Aquila's chest rose and fell, her breath uneven, as Zuleika's apology hung in the air like a blade. Just one fragile phrase—I'm sorry—yet it cut deeper than any sword could.
For a moment, Aquila only stared at her, crimson meeting silver, searching—desperately, hopelessly—for something more. Anything more. A sign that Zuleika meant to fight, to hold her back, to tell her not to go.
But there was nothing. Just that guilty gaze turned away from her, as though even meeting her eyes was too much of a burden.
Aquila swallowed the ache pressing against her throat. Her hands curled into fists at her side.
"Sorry?" the word escaped her lips like a bitter laugh, trembling. "That's all you have for me?"
Zuleika flinched, but she didn't speak.
The silence that followed was unbearable. It pressed against Aquila's ribs, suffocating her with everything left unsaid. She wanted to shout, to demand, to break through the careful wall Zuleika had built between them. But all she could do was let the storm rage inside her.
So that's it, she thought bitterly. All this time, I've been the only fool who believed in something more.
Aquila's smirk was shaky when it formed, masking the crack in her composure.
"You…" Aquila started, her voice low, almost breaking. "Do you really mean that?"
Zuleika still did not look at her.
You idiot… Aquila thought, her chest tightening.
"I do," Zuleika whispered. Then, slowly, she turned her gaze to Aquila—her crimson eyes now stripped of all warmth, expressionless, as if she had slain everything she truly felt inside.
"I told you before, Aquila," she continued, each word sharp as steel drawn across tender skin.
"That I will never fall for anyone in Revazkerio."
The final blow landed, shattering Aquila more than anything. She knew—she knew deep in her bones—that Zuleika wasn't speaking the truth. And yet, hearing it from the lips of the one she admired most still carved her open.
"I see," Aquila's trembling lips murmured, the words fragile, brittle. "I was wrong to think you'd ever choose me."
"I understand. I apologize for disturbing you." Her tone shifted—formal, measured, the voice of a princess who knew her duty. She bowed, the gesture precise, distant, as though Zuleika were nothing more than another courtly figure.
Then she turned—
She turned on her heel before her voice could falter further, before Zuleika could see the tears threatening to escape the silver walls of her eyes.
Her steps rang sharp against the stone path, each stride an attempt to outrun the storm clawing through her chest.
And for the first time, Aquila prayed Zuleika would not follow.
Zuleika watched the woman she loved most walk away from her. Her first love. Her only love.
She knew it. She had always known. Long before she had the courage to name it, it had been Aquila.
What she never told her—what she buried deep in the quiet corners of her heart—was that at fourteen, she had broken a rule.
The day the young Aquila left with her mother, Zuleika had dared to slide her blindfold down, just for a heartbeat, just to see her. And what she saw stayed with her forever: Aquila's genuine smile, radiant, untouchable, more precious than any treasure Zuleika could ever claim.
Now, as the garden doors closed with a cruel finality, Zuleika's knees gave out. She sank to the earth, her body trembling, her chest caving in as hot, unrelenting tears streamed down her cheeks.
"I'm sorry…" Her voice cracked into the stillness. "I'm sorry…" she whispered again, again, like a broken prayer.
Her sobs tore through her as though every wall she had built finally crumbled.
"I'm really—" she hiccupped, her words splintered—"sorry…"
The emotions she had starved, locked away, now flooded her all at once. She pressed the back of her hand against her face, trying to wipe the torrent, but the tears would not stop. They clung to her lashes, fell in helpless drops, soaking into her lap.
Zuleika cried pathetically, no longer a princess, no longer a knight's commander—just a girl, undone by love she could not hold.
"It hurts…" she gasped, clutching her chest with trembling fingers, as though she could claw out the pain consuming her.
"It hurts… so bad…"
She struggled to breathe, every inhale broken, shallow, as if the very air had abandoned her the moment Aquila did.
Her sobs echoed through the garden, jagged and raw, a sound she would never let anyone else hear.
Because this was the truth she could never speak aloud:
She loved her.
She loved her so much, it was unbearable.
...…
Aquila returned to her chamber, her steps sharp, her chest heaving, only to find Zejidiah still there, sitting lazily as if time itself could not touch him.
He flicked an eye toward her.
"What? Done with your…business?" he drawled.
But his words died the moment he saw her face. His eyes widened, his lips parted, and for once his usually expressionless mask cracked.
"Brother…" Aquila's voice wavered, splintered, her silver eyes brimming until the tears spilled over. "It hurts so much."
Her sobs came, raw and unguarded, streaking her cheeks with grief. And to Zejidiah, it wasn't the strong, unshakable Aquila before him—it was his little sister again, the child she had once been, small and breakable in a way she never allowed anyone else to see.
Zeji stood slowly, almost uncertain, words lodged in his throat.
Aquila's breathing hitched, sharp and uneven, as though every breath wounded her further. Her tears would not stop, falling and falling, beautiful even in their devastation.
Her knees buckled, and before she could collapse, Zejidiah caught her, steadying her fragile weight against his chest.
"Why do I need to—" her voice broke, trembling as much as her hands—"be born as a princess?"
Zejidiah's brows pulled together, his voice low and careful. "What are you—"
"It hurts so much, Zeji," she sobbed, choking on the words, her body shaking.
"How long do I have to suffer like this?"
Her strength shattered entirely. Aquila clung to him as if the world itself were slipping away, her tears soaking through his tunic. And in that moment, something cracked inside Zejidiah too.
The cold mask he always wore, the walls of indifference—splintered at the sight of her brokenness. His lips pressed into a hard line, his heart twisting with a rare, unfamiliar ache.
"Why do I have to bear the weight of being…a Revazkerio?" she cried, her voice hollowed with despair.
She wept harder, her body trembling in his arms.
"It hurts… I just want her to—" her words splintered into sobs—"to say it…to say the word…" Her breaths came ragged, desperate, her voice torn apart.
"Why can't she…?" Her plea dissolved into hiccups and tears, into fragments of grief Zejidiah could not piece together.
And he—he, who had always kept the world at arm's length—could only hold her tighter. His arms wrapped around her fragile form, his chin lowering to her hair, his brows furrowed not in coldness, but in worry. In frustration.
For the first time, his composure cracked completely. His usually dead eyes softened, pained at the weight his sister carried.
Zeji closed his eyes, hugging her trembling body closer, as though his embrace could shield her from a world that had demanded too much of her since birth.
....
The carriage rattled steadily along the road, carrying them away from the Coral Palace, away from Nexus, away from her.
Zuleika had not shown her face again.
And Aquila—Aquila left without seeing her one last time. Her eyes still burned raw from her earlier breakdown, though her expression now was void of it, silver gaze dulled, heavy with exhaustion.
She sat against the window, watching the people of Nexus outside, their hands waving with bright smiles as though nothing had changed. She tried to return that peace in her heart—but instead, an ache grew sharper.
Was any of it special?
Or was it just me,
clumsy hands crowning you,
turning every small, silly interaction
into proof that you might stay longer
than you ever meant to?
Her mind betrayed her, pulling her into memory—
The soft weight of Zuleika's head against her shoulder. The laughter that spilled from her lips, careless and bright, when Aquila scolded her for something trivial. The way her crimson eyes burned with mischief one moment, then softened with something almost tender the next.
And that night—Zuleika's warmth in her arms. A fleeting kiss that lingered far longer in Aquila's chest than it ever had on her lips.
It's bitter, this taste you left behind.
But can you blame me?
I don't blame you, not really.
Even as I swim through the echoes,
I try not to paint you as the villain.
Her hand pressed against the cold glass. The gardens blurred past in streaks of green and stone. And then her lips parted, her voice low, fragile, almost like a confession to no one at all.
"You know what's funny…" she whispered.
Across from her, Zejidiah glanced up at her, but she wasn't speaking to him—not really. Her eyes were far away, locked in some unreachable place.
"The way I'd ask her something…" Her voice wavered. "And she'd look me in the eyes… as if she could see straight through me."
Her lips trembled at the memory. At that cruel sweetness.
And then let that careless smile curve your lips…
The moment I would realize
that even when you were lying,
you would still look the prettiest.
The carriage jolted to a halt. The gates of the Imperial Palace loomed tall, shadowed and merciless, waiting to consume her again.
Aquila closed her eyes, drew in one steadying breath, and when she opened them, the silver in her gaze turned to steel. Her tears were gone, her softness locked away.
The door opened. She stepped out with the grace of a Revazkerio princess, her face cold as stone, as if nothing had happened, as if she had thrown everything behind her.
But inside, she knew. She knew this ache would linger—not a fleeting flutter, but a wound that would not heal.
So she made her choice.
I will break these chains.
And when that day comes—
when I am free, when you are free—
I will stand before you again, Zuleika.
And you will not escape me with a lie.