The morning broke with a crisp stillness, the kind that lingered after a storm of revelation.
The intruder—his face bloodied from a "gentle nudge" that had been anything but gentle—finally yielded. His trembling lips had uttered the name without hesitation: Duke Zhenka. Hired to kill Princess Aquila, he claimed no knowledge of reason nor motive. He was a blade, he insisted, not the hand that directed it.
And now, beneath the dappled shade of the garden's white gazebo, Aquila sat across from Zuleika, porcelain cups set before them, steam curling into the cool morning air.
Captain Rhys stood a few paces behind Zuleika, stoic and sharp-eyed, his hand never straying far from the hilt of his blade. The gentle rustle of boots upon gravel interrupted the serenity, and a knight clad in the insignia of Feltogora knelt low before Aquila, helm tucked respectfully beneath his arm.
"Your Imperial Highness," he intoned, bowing his head, "the mercenary confessed. It was Duke Zhenka who gave the order."
Aquila did not flinch, her silver gaze calm, unshaken. She raised her teacup, sipped, then set it down with quiet precision. "Then obtain an official warrant for his arrest. Inform me when it is ready. I will be there when we strike his estate."
The knight bowed deeply, his expression grim. "As you command." Rising, he left as silently as he had come, his armor clinking faintly until he disappeared into the distance.
Zuleika, lounging slightly across from her, let her crimson eyes follow the knight's retreat before turning back to Aquila. She lifted her cup, inhaled the delicate aroma of the tea, then spoke in her usual candid drawl.
"So," she said lightly, "are you planning to execute the Zhenka family as well?"
There was no pause. No hesitation.
"Yes."
The single syllable was as sharp as a blade. Aquila's voice carried no doubt, no wavering. Her gaze was steady, gleaming in the filtered light that fell across the gazebo.
Zuleika's brow arched, her lips curving in half a smile. "That was quick. Not even a shred of doubt?"
"Doubt," Aquila replied coolly, "is a luxury I cannot afford. A Revazkerio does not falter. Not to a duke, not to a court, not to anyone. Mercy is the seed of downfall. If we allow it to take root, it will grow until it strangles the throne itself."
She leaned back against the carved wooden bench, her voice low but edged with steel. "The Zhenkas dared to set a blade against me. If I spare them, it will be seen as weakness. And weakness in the Imperial Family is an invitation—for rebellion, for betrayal, for collapse. No Revazkerio has ever bowed their head in mercy… nor will I."
Zuleika tapped her nail against her teacup, a faint, rhythmic click. "You make it sound so simple," she mused, though her smile did not reach her eyes.
"It is simple," Aquila countered. "You kill the threat before it grows teeth."
For a heartbeat, silence stretched between them. Zuleika tilted her head, her expression thoughtful, almost wistful—but she did not argue further.
This was not her Empire. Not her court. She was a guest, and the affairs of Feltogora, bloody as they might be, were not hers to challenge.
So instead, she only sighed, swirling the amber liquid in her cup, and let the matter rest.
Zuleika set her teacup down with a soft clink and leaned forward, her eyes glinting mischievously.
"I want to come along when you storm the Duke's estate."
Aquila's brows knit together instantly, her silver gaze sharp. "Why? It does not concern you."
"Oh, come on," Zuleika huffed, folding her arms. "You're making it sound like it's some boring paperwork errand. It's an arrest. Of a duke. With soldiers and shouting and drama. Why wouldn't I want to watch?"
"This is not entertainment," Aquila replied flatly, lifting her cup again.
Zuleika leaned closer across the table, grinning. "Then think of me as moral support. I'll cheer from the sidelines. 'Go Princess, show them your scary Revazkerio glare!'"
Aquila lowered her teacup with a sharp clink, glaring. "You will stay here."
"I will not," Zuleika countered, tilting her head smugly. "What if you get assassinated again, hm? Someone needs to be there to drag your royal corpse back."
Aquila's nostrils flared, her tone dry. "Touch me when I'm dead, and I'll haunt you."
"Haunt me?" Zuleika gasped dramatically, hand over her chest. "You already haunt me when you're alive."
Aquila, still weary from their endless back-and-forth, shifted the topic with a cool, deliberate tone.
"What will you do, Princess," she asked, silver eyes steady on Zuleika, "once the deal is set on paper—if you are truly not marrying the Crown Prince?"
Zuleika tapped her finger against the porcelain rim of her cup, thoughtful. She let the silence stretch before smiling faintly.
"Hmm… once the agreement is finalized, I suppose I'll return to the Kingdom of Nexus," she mused. "Back to my people, my duties… the same old weight waiting for me there. But at least, I will leave this empire's palace games behind."
Aquila's lips pressed into a thin line, then she exhaled a quiet sigh.
"Finally," she murmured. "You'll stop hovering in places you shouldn't be."
Zuleika's smile dropped into a frown. She set her teacup down with a deliberate clink.
"My, what a cold farewell." Then, tilting her head, her lips curved into a mischievous grin.
"Perhaps I should reconsider… if you're the one I'll marry, Aquila."
The words hit like a spark in oil. Aquila choked on her tea, coughing as her eyes widened in disbelief. She set her cup down sharply, glaring daggers at Zuleika.
"You—!"
Across the way, Captain Rhys stiffened, clearing his throat into his fist, though his shoulders betrayed the slight tremor of suppressed laughter. He coughed again and promptly turned his gaze away, pretending to be fascinated by the trees beyond the gazebo.
Zuleika rested her chin on her hand, grinning broadly, eyes glittering with unrestrained amusement at the storm she had caused.
"Oh, don't look at me like that, Princess. You should feel honored."
Aquila's eyes narrowed at her. "You've lost your mind."
Zuleika tilted her head, all innocence. "Mm, perhaps. But it's a rather amusing madness, don't you think?"
Aquila set her cup down with a sharp clink. "Amusing isn't the word I'd use."
"Oh?" Zuleika's lips curved into a sly smile. "Then what word would you use, Princess?"
"Aggravating," Aquila muttered darkly, glaring at her.
Zuleika laughed, unbothered, stretching lazily against her chair. "I'll take that as a compliment."
Zuleika caught the sharp edge in Aquila's glare, but instead of shrinking, she simply raised her cup and sipped, laughter still dancing at the corners of her lips.
"Relax, Princess," she said lightly, setting the porcelain back onto the saucer with a soft chime. "I was only joking."
Aquila arched a brow, unimpressed. "That was no joke. That was blasphemy."
Zuleika's crimson eyes glittered with mischief. "Blasphemy? To suggest marrying you? My, my… should I feel insulted, then?"
"You should feel grateful I haven't ordered you thrown out for running your mouth," Aquila retorted, but the way her ears flushed betrayed her irritation wasn't entirely rooted in anger.
Zuleika leaned forward just a fraction, her chin resting against the back of her hand, eyes never leaving Aquila's.
"You're cute when you're defensive, you know. Almost makes me want to keep teasing you."
"Zuleika," Aquila warned, her voice low.
Zuleika only chuckled, leaning back again, utterly unfazed. "Fine, fine. I'll stop. Consider it a harmless joke." Her lips curved slyly as she added, "Unless, of course, you secretly like the idea…"
The table rattled when Aquila slammed her hand against it, glaring daggers at her across the steam of her untouched tea.
"Joking," Zuleika sang softly, raising both hands in mock surrender. "Just joking, Princess."
...
The air outside the Duke's estate was taut, heavy with expectation. Rows of Feltogora's Imperial Knights stood like steel statues before the wrought-iron gates, armor glinting faintly beneath the afternoon sun. A ripple of whispers passed through the gathered nobles, hushed voices carrying rumors and speculation as they watched history unravel before their eyes.
At the far back of the formation, Princess Aquila stood with regal composure, her silver gaze fixed upon the mansion ahead. The faint rustle of her cloak stirred as she lifted a hand, a silent command to her men.
The captain of the Imperial Knights stepped forward, his voice carrying like a thunderclap across the courtyard.
"Duke Zhenka of the West! By order of the Imperial Family of Feltogora, you stand accused of attempted assassination against Princess Aquila Faye Lavezki Revazkerio. Present yourself at once, or we will proceed without your consent!"
A hush fell. The murmurs of the nobles faded to silence, leaving only the distant cry of crows above the estate's towers. No movement stirred from within the grand house.
The captain waited, but there was no answer. No creak of hinges. No shuffle of footsteps. Nothing.
Aquila's lips curved downward, her patience thinning to a knife's edge. "Enough waiting," she said coolly, her voice cutting across the air like a blade. "Break the gates. Search every corner. Drag him out if you must."
The order needed no repetition. The Imperial Knights surged forward, their combined strength rattling the gates until the iron groaned and snapped open. Boots thundered across the cobbled path, blades drawn, shields at the ready.
Aquila followed at an unhurried pace, each step deliberate, the embodiment of unyielding authority. At her side, the captain of the Imperial Knights kept a respectful distance, his sharp eyes ever-vigilant.
Behind them, however, the gravity of the moment wavered. Princess Zuleika trailed with hands clasped neatly behind her back—only to lean lazily toward Captain Rhys, plucking a pastry from the tray he carried. She took a casual bite, crimson eyes glimmering with mischief as she chewed thoughtfully.
"To think," she murmured around the mouthful, her voice light, amused, "the Empire's justice is more entertaining than a Nexus festival." She chomped down again, watching the chaos unfold with the serene delight of someone observing a play rather than a near-bloodbath.
Rhys exhaled through his nose, torn between dismay and resignation as he dutifully kept pace.
The great doors of the estate groaned open under the force of steel boots, their hinges screaming in protest. The knights pressed forward, but the moment they crossed the threshold, a heavy stench rushed out—thick, metallic, unmistakable.
Blood.
It clung to the air, sharp and suffocating, coating every breath with the taste of iron.
Inside, horror awaited. The once-grand marble floors of the Zhenka estate were painted in grotesque strokes of red. Trails of smeared handprints clawed across the walls, and dark pools glistened beneath overturned furniture. Servants lay strewn about the hall, their faces frozen in terror, throats cut, some still clutching futilely at their wounds even in death.
But the true nightmare stood at the center of the carnage.
The Duchess lay collapsed at the base of the grand staircase, her once-elegant gown shredded and soaked in crimson. Her pearl necklace had snapped, beads scattered across the blood-stained steps like lost tears. Her eyes remained wide open, glassy, as though she had not believed her final moment would come from her own household.
And near her—Kylie.
The young lady of the house, radiant only the night before, now lay in the most pitiful state. Her emerald gown was torn, her delicate hands bound cruelly by rope that still dug into her lifeless wrists. Her face bore the faintest traces of struggle—scratches along her cheek, lips bloodied where she had bitten down, perhaps to stifle a scream. Her silver hair ribbon was unraveled, trailing like a mockery of innocence lost, stained dark where her blood had seeped into it.
She had been stabbed, again and again, as though whoever did it sought not only to kill but to erase. To mutilate.
The hall was silent but for the steady drip of blood from the banister to the floor.
Aquila's brow furrowed, her silver eyes narrowing with cold calculation. Her jaw clenched, but her voice remained steady, sharp as the edge of a blade.
The captain of the Imperial Knights bent low, his voice hushed.
"Your Highness… the Duke is nowhere to be found. It appears he has fled. Considering this scene, he is the most likely culprit behind the massacre of his family and servants."
Aquila's gaze hardened, a dangerous frost glinting in her expression.
"Search the entire estate. Every corridor, every hidden passage. Leave not a single stone unturned. If he breathes still, drag him to me."
The knights bowed low and dispersed, their boots echoing through the blood-soaked halls.
But Zuleika…
She had not moved.
Her eyes swept slowly over the scene, the crimson reflecting faintly in her irises. Yet the usual spark—the teasing glimmer, the mischief—was gone. Stripped bare.
Her crimson gaze lingered on the Duchess, then slid to Kylie.
The corners of her lips did not shift. Her face betrayed no grief, no shock, no smile. Nothing. Her expression was unreadable, carved into stillness, but her silence carried a weight far heavier than words.
Her eyes lingered a moment too long on Kylie's lifeless form.
And in that silence, the faintest flicker passed through her gaze. A crack in the mask—subtle, fleeting, but there. The kind of silence that did not belong to someone who did not care.
The mischievous princess of Nexus stood unmoving, her crimson eyes dull, shadowed, as though the sight before her had clawed at something deep and hidden.