, her late brother's charm was unmatched in her homeland but never had she felt her own heartbeat betray her so recklessly.
"Now then," Dimitriu said with a sigh, rising to his full height once more, though Fatima felt an unexplainable disappointment as his closeness left her. "I brought you all some
gifts."
He strode back to his horse, the animal nickering softly as though sharing its master's ease. From a leather pouch strapped to the saddle, he withdrew three small, embroidered
bags, each a different color, each delicately stitched with bellflowers. He chuckled as he returned, his smile carrying both humility and charm. "Do forgive my terrible taste, if they do not please you."
Fatima blinked in disbelief. Gifts? For bond servants? Such a notion was absurd, unthinkable. Yet each pouch looked thoughtfully chosen, as though he had seen each girl in his mind when selecting them. Heat rushed to her cheeks again, confusion and shy gratitude warring within her.
"Hooray!" Clover squealed, clapping her hands, her eyes glittering with childish delight. "Gifts from the young master!" "Behave, Clover!" Ivy hissed, elbowing her
side, though her own eyes betrayed the same awe.
Dimitriu handed the pouches into their palms, heavier than they appeared, and Fatima watched with a soft sigh as her companions lowered their guards completely before him. Her lips curved unconsciously upward at the sight.
"I hear you have given them names," Dimitriu said suddenly, turning his gaze back to her. His voice gentled as he smiled, warmth laced with approval. "I had intended to do so myself upon returning, but you have done me a kindness. I thank you, Fatima." Her breath stilled when his hand reached forward to tousle her silver hair with gentle familiarity. In that instant, the sunlight itself seemed dim.
His smile, bright, warm, and breathtaking, was the only light her world needed.
**
After his exchange with the girls in the forest, Dimitriu returned to the estate to find a scowling prince waiting for him in the courtyard. "I have been looking all over for you. Where have you been hiding, Dimitriu?" The prince's voice carried like a whip crack,
his head snapping left and right with exaggerated suspicion, as though some guilty fugitive might leap from behind a pillar.
Dimitriu bowed quickly, the soft rustle of his embroidered coat audible in the sweet, floral spring air. "Forgive me, your highness," he said smoothly, "but I took a leisurely ride
through the forest to clear my head." His boots still bore faint traces of dust from the forest path, and his hair, though carefully combed, carried the scent of fresh pine.
The prince shoved his hands into the deep pockets of his dark velvet doublet, his frown etched as deep as the stonework around them. "Had you informed me beforehand," he said tersely, eyes scanning the garden walls as if he wished to bolt through them, "I would
have gladly joined you." Would you now? Dimitriu thought, suppressing a smirk.
"Your brothers are sparring in the training grounds," the prince added, his tone sharp. "Care to go for a round?" His body had stiffened, however, his jaw tightening as the sharp clack of heels rang out against the cobbled courtyard. Florette.
"There you are, your highness!" she called breathlessly, her silken skirts swishing about her ankles as she lifted the hem just enough to hurry forward. Jewels sewn into her bodice
caught the sunlight in tiny flashes as her cheeks bloomed pink from the rush.
A strangled grunt escaped the prince. He spun away, his eyes darting about like a cornered stag searching for cover. His scowl deepened into something almost grotesque the closer she came, and at last Dimitriu understood the odd evasiveness he had witnessed earlier. He sighed, watching the scene unfold with brotherly resignation. His little sister's smile was dazzling, unbothered by the storm cloud expression of her prey. What she saw in the prince's perpetual gloom, Dimitriu could not fathom.
"Regrettably," the prince said stiffly, his voice clipped, "I must inform you that I am unavailable at this time. A scheduled sparring match with your brother awaits me, my lady."
Florette's radiant face dimmed. She turned a pout on Dimitriu, her wide eyes narrowing into a glare sharp enough to pierce armor. "Please, your highness?" she insisted, clutching his arm with both hands and resting her cheek against the fine fabric of his sleeve.
Dimitriu nearly choked on his own laughter but managed to compose himself with a bow. "I do not recall agreeing to a sparring match, your highness," he said solemnly, though mischief glinted in his eyes. "I'm afraid I have urgent matters to tend to this afternoon. I trust you understand."
The prince's head snapped toward him, fury radiating from every line of his face. Dimitriu's grin widened—how could it not? Revenge was far too sweet after enduring weeks of
coughing fits from being shoved into an icy river on their northern expedition. "What are you doing right now, Dimitriu?" the prince muttered through clenched teeth, his glare promising retribution.
Dimitriu raised his brows innocently. "Come to think of it," he said lightly, "a stroll with our sweet Florette may be just what you need to lift your spirits. What say you, dearest sister?" Florette gasped with delight, her eyes shining. "What a splendid idea, brother!" She clapped her gloved hands, her face a tapestry of joy and excitement. "Let us away, your highness!"
And before the prince could conjure an excuse, Florette had fastened herself to his arm, dragging him along with gleeful determination. He moved stiffly, a young man condemned but forced to mask his displeasure beneath a brittle smile.
Dimitriu watched them vanish around the trimmed hedges of the garden, laughter shaking his shoulders. His triumph was quiet but complete. Better to suffer his ire later than his fists now, he decided—and the image of that scowling face trapped in Florette's eager grasp would warm his heart for weeks to come.
**
The mid-afternoon sun draped the forest road in a golden haze, its warmth pressing gently on Florette's shoulders as she walked beside the crown prince. The air was still, unsettlingly still, so unlike the usual chorus of chirping birds and rustling critters that often filled these woods. Not a wingbeat nor a song could be heard; only the crunch of their footsteps on the paved path echoed faintly, swallowed by the silence. The trees themselves seemed to watch, their pale birch trunks standing like sentinels, their shadows stretching long and thin across the stones.
The prince had not said a word since they began their stroll, his tall frame moving with a solemn steadiness, eyes heavy-lidded, as though he carried thoughts far beyond the
quiet woods. His silence pressed on her more than the stillness of the forest itself. Florette forced herself to speak, her voice bright though her heart fluttered with unease.
"Spring is indeed breathtakingly beautiful, isn't it, your highness?" she said, her words flowing in a practiced lilt. Her cheeks burned under the sunlight, betraying her nerves
as a soft crimson crept across her face. She waited, the pause between them stretching like a taut string, yet he offered nothing. Not even a glance. It was almost expected at this point, this frustrating lack of response that had become routine in their interactions. She adjusted her pace, first quickening to keep up, then slowing in the vain hope he would match her stride, before turning abruptly, ready to test his attention.
Her breath caught. The prince was no longer beside her. Instead, he stood several paces behind, near the edge of a shallow ditch beneath the peeling bark of a birch tree. His
gloved hand pressed against its rough trunk as he leaned forward, gaze fixed on
something just beyond.
Laughter carried through the silence, light and playful. "Stay still, Fati, otherwise you'll squash it!" Clover teased, her voice like the chime of bells. She crouched low, fingers pinching carefully at the hem of Fatima's dress where a tiny intruder clung. "Get it off me, Clover! Quickly!" Fatima's shrill cry trembled with panic as she hopped on the tips of her toes, a few loose strands of her silver hair bouncing with the motion. Her brows knit together, lips pulling in a grimace as though she could feel the creature
climbing higher with every second. She lifted her arms stiffly above her head, desperate to keep them safe from the crawling thing.
"Girls!" Ivy called sharply, her tone carrying the weariness of someone who had long endured such antics. She wiped sweat from her brow with the back of her hand before shading her eyes against the sun, the other hand gripping the wooden handle of her rake.
"We ought to get back to work. Clover, enough of this nonsense."
"I've got it!" Clover announced triumphantly, her face glowing with mischief as she held a squirming grasshopper delicately between her fingers. Its tiny legs kicked frantically,
glinting in the sunlight. She lifted it up with delight. "It's a baby grasshopper! Isn't it adorable, Fati?" Her voice softened in mock affection as she leaned the insect toward her Fatima.
Fatima's eyes widened, horror draining the color from her face. She recoiled as if Clover had brandished a snake. "Keep it away from me! I can still feel it crawling on me!" she yelped, darting off, skirts gathered in her hands as Clover pursued with a gleeful laugh.
The crown prince chuckled, low at first, then warmer, bubbling into the air like water breaking over stone. His eyes gleamed, wholly absorbed by the simple chaos unfolding before him. His expression, so heavy moments ago, was alight now with unrestrained amusement.
Florette's blood boiled. She stood frozen, her gloved fingers twitching at her side as she witnessed his gaze, her prince's gaze, enthralled not by her presence, but by the antics of that silver-haired tramp and her companions. Every soft giggle from Fatima was a dagger lodged deeper in her pride. The girl, a bond servant no less, dared to hold his attention, dared to bask in the warmth that should have been hers alone.
Her nostrils flared as she struggled to hold her composure. From the very first instant she had laid eyes on Fatima, Florette's instincts had screamed caution, warning her of a threat hidden beneath the girl's innocent demeanor. Now, watching the prince's
unwavering fascination, her dislike curdled into fury. "These are our bond servants, your highness," she said smoothly, her voice straining against the sharp edge of her resentment. "You needn't waste your precious eyes on these…" she faltered, swallowing the word she wanted to use before replacing it with something softer, more palatable, "…people when I am standing right beside you."
Her hand drifted toward him, fingers trembling as she nearly brushed the fabric of his shirt. At the last second, she withdrew, curling her hand into her skirts. The word people had burned her tongue. To her, they were filth, nothing more, but she knew better than to mar her image in the prince's eyes. No, she must remain the embodiment of purity, innocence, and grace: an angel sculpted to stand forever at his side.
**
A suffocating silence clung to Dimitriu's study that afternoon, broken only by the soft scratch of his quill racing across parchment. Dust motes floated lazily in the shafts of golden light streaming through the high windows, yet the air felt heavy, as though even the sun's warmth dared not trespass too boldly into the room. The faint smell of ink and candle wax hung in the air, mixing with the distant creak of the wooden beams above.
Behind the broad, ornate desk of carved mahogany, Dimitriu leaned back in his chair, his sharp eyes flicking up from his work. He spoke with measured calm, his voice carrying a weight that made the air around them denser still. "You have been spending quite a bit of time in the forest as of late, your highness. Did you discover something interesting in there?"
The crown prince did not answer him at once. Instead, sprawled across the brown sofa, he let the question hang like a drawn bowstring. His head rested lazily on one hand while the other twirled a pencil between his fingers with idle precision, the soft clicks of wood against his knuckles unnervingly steady. At last, he let out a slow exhale, his gaze shifting toward the ceiling.
"Have I now?" he murmured, dismissing Dimitriu's second sentence as if it were no more than background noise. But his outward nonchalance concealed the pull of obsession clawing at his thoughts. That strange girl, her laughter, her smile, the flutter of her hands as she spoke, had seeped into his mind like a
persistent melody. No matter how he tried to concentrate, she lingered, vivid and alive. He remembered the sharp crack of a branch nearly betraying him once, the startled voices of her companions, and the foolish thrill of nearly being caught. Even now, the memory stirred an involuntary smirk across his lips.
Dimitriu's quill stilled. He tapped its end against the desk, studying the prince with wary eyes. "Will your highness grace us with your presence at Florette's tea party this
afternoon?" His tone was polite but laced with urgency. "She is hosting the event to celebrate your safe return, after all." The pencil ceased its rotation. Slowly, the prince straightened, his gaze shifting away from Dimitriu and onto another.
"I was wondering, Damian." His voice cut through the still air like a blade. The Kartier butler stepped forward at once, bowing low. "Yes, your highness. How may I assist you, sire?" The air grew colder with the pause that followed. Damian's breath caught, and even Dimitriu's quill seemed reluctant to touch paper again. The prince's eyes, though calm, carried an edge of something dangerous, something unreadable. "Where might the bond servants be working today?"
Damian's throat tightened. He kept his head bowed as though the floor itself might shield him. "They… maintain the stables and groom the equines toward the close of the week, your highness," he answered quickly, though his voice quivered. A bead of sweat slid down his temple, fell past his cheek, and spattered against the polished floorboards between his black shoes.
"In that case," the prince said, rising with unhurried grace, "I believe a brief excursion is in order." He placed the pencil with deliberate care upon the tea table, then turned toward the door. The silence followed him like a shadow, weighted and suffocating. "Will you come along, Dimitriu?" He stopped in the
doorway, not moving, only standing there, waiting, eyes pinned on Dimitriu. His
presence filled the room, a cold gravity that pressed down on both men.
Dimitriu's fingers tightened around the quill, the sharp tip bending under the pressure. He forced a polite tone, though the tightness in his jaw betrayed his unease. "Forgive me, your highness, but I'm overwhelmed with work at present." He gestured toward the neat stacks of papers beside him. "I hope you enjoy your leisure ride, sire." He added with a slight nod. For a long, unbearable moment, the prince said nothing. Then, with a curt flicker of his eyes, he turned and left. "Suit yourself."
The door slammed shut with a violence that rattled the ink bottle on Dimitriu's desk. At once, the suffocating air seemed to release its hold, allowing both Dimitriu and Damian
to draw shaky breaths at last, as though they had been drowning until that very moment.
**
The acrid sting of horse sweat mingled with soap and damp hay as Ivy leaned against the stall's wooden frame, her palm brushing across her damp temple. A sheen of perspiration clung to her brow, the heat of the labor heavy on her skin. With a weary sigh, her voice broke through the quiet rhythm of the brushes scraping against horsehide.
"Do you reckon Fati's doing well? I'm worried about her." Her words wavered as though they had been tugged from her chest, fragile and uncertain. "It was the young mistress, of all people, who summoned her there."
Across from her, Clover stilled. The bristles of her brush lingered in the horse's thick brown mane, frozen mid-stroke. Her lips pulled into a thin line, and her voice carried the strain of unease. "I don't know." She chewed the edge of her lip before whispering, almost to herself, "I don't have a good feeling about it at all."
The air shifted as a memory flickered in their minds—moments earlier, when a petite maid with auburn hair and eyes that barely dared to meet theirs had approached the stables. Her timid greeting, her hushed words, her bashful demeanor, all so unlike the brash and
hardened maids of the manor. The encounter left behind a faint ripple of strangeness, an omen more than a message.
Their thoughts were interrupted by the coarse bark of a voice. "Quit your whining and get back to work!" The stable master staggered into view, swaying like a pendulum, the bitter stench of liquor wafting thickly around him. His hand clutched a battered wooden flask, from which he drank greedily. The clear spirit ran down the corners of his mouth, glistening against the scruff of his unshaven jaw. His bloodshot eyes darted between them, narrowing with dangerous intent.
"Yes, sir!" Ivy and Clover scrambled back into motion, their brushes moving feverishly over glossy horsehair. Fear clamped their throats shut, for they knew the weight of his hand when his mood soured. "Why, I ought to—" His words slurred, thick with drink, as his arm lifted. His hand hovered in the stale air, palm spread wide, ready to strike. The girls stiffened under the weight of his threat, their eyes squeezing shut, bracing themselves for the incoming impact. But then,
"I suggest you put that hand of yours away before something unfortunate befalls it." The voice, sharp and commanding, cut through the tension like a blade poised to strike. It carried an authority that made the horses stir restlessly in their stalls. "You wouldn't want it to unexpectedly fly off your arm now, would you, Elliot?"
From behind the staggering figure, a tall presence emerged, cloaked in shadows that seemed to bend away from his frame. The crown prince's silhouette stepped forward until his face was fully revealed, the weight of his gaze enough to drive the color from the
stable master's cheeks. Elliot's mouth worked soundlessly before his knees buckled; he collapsed with a dull thud against the hay-strewn floor, fainting at once.
"Your highness. May the light of Alkaraz be with you!" Ivy and Clover's cries came as one, their voices trembling as their knees hit the ground. They bent low, their foreheads nearly touching the dust. The prince's eyes swept across the stable. The afternoon sunlight caught in the sharp planes of his face as his gaze lingered, searching. Yet no trace of the
silver-haired girl could be found. At last, his eyes fell upon the two trembling girls.
"Do not mind my presence and continue with your chores." The words, though measured, were enough to break the unbearable stillness. The girls jolted to their feet, eager to bury themselves back in work. Still, their hands shook as they combed manes and scrubbed hooves, stealing furtive glances toward the tall figure who lingered behind them. "You two." The sound of his voice again brought them stiffly to attention. Their hearts pounded as they turned, each step toward him heavy with dread.
"Yes, your highness?" Clover stammered, her body bowing into a nervous curtsy. Ivy followed suit, though her breaths came shallow and uneven. The prince folded his arms across his chest. His lips remained pressed into a firm line, no warmth softening his expression. Silence stretched thin between them, every second feeding their fear. What offense had they given? What punishment would follow?
"Do not worry," he said at last, his tone dropping into something gentler. "I mean you no harm. I only wish to ask you a question." He studied their faces, their hesitance reflected in their wide, wary eyes. Then, as if the words had been sharpened beforehand, he asked: "Where is your friend right now?"
The question cut through the room, and for a moment neither spoke. Clover's throat bobbed as she swallowed before she dared to answer, her tone uncertain. "Our… friend?"
"There is no need for fear," he pressed, his voice like a low command that allowed no escape. "I simply want to know where the girl with silver hair has gone."
Fatima. The name crashed between them unspoken. Ivy's lips parted, but hesitation stalled her voice. Clover, ever quicker to speak, lifted her chin slightly and gave a nervous smile. "Your highness must mean
Fati!" The prince inclined his head almost imperceptibly, though in his chest he fought a shudder. He had taken pains not to speak her
name, not to betray the truth of his watchful eyes. The thought of being discovered—of them realizing how often he had lingered at the edges of their world, unseen, set a heat crawling up the back of his neck.
"The young mistress' garden tea party required more hands, your highness," Ivy ventured cautiously. Her voice trembled as she spoke. "Fati was called to assist the maids with the preparations." The prince's brows furrowed, perplexity darkening his expression. A bond servant, in Florette's company? The very notion scraped against what he knew of the young girl and her mother's disdain for such individuals. Something was wrong.
"Might I ask you two for a small favor?" This time, a grin, sharp and mischievous played briefly across his lips. "Of course, your
highness," the girls chorused, though their voices shook. They exchanged a glance, their throats tightening as they braced themselves for whatever was to come.
**
The Kartier pavilion gleamed beneath the mid-afternoon sun, its ivory columns wrapped in ivy and its domed canopy casting shade over an arrangement of rosewood tables and silk-cushioned chairs. The faint perfume of blooming magnolias drifted from the gardens beyond, mingling with the sharper aroma of steeping tea and sugared
pastries. Silver spoons chimed delicately against porcelain cups as noblewomen, draped in silks, satins, and gauzy veils, gossiped with their voices pitched just loud enough for rivals to overhear. Every titter of laughter seemed to ripple like a performance rehearsed countless times before.
At the duchess's table, a stout woman with cheeks flushed crimson from wine leaned forward, her fan snapping shut with a decisive flick. Her eyes landed on Fatima, who stood a
little apart, arms straining to keep a parasol tilted over Florette's table.
"My word! In all my years, I have never seen such a well-kept and clean serf before," the woman declared, her voice carrying across the pavilion like a trumpet. Murmurs stilled, and curious eyes turned. "Duchess Gwendolynn, where did you come across such a fine one?"
Duchess Gwendolynn, regal even in her leisure, reclined against her embroidered chair. Her posture was effortless, her poise calculated; the faint curl of disdain at the corner of her lips was as practiced as her smile. Lifting her teacup with fingers adorned
in a variety of different rings, she answered coolly, "This was the work of my husband this time. Apparently, she's a special one. He even gave her a name."
The effect was immediate. Fans fluttered furiously, and the once-harmonious chatter broke into gasps, scoffs, and whispers sharp as daggers. All eyes pinned Fatima in a suffocating glare.
"Good heavens! A name?" one lady gasped. "How baffling," murmured another, shaking
her powdered curls as though the very notion threatened to unsettle the order of things. "Why would his grace grant a name to such a
lowly creature?" sneered a woman in sapphire silk, turning her head away in exaggerated disdain. "Your guess is as good as mine, Countess," Gwendolynn sighed with deliberate indifference, before sipping her tea as though bored of the entire affair.
Meanwhile, Fatima's small frame trembled beneath the weight of the parasol. The wooden pole pressed into her palm until her fingers tingled with numbness. Her back burned where the relentless sunlight pierced through her thin cotton dress, the fabric clinging damp to her skin. She had been ordered not to move, not to shift, not even to
scratch the sweat that trickled down her neck. The maid who had promised to fetch a proper support had long vanished, leaving Fatima stranded under the oppressive stares of nobility.
She could hear every note of their laughter, high-pitched and metallic, like blades scraping glass. Each mocking word only deepened the pit in her stomach, reminding her of the banquets she once loathed in her homeland. Yet here she again, not as a host
but as a prop. "Fatima?" A noblewoman's frown cut through the air when Gwendolynn uttered the name. "Indeed, that is the dreadful thing's name," the duchess replied with a shrug, her lips barely parting before she raised her cup once more.
"Good heavens, it sounds awful," another added, her gaze flicking over Fatima's flushed face, glistening with sweat as she struggled to keep the parasol from tilting. Fatima bit down on her breath. One never truly knows what life will throw at them, she thought
bitterly. Her discomfort was plain, her red eyes betraying both fatigue and resentment as she scanned the terrace in desperation. At last, there! The maid finally appeared, carrying the long-awaited support. Relief flickered in her chest, almost enough to bring tears. But before she could take a step away, a sharp, mischievous voice cut across the pavilion. "Not so fast."
Florette's smile curled like a cat's paw, her eyes gleaming with cruel amusement. Fatima froze mid-step, caught once again in the gaze of her tormentors as she exhaled a soft sigh only meant for her own ears.