Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

You remember too much,
my mother said to me recently.
Why hold onto all that? And I said,
Where can I put it down?

The fairy tale was beginning to seem like just that- a funny, improbable story told to make the reality of their situation more bearable. What had started as a traumatizing event, a sudden and inexplicable loss of everything, turned into just another sad story in a long line of tragic stories. That is, until the discovery that their belongings, which they had placed all over the room as if daring fate to take them away again, were now neatly stacked in one corner as if waiting for them.

The fairy tale had become a reality. A miracle of sorts, like something out of an old storybook with a happy ending. Perhaps their belongings weren't lost, just misplaced in time and space.

The dripping water echoed off the damp, rough-hewn walls of the cell, a dull and persistent noise that never stopped. Neuvillette listened to it, sitting curled up on the floor, chained up with his wrists and ankles wrapped in heavy chains, thinking about how he had lost everything. He was the only other man now in the vast, dank space, and the other prisoner, his uncle, the Grand Duke, who was also taken after the coup a week ago, paced around the tiny space, agitated and restless.

Neuvillette still remembered the night when the rebels had stormed the palace and the King and his men had been taken hostage. The Gardes had shouted and fought, but now the only sounds were the occasional crack or a grunt of pain. Outside the barred window, the sky was a dark, ominous red, the first hint of dawn just starting to lighten the horizon.

It seemed like hours that they sat there in the darkness, and before long, the sun had fully risen, and a new day had come. For the whole week, all they could do was wait for their turn to be dragged away from prison one by one, never to be seen or heard again. And today, it would be one of their turn to meet the same fate as the other.

"This is your fault." Grand Duke sneered. Neuvillette didn't respond. "That bastard had used you. If you didn't fall for his scheme, we wouldn't have lost everything."

Neuvillette sat in silence as the Grand Duke ranted, his voice echoing off their cell walls. He was used to it. Everyone else had been blaming Neuvillette for this betrayal from their vessel house. One of them even insisted that Neuvillette must have played a part in the coup, that he was swayed by the Duke's charm and lured into betraying and killing His Majesty the King, automatically put the Duke, the main perpetrator who took the King's life with his own hand, as the usurper king.

Neuvillette didn't respond, uncomfortable with the attention people were paying him, but felt immensely hurt by the accusation that he planned to have his own father killed. He felt like a caged animal, and he wanted nothing more than to be free. He thought about his mistakes and how he was betrayed by those he trusted. They didn't have to remind Neuvillette every chance they got; he knew more than anyone how hopeless and helpless he was.

Finally, after hours, the Grand Duke stopped his tirade and slumped against the wall in exhaustion. The door to their cell opened, and a rebel entered with a tray of food. The guard set it down on the floor, and the Grand Duke immediately went to grab the tray before the rebel grabbed him by the collar of his shirt. Both Neuvillette and his uncle knew what it meant: it was the Grand Duke's turn this time.

The Grand Duke trashed around and yelled, threatening the rebel to unhand him or face a dire consequence, but the rebel said nothing. Seeing how the Grand Duke did not cooperate, the rebel grabbed the chain connecting the manacles around his hands and dragged the Grand Duke out of his cell. The rebel slammed the frail aristocrat to the door, shaking him avidly as he screamed in pain. The Grand Duke cursed and spit at the rebel and towards Neuvillette's direction before being carried out.

All Neuvillette could do was watch them leave. Of course, he'd be the last. The rebels probably had a grand ending to this coup and saved the Crown Prince for the final execution, a befitting symbolic and literal ending of the old reign. Maybe the Duke would kill Neuvillette himself; he didn't know.

Neuvillette was left alone as they left, but the tray of food sat untouched for days afterward.

Neuvillette was jolted awake by the cacophony of clanging metal outside his chambers. Groggy and disoriented, he stumbled towards the door, eager to investigate the source of this strange disturbance. A hand shot out as he cracked open the heavy wooden panels, forcefully blocking his path.

"Wriothesley?" Neuvillette called out in disbelief. "What are you doing here?"

The darkness obscured Wriothesley's face, but Neuvillette could sense his presence even in the pitch blackness. What business could the Duke of Meropide possibly have in Palais Mermonia? Somehow, the thought alone sent a shiver down Neuvillette's spine.

Neuvillette tried to push the door again, but Wriothesley didn't budge. "Close the door." That was all he said. However, before   Neuvillette could ask anything else, Wriothesley didn't wait for him and closed the door.

It would take much later for Neuvillette to notice the face Wriothesley was making that night.

"What do you mean the Crown Prince hadn't eaten in days?" At his new office inside Palais Mermonia, Duke--no, the King of Fontaine--Wriothesley frowned when one of his men said Neuvillette went on a hunger strike. "Didn't I tell you to ensure he's taken care of?"

The report could have been attention-seeking at best. The King's confused face and slightly perplexed look were no comforting sight for his man. "Forgive me, Your Majesty," his man bowed, but his voice remained calm and composed. I have personally delivered meals on time for His Highness, but he refused to touch his meal."

"Not even water?"

The man shook his head. Wriothesley sighed, and a weary look passed over his face. He took off his reading glasses and tossed them onto the piles of paperwork that covered his desk; hundreds of documents detailing conflicts and resolved issues around Fontaine, reports containing foreign secrets, royal edicts from the King's Privy Council, all copied down by scribes into official records that did not match with each others, some on old parchment as yellowed as an old woman's teeth, others written in fresh ink with the quill feathers stained red.

"How long—"

"Three days," said his man quietly.

Wriothesley cursed under his breath. "Keep doing what I've told you," he ordered, dismissively waving his hand. I'll deal with it myself later."

Wriothesley, now alone, leaned back in his chair and flattened his palm on his forehead. He should have dealt with Neuvillette since the beginning and tried to keep him on the straight and narrow, at least temporarily. But Wriothesley had more important issues to deal with first. The previous reign had left the government stripped down to its barest bones, thank you very much, he thought bitterly. And with everything that had happened since then—the coup d'etat, then dealing with a group of impudent Fontainians who made assumptions about his own rights and duties as sole ruler of Fontaine by old rule—well…he didn't have time for all this nonsense from Neuvillette. But this brought it all home to him again: no matter how strong your grand designs, circumstances beyond your control could quickly unravel them until it was too late. He told himself he'd get everything at least sorted out and stabilized temporarily in two weeks, yet Neuvillette left him no choice.

Besides, Wriothesley still needed time to think about what he'd tell Neuvillette. He didn't want to say the wrong thing, but nothing Wriothesley could say would subside Neuvillette's anger; he was sure of that.

The moonlight streamed through the small, dirty window and cast a sickly light across the cell. Neuvillette laid on his back, eyes closed, waiting for death. He had refused all food and water for days, knowing it would only result in a slow and agonizing death. Against his better judgment, he had wanted to show defiance to his captors. He would not let them take his life. And certainly not Wriothesley of all people.

There was a loud knock on the door, and a moment later, Wriothesley's face appeared in the small window of the prison cell door.

"Here to kill me at last, Your Grace?" Neuvillette sat up and stared at him, his purple eyes blazing with hatred.

"Going on defamation route, huh? It's 'Your Majesty' now." Wriothesley said calmly and opened the door. Neuvillette rose slowly, his movements heavy. He didn't like how Wriothesley talked to him like he was trying to teach a child a lesson.

Wriothesley stepped into the cell and walked forward slowly while Neuvillette's head was held high. He paused momentarily in the doorway and looked back over his shoulder. "I don't plan to kill you."

"So, the other option is to let me rot here. Why bother? Why must you give me a humiliating and slow death sentence?"

"Is that really what you want to ask?"

"What else there is to ask, Wriothesley?"

"You know what it is."

Neuvillette stared at Wriothesley, anger burning in his throat. He wanted so badly to tell Wriothesley how betrayed he felt. Neuvillette had never experienced this level of rage before, and yet Wriothesley stood there calmly, unbothered like he wasn't the man who was plunging a hypothetical sword into Neuvillette's life. "Why did you betray me?" Neuvillette asked again. It was all he could do not to sob.

Neuvillette looked at Wriothesley with a cold stare, and yet Wriothesley smiled. "There you go." he said, an icy creepiness to his voice, warping it into something unrecognizable.

Was he expecting Neuvillette to confront him for his betrayal? They've been friends for years since the previous Queen took pity on Wriothesley after his parents perished in the sea, leaving their young, inexperienced heir alone. Neuvillette used to think that his position as Crown Prince meant he could keep his friends safe until they were of age and Wriothesley could finally take over as the Duke of Meropide, but Wriothesley had another plan, didn't he? He was voracious under his charm and clever mouth.

Neuvillette didn't even want to think about what he'd done to the Queen and other women in his family and royal inner circle while their husbands were slain one by one.

"If I tell you I have no other choice, would you believe me?" Wriothesley asked, and Neuvillette could not help but look away in contempt. "Didn't think so." He muttered; Neuvillette's silence was louder than anything that could be said. "I have no plan to keep you here forever either, you're no one's prisoner. I was going to come here later after the situation in Fontaine is under control but I realized, sooner or later doesn't matter. You will hate me for this proposal nonetheless."

"What do you mean?" Neuvillette asked quietly.

A look of incomprehension crossed Wriothesley's face, slowly fading into hurt. "I want--need--you to marry me."

Neuvillette was stunned with the audacity. His eyes blazed with a sudden anger."You're too cruel."

Wriothesley didn't reply for a long time. Neuvillette didn't know what else to say to fill the silence. He felt like he was in a nightmare and that he would wake up at any moment, and everything would be normal again. But it wasn't, and Wriothesley was still standing before him, looking very upset but also very earnest.

Finally, Wriothesley said quietly, "There are people who are unhappy and would not accept me as the head of the country."

" I wonder why ."

"I need to keep them at bay, to prevent any kind of uprising against my reign." The more Wriothesley explained his proposal, the more disgusted Neuvillette felt by the sheer shameless and egocentric self that Wriothesley was showing him. It was like Neuvillette didn't know this man at all. Wriothesley could read his contempt perfectly clear. "I know, right? What a hypocrite I am."

Neuvillette wasn't sure if it was a good or bad thing that Wriothesley was showing a bit of self-awareness. It mattered not because, in the end, they weren't two friends having this conversation; they were two dogs circling one another, trying to assert dominance before one dared to make the first move. Neuvillette said nothing.

"I need to build an image, so to speak. A harmonious union between the old and new reigns will hopefully make them second guess their cynicism."

"Do you assume I will ever agree to that?"

"I know you will."

"Why?"

"Because you don't want innocent people to get hurt."

Neuvillette squeezed his fingers into fists, and through gritted teeth, he asked, "Is that a threat? Is it not enough to kill my family?"

"I would never hurt innocent people. I don't care if you believe me on that or not." Wriothesley shrugged. "I can provide precautions but I cannot prevent every single Fontainian from committing selfish acts. If I dispatch extensive security measures, that would only make everyone feel restless. Mass surveillance is not a solution."

Neuvillette hated to admit that Wriothesley was right. It had left a sour taste in his mouth that hadn't entirely faded because part of him wanted to criticize Wriothesley because how could Neuvillette accept a man who took the crown by killing the previous King to actually know what he was doing after he gained the power he so desired? That part of him wanted to scream at Wriothesley, but another part understood that this was how life worked. "You can hate me all you want; I don't expect you to like me either. I won't touch you more than necessary in public."

Wriothesley took keys from his pocket and approached Neuvillette slowly, making the other man wary of their sudden close distance. Then, carefully, as Wriothesley tried to touch Neuvillette as little as possible, he freed Neuvillette from the manacles around his wrists and ankles. "Just think about it." He said again.

What was there to think about? Even when Wriothesley said he wasn't one, Neuvillette knew he was still a prisoner in this new reign. He had no power, no backing,  nothing.  Wriothesley simply manipulated Neuvillette into thinking he had choices here when there weren't any. "Why me?" Still, he asked. Wouldn't marrying another noble daughter from a vassal house be better? Or even a princess from another country?

To Neuvillette's question, Wriothesley responded with a soft, tiny smile that didn't reach his blue eyes. Wriothesley, for his part, looked tired and drawn. "Because nobody in this country cares about Fontaine more than you."

Neuvillette was silent, unable to believe what Wriothesley had just said. Before he could answer, Wriothesley turned away and walked out of the prison cell without uttering any more of his proposal, leaving Neuvillette alone with his thoughts.

Neuvillette covered his face with his free hands, trying to muffle the sound of his sobbing. Neuvillette sat in the cold stone room, thinking and thinking, until in the silence and isolation, he, too, would break down and wept. He tried to stifle the sound of his sobbing with his hands pressed against his face but couldn't stop himself. Neuvillette felt numb inside but could not stop tearing up as he thought about the pain and disappointment he felt when Wriothesley explained a political marriage proposal between them. It made no sense to make such a request from Neuvillette now. This was something Neuvillette would never understand - nor want to understand - what kind of desperate secrets laid under Wriothesley's blood-soaked sleeves?

Wriothesley really couldn't do this to him. He could not possibly ask Neuvillette to marry him in this circumstance. Not when Neuvillette had spent his whole life loving him.

Chapter Text

When he saw her, the Prince practically ran towards his mother. Backlit by the sun and enveloped in shadows, she stood with her arms folded across her chest between two pillars on the veranda that overlooked the rolling lawns in the rear garden of Palais Mermonia. A warm breeze drifted through and ruffled her hair, which hung loose around her shoulders. Her face was tilted up to catch the sunlight, and she looked so serene and beautiful.

He could not read her expression from so far away; was it serene or grave? She was a beacon amidst the sea of green. His excitement guided his steps.

"Your Majesty." He greeted her, stepping toward her like a young horse asking to be petted.

The Queen smiled and crouched to be at eye level with her son. She held her hand to him, the tiny crimson jewels on her sleeve winking like fireflies dancing in the dark. “Come here, mon etoile.” The child held his hand to her, grasping it tightly with little fingers almost too small for his age. "I want you to meet someone."

The Prince blinked but didn't question his mother. She gently led him to the garden in front of them and stepped onto a pebbled path that wove among the trees. They soon reached the pond. A curved bridge rose over its surface. They saw another kid with black and grey hair, dressed head to toe in dark clothes, crouching on the bridge. His blue eyes tracked every movement of the fish below him.

"See that boy?" The Queen whispered to her son. "He's the heir of Meropide. He's only a year younger than you."

The Prince was quiet and overflowed with emotions; he rarely saw another kid his age because he spent most of his time studying, a duty he took very seriously as a Crown Prince, so it was quite a surprise that he welcomed. On the other hand, when his mother mentioned 'Meropide,' his heart sank remembering the news from a couple of weeks ago.

"Is his parents…" The Prince asked, putting two and two together. Duke and Duchess Meropide had both died at sea. Their deaths seemed inevitable; they were sailing eastward to visit one of their estates in faraway lands when they disappeared without a trace. Leaving their son back at home as the only survivor of their entire household.

"You see," the Queen looked down at her son, who seemed slightly perturbed. She comforted him, tucked his pristine white hair behind his ear, and rubbed his face. "He's left with a lot of responsibility, too. One that awaits him when he comes of age. He is quite a bit like you, is he not?"

"But I have maman." He said quietly. The Queen's smile turned somber.  "Who does he have?"

The Queen sighed. It was expected from him to immediately think of this boy as just a normal kid who had lost his parents, ignoring how The Queen was drawing a parallel between them as the sole heir to their respective seats with not many people they could turn to rely on. "No one, sadly." The Queen shook her head.

The Prince looked at the boy, then hung his head low. He shifted from foot to foot and refused to stare again, focusing on the bare patch of earth below his feet instead. Seeing how uneasy he felt, The Queen quickly changed the topic. "Do you want to be his friend?" She asked, and her son flinched a bit. When he dared to look up at the Queen, his face flushed shyly, but hesitantly, he nodded. As if saying that he really wanted to but was unsure how to do it. "Go greet your new friend, then."

With encouragement from the Queen, he stepped forward and approached the boy, albeit he kept looking back at his mother every few steps in hesitation. Eventually, he was close enough for the boy to notice his presence. Seeing the Prince walking towards him, the boy immediately rose up to his feet. The two of them regarded each other for a few moments before the Prince spoke. "Hello."

"Hello, Your Highness." He sounded a little strange, not that it was a bad thing, but he took too long to say the word, but it didn't sound as if it was his own voice. His 'hello' sounded rehearsed and careful, and the tone was friendly but hesitant. The 'h' buzzed in his throat like a drunk fly, and the 'a' sounded too flat, out of its natural register.

How come someone so worried that they would mess up a simple three words like that? It was as if the boy was trying to hide something in his voice.

The Meropide heir was smiling. Strange, the Prince thought. He could only imagine the loss of his parents hung heavy over Meropide like a dark cloud, but he found this boy took courage where others would have allowed themselves to feel only despair or self-pity. The Prince suddenly realized what he must do from now on: He would offer him all the comfort he could muster.

The Prince introduced himself, his velvety voice carrying in the crisp air. He placed his hand over his heart before extending it towards the boy as if to offer him an unspoken promise of protection and respect for the brief moment their hands would meet. "I am Neuvillette," he said, almost as if he were stating a fact that everyone should already know without needing to be told. "May I ask your name?" His gaze fixed on the boy's face, seeking out every detail of his features.

The boy didn't answer immediately but didn't break their eye contact either. Neuvillette felt his heart throb a little by the boy's piercing blue eyes, which in hindsight should've felt intimidating, and yet the more he looked at Neuvillette, the more those eyes were revealing a softness in his own that had not been there just moments before. "Wriothesley," he replied quietly but confidently.

The exchange between them felt like a dance, each movement deliberate, calculated, graceful, and effortless. The air around them grew charged with expectation as they sized each other up, both unconsciously aware that this meeting might change everything for them both.

Marry him , Wriothesley had said the other day. They  needed  to. Wriothesley and his worldly excuse claimed it was for the sake of Fontaine to ease their worry about the new, unexpected reign. And yet, wouldn't Wriothesley be the one who benefited the most? He didn't want any rebellious uprising confronting his claim to the throne. He needed Neuvillette to shield him because even when he'd fallen from grace, Neuvillette was still of royal blood. Wriothesley could always argue that a marriage with royalty was enough to validate his right to the throne, regardless of how he took it.

The thought of Wriothesley using him over and over again made him sick. He had used Neuvillette to get into the inner circle of Palais Mermonia, and he purposely left Neuvillette alive as living insurance for his new stolen power. Perhaps not. Wriothesley may have enough on his plate, but he is already trying to claim the throne without having any base to defend himself from treason or opposition. He simply needs some extra time to finalize his claim as a way of intimidating and absorbing threatening claimants.

Neuvillette crouched in the corner of his cell, unable to find sleep. The strangeness of this decision filled him with apprehension and a nauseating dizziness that swept over his mind like the waves meeting a shore. Maybe it was just another add-on to their situation, some desperate measure they were forced to take to ease the tension in the current circumstances. But could he honestly picture Wriothesley taking advantage of everything, already broken down by the harsh treatment, to secure his place on the throne? No doubt such a thing could happen, but it didn't seem right that Neuvillette would agree to anything like that.

A man dressed in Gardes' uniform entered his cell again, empty-handed. "Your Highness." He called and waited for a response, but there was none. The rustling of the straw in the corner was the only sound that escaped from the prisoner's cell. The Gardes sighed and walked into the cell.

The Prince had not moved. He sat on his bedroll, staring at some point past the far wall. His face was pale and drawn. At his hairline, sweat trickled down into one of his eyes; he didn't wipe it away.

"His Majesty has granted your release," The Gardes announced after a long pause.

Neuvillette turned towards him slowly as if he were moving through syrup rather than air. His eyes were empty and unreadable, focused inward on something dark and awful, like looking into a great abyss or staring into death itself. "I have yet to give him the answer," Neuvillette said quietly.

"I understand," the Gardes replied after another long pause, during which neither man tried to speak further. After another moment, he added, "His Majesty had expected Your Highness to say it."

Neuvillette closed his eyes,  of course . Of course, Wriothesley would already have predicted how Neuvillette would've responded. Years of manipulation made him an open book in Wriothesley's eyes; it made him feel naked and vulnerable. The thought of someone who knew his mind better than him scared Neuvillette. After a moment of silence, he spoke again, his words stilted as though they were pulled from his throat with a string attached to his spine. "I presume he had prepared a response, then?"

The Gardes nodded. "His Majesty said that he knows the answer already."

Something burned in Neuvillette's throat. The contempt of being seen as a fool made him want to change his answer just to spite him. He felt his own face burning as he thought of the humiliation he'd suffered.

He didn't, much to his own disappointment. Neuvillette was not that stupid to assume he had the luxury to think about his own selfish desires when he knew there was at least one argument that he and Wriothesley could agree on: the imminent threat from rebellions would hurt innocent civilians significantly before they could even get to touch a strand of Wriothesley's hair.

The Gardes walked closer and offered Neuvillette a thick robe for him to wear. It seemed like Wriothesley didn't want people to see Neuvillette walk away from this underground prison, looking like  a prisoner . "Please come with me, Your Highness." Neuvillette looked up, and from a close distance, he only realized that he recognized this Gardes as someone who had been working for Palais Mermonia all along, opposite to a rebel that Wriothesley brought with him.

A royal decree had freed him. After days of confinement, his mind still swirled with questions and doubts. Doubts about his judgment, goals, life, and what it had become. He was being released under the watch of armed Gardes and escorted back upstairs into an immense marble hallway to the third floor. Neuvillette realized midway that this Gardes wasn't taking him to his old chamber, but instead, he led Neuvillette to his mother's old room. Neuvillette remembered the route to his mother's chamber, and he could practically find his way here with his eyes closed, but when the Gardes opened the door, the room had been completely redecorated.

It was as if his mother was never here.

He told the Gardes to leave, and the door behind him was closed.

The first thing Neuvillette did after his weeks of imprisonment was wash himself clean. He didn't even wait for the maid to help him; he just wanted to get rid of everything as quickly as possible.

For a moment, he just sat inside the bathtub, blinking, before he poured water on his head. Soaping himself vigorously, he scrubbed every inch of his body, head, and hair. He rinsed himself in the icy water and soaped his hair again, shaking it like a dog, trying to free himself from the accumulated dirt, sweat, and filth. Finally, he toweled himself dry and put on his clothes.

He couldn't remember the last time he had slept or eaten, and he could feel a faint scratch on his cheek, wrists, and ankles where the barbs of the cuffs had ripped him. It felt like an eternity ago that he had stumbled into that cell, and now he was back into a familiar routine.

He left the bathroom, and a table was set with food. This time, Neuvillette ate without appetite, spoke without sound, and walked back into the bed. He was a free man, but his freedom was an empty one. He was still a prisoner in his own mind, and he could feel the chains of his servitude around him.

He curled on the bed, desperately trying to pick up his mother's scent, which no longer lingered in this chamber, and drifted asleep.

When Neuvillette woke up, the sky had turned orange. Soon enough, it'd be dinner time. Neuvillette looked around the empty chamber, his mind unable to focus on anything. He had tried to summon the energy to call for a maid but had only ended up pacing the room in circles. Eventually, a maid knocked on his door and walked in with Neuvillette's old wardrobe so that he could change into something more comfortable. When the maid entered, Neuvillette could tell from her expression that something was wrong.

"Oh my Archons! Your Highness, you lost weight!" The maid with rosy brown hair yelped. "Did you not like what Arouet made? I knew it! Everyone knew it! We told him he was using a tad bit too much spice but he insisted on it because he was worried that the temperature would’ve been too cold for Your Highness." She continued rambling for a while while Neuvillette stared at her in disbelief.

"Sedene?"

"Yes, Your Highness?" Sedene responded so easily that for a second, Neuvillette thought he was dreaming.

Not just the Gardes, but Sedene, Arouet, and presumably more others, were still at Palais Mermonia. Carrying out their work as if nothing happened. As if there wasn't a coup just a few weeks ago. "You—are you okay?"

"Why would I not be—ah," The realization hit Sedene, and she suddenly turned pale. "I apologize, Your Highness! I didn't mean to—"

"It's okay, I just want to know if you've been faring well after—" Neuvillette didn't finish his sentence. The thought of talking about the coup out loud was still too much for him to bear.

Sedene, thankfully, picked up the cue. "That night , His Gr—His Majesty ordered all staff to evacuate to East Pavillion. We thought he was here to help. After all, he and Your Highness were very close." Sedene began to explain what happened to the staff on that fateful night. East Pavillion was physically detached from the main building of Palais Mermonia. Most of the staff lived there, so it was the only isolated building with all the necessary utilities to function autonomously. Gathering them there was less likely to keep them hostage but more like a safe house situation. "We are unharmed, but understanding what happened took a few days. When we were allowed to leave, His Majesty ordered us to work like usual. Yet, His Majesty said he would let us go if we did not wish to work at Palais Mermonia anymore. So, some people left."

"I see."

"It's not because they don't trust His Majesty, though! He offered to pay us for the next three months after we resigned to cover our income while we find a new job." Sedene said again. That is understandable, Neuvillette, though. After all, that sum of money at once would've tempted many people. Somehow, it saddened Neuvillette a little that monetary enticement could move people. Still, perhaps they were scared and skeptical, knowing that they would've had to serve a cold-blooded killer--"Actually, those who do not trust His Majesty chose to stay."

Neuvillette blinked. That sounded the exact opposite of what his presumption was. "Why?"

Sedene smiled, looking at Neuvillette like he was so silly for asking such an obvious question. "Because you are still here, Prince Neuvillette."

Hearing a claim for such loyalty tugs a string in Neuvillette's heart. He could only imagine their skepticism and distrust, and who knew what kind of trouble and new people Wriothesley would bring into Palais Mermonia. And yet, they stayed here because they knew Neuvillette had to stay at Palais Mermonia with a man who slained his entire family. Neuvillette was expecting to go through this all alone, but knowing that he still had familiar faces supporting him from behind made him a little more hopeful of the future.

"Thank you, Sedene. I really appreciate that." For the first time in a long time, Neuvillette could at least recognize that his smile was genuine this time. His eyes glistened with emotion he thought had already died.

"I—" Sedene seemed like she wanted to say something. She looked at Neuvillette's eyes as if she was searching for permission, but Neuvillette looked at her so kindly, as if he was reassuring Sedene that nothing she could say could upset him. "I'm very sorry for your loss." Neuvillette’s smile falter a bit. Ashamed that the fact that his father was murdered and his mother was nowhere to be found escaped him. "If there is anything we can do, no matter how trivial, please order us to do so. We wish to help you."

Neuvillette looked at Sedene, wondering what she saw in this cold, unyielding place that a stranger had taken over. What did Neuvillette do to deserve loyal people like her and others who chose to stay? Neuvillette felt a lump rise in his throat, knowing that he was still responsible for taking care of the servants. He could not remain in the shadows forever.

Suddenly, another knock broke the silence. "Your Highness, may I enter?" Neuvillette heard another familiar voice, quite unexpected compared to Sedene's presence here.

"Yes." Neuvillette responded, and the door opened. Neuvillette saw a woman with blue hair walked in. "Matron Sigewinne—"

"Dear Archons, you are thin as a bone. Did you not like what Arouet made?" Sigewinne immediately commented. She looked as concerned as Sedene was, but hearing Sigewinne saying it, Sedene chuckled.

"I was just saying that, Matron." The maid chimed in.

It finally hit Neuvillette that they were talking about his prison meal. Some seemed aware of Neuvillette's circumstances, and Arouet was ordered to prepare a meal for Neuvillette as usual. He felt slightly guilty for wasting those foods now that he knew his people prepared them with great care and sympathy for his predicament. Neuvillette made a mental note to find and apologize to Arouet later.

Sigewinne and Sedene exchanged looks, and Sedene immediately stepped away to leave. "How are you feeling, Your Highness?" Sigewinne then asked as she placed her bag on the table and pulled out her medical supplies.

"I am not sure."

"May I take a look, then? If Your Highness feels any discomfort, please let me know."

Neuvillette nodded and allowed Sigewinne to examine him. Sigewinne took his pulse and temperature while speaking gently and calmly. She then listened to his chest and abdomen with a stethoscope and asked him some questions about his condition in prison.

It brought back something so familiar, Neuvillette thought. However, it had been long since the last time Sigewinne examined Neuvillette like this for a particular reason.

“Matron,” Neuvillette called. "Didn't you move out to work for Meropide?"

Chapter Text

Wriothesley wondered if he was seeing double because he needed new glasses or because he'd been staying awake for the past forty hours. His eyes were tired, swollen puddles behind his lids, thick and leaden, beyond any semblance of sleep. He stared at the ceiling, his vision veiled in a film of imperfection. Would the view change if he had blinked twenty times rather than ten?

He should have been exhausted, but his body refused to respond. It was as if his mind and body were operating on different timelines. Even though he had barely slept, every time Wriothesley closed his eyes, and those were mostly at odd moments throughout the day, a strange warmth flooded through him and washed over him in powerful but undirected waves of tranquility, as if an island lay just beyond the horizon waiting for him to explore its shores. This feeling had taken control of his mind and body without regard for reality or logic.

Rubbing the bridge of his nose, Wriothesley was still wearing reading glasses that belonged to his father, the late Duke. They were old-fashioned reading glasses with a convex lens, the frames curved slightly inward at the temples. Wriothesley used to love them because they made him feel like a duke already, even if only in his imagination. He remembered that when he was younger, he wore it and pretended to talk like him, much to his father's amusement. He would pretend he was more intelligent than he was and even act out conversations with him. His father would laugh, and Wriothesley always felt better when he wore glasses and pretended to be someone important. It was usually followed by his mother's kind reminder that Wriothesley should not overwork himself, or he would need glasses one day.

After his parents died, Wriothesley left everything intact. It wasn't until he noticed the circles and blurriness in his vision that he pulled out the desk drawer and saw his father's glasses. He simply began wearing them whenever he had to work from his office. He didn't know if the glasses were meant for him; he just thought it was convenient.

Wriothesley closed his eyes again when he heard the noise from outside his office getting louder and closer with every foot stomp. “You—you are unbelievable!” Jurieu yelled.

“Speak to yourself!” Lourvine retorted.

Both doors were opened simultaneously, and they walked into the office and turned at Wriothesley simultaneously. For two people who were constantly fighting, they were comically in harmony. “Your Majesty!”

“Celestia, won’t you just simmer?” Wriothesley glared at Lourvine and Jurieu. If they didn't know better, they would've assumed the King was genuinely concerned about their inability to stand each other. “Just marry each other already.” He said again, but instead of quickly dismissing such a morbid idea from Wriothesley's mind, they remained silent at first and looked at each other.

Those who had been working for the King since he was a Duke knew that Wriothesley was not exactly the most uncomplicated man to read. That was until his accent slipped out occasionally, which meant he was completely stressed. His authentic accent sounded like an oil drum being shaken and beaten, sharp words clanging together and reverberating in your skull. A deep baritone. His voice was so deep, masculine burr tinged with a hint of raspiness, heavy lilt was broad and strong, it carried a hint of the wind, a heirloom of the past that was carried through time on the ocean of West. When Wriothesley was first brought to the Court of Fontaine, someone from Palais Mermonia told him to lose the accent because it would've clashed with the Prince; the way he tossed his words out with a complete lack of rhythm, a kind of staccato diction, a strange hybrid of the formal upbringing as an heir of a dukedom and the uneducated subjects he grew up around that he cared about very deeply.

Lourvine nudged Jurieu’s arm rather harshly, and the man cleared his throat. He stepped forward and handed Wriothesley a brown paper folder titled “Reports from Belleau Region.”

Wriothesley flipped open the folder and skimmed through the written report. According to their intel, while the civilians were still unsure about what to make of this sudden transfer of power, it all remained a topic they talked about as they passed each other. Nothing too unusual, just that Wriothesley didn’t have the most stellar reputation because he was a virtually unknown figure and staged a coup.

It was impossible to get rid of every supporter of the old King, not to mention the possibility that a third party could emerge and exploit this turbulence to stir troubles on the street by using the Crown Prince’s name. Those people would not be pleased with anything Wriothesley could’ve offered, and he had no intention of letting them leech onto the power of Palais Mermonia with that kind of principle. It would’ve been easier to lure them out at once when he was merely a Duke, but it wasn’t a trick that Wriothesley could use as a King. The risk was not worth the rats.

Wriothesley closed the folder and began writing a letter. At the same time, he asked, “ What about Liffey ?”

Wriothesley meant Meropide, but it was inappropriate for them to mention that name for one reason or another. Lourvine answered, “ They can handle themselves; there is nothing to report for now. Here, ” It was her turn to hand Wriothesley her report. The list of people who had found a new job. Spina de Rosula is currently housing the remaining staff until they find a new job at Poisson, per Baroness Caspar’s promise .”

“Is Monglane there? Tell her to take care of their salaries, there are still two more months of unclaimed pay. Also, find Cornelia and ask her to hand these to the Palais Mermonia’s staffs who decided to resign. ” Wriothesley pointed at a stack of identical yet handwritten letters of recommendation from him. Lourvine nodded and took the letters, and around the same time, they heard another knock, so she decided to walk outside to see who it was.

Meanwhile, Wriothesley added his signature to the letter and handed it to Jurieu. “ And deliver this to Dame Clorinde .”

“W here should we investigate next ?”

“ She will investigate Fleuve Cendre.” Wriothesley said. Fleuve Cendre was an underground hub in the Court of Fontaine, and while the most negative connotation the place had was being a slum rather than a place to discuss shady business, the hypothetical angry rebels could use Fleuve Cendre as their basis of operation since people of all background came and go at Court of Fontaine so they could’ve blended easily, rather than to gather in a more secluded area. They could plausibly communicate remotely, too, but Wriothesley has yet to find any ground base to intercept Fontaine’s postal.

“Didn’t Edwin say the Research Institute had been rebuilt? I can’t find its ledgers.” The auditing of the Royal treasury had been a complete mess. Money and assets were gone without traces, and rejected proposals were recorded by Maison Gestion, but Maison Ordalie’s records said they granted funds for the rejected proposals. There were continuous withdrawals from the Treasury, some of which didn’t match the annual reports.

Jurieu nodded, confirming that the Research Institute was rebuilt mostly thanks to individual donations and collective manpower to care for its labor. They didn’t even have the money to purchase books for their library. One of its researchers from the old days, Edwin, moved to Meropide under peer pressure because people thought he was one of the people responsible for the experiment that blew up the Research Insitute in the first place. “ Edwin most likely returned to the Research Institute. Should I contact him?”

“Yes. We need to talk to the people who were responsible for supervising the renovation .”

“Y our Majesty, ” Lourvine peeked from outside the door, knocking once. “ Someone from the Maison Gardiennage says she will agree to give her testimony .”

“Send her in.”

Then, behind Lourvine, a young woman with an eyepatch and purple hair walked in. She looked smaller than Jurieu expected, having seen how most Gardes looked, but he knew better now not to judge someone based on their appearance.

“You are—Chevreuse, right?” Wriosthesley asked.

“Correct.”

“So, the Gardes knew.”

“A few of them have loose lips .”

Lourvine and Jurieu could’ve sworn the Gardes and the King were smiling in unison. Soon enough, they would understand the reason why.

Chevreuse began telling the room what information she’d gathered from her coworkers about how the previous royal inner circle moved around Palais Mermonia. Of course, their closest personal retainers perished during the coup, and the next best thing was gathering reliable testimonies. Still, many feared that it was merely a trap and that Wriothesley would’ve instead punished them for being snitches.

Of course, Wriothesley had his own way of investigating. His back channels were more impressive than Spina de Rosula itself, but his Achilles’ heel was, of course, the legitimacy of his sources. So, he’d rather double-check his intel with more reliable sources.

“What’s the catch?” The King asked, raising an eyebrow.

Satisfied that Wriothesley quickly caught on her true intention, Chevreuse answered. “I want my own Division.”

“A nd what would that be ?”

“Surveillance.”

“Can you lead?”

“Sure, why not.”

Well, that was interesting, Wriothesley thought. This woman was utterly unfazed and unbothered, and she walked into her usurper king’s office without any hint of hesitation. It was apparent that Chevreuse was loyal to Palais Mermonia and didn’t necessarily care about who was sitting on the throne, which could’ve been a problem for someone like Wriothesley, whose morality had already clashed once with Maison Gardiennage, but at the same time, she was someone Wriothesley would like to keep around this place for a long-term goal.

As the two discussed her... incentive further, another Gardes, Thierry, entered the office. “ Your Majesty, that reporter from The Steambird is here again .”

Wriothesley sighed. To say that Charlotte was relentless was an understatement; she would come to Palais Mermonia every single day, asking for an audience with Wriothesley, and every time she handed the list of questions she’d wanted to ask for reviews, Wriothesley returned the list after crossing off questions he didn’t want to answer. Charlotte would return the next day by replacing those with more outrageous questions.

He was going to tell Thierry to refuse Charlotte, but he noticed that Chevreuse was rolling her eyes in what could’ve only been described as a way to say, "Oh, that woman. "

The newfound information that this Gardes and that reporter knew each other gave Wriothesley a different idea. “ Let her in, " he said instead, then nodded at Chevreuse. Try to stop her relentless attempt to pry on my business. ” The woman opened her mouth to protest, but Wriothesley quickly added, “ Consider it a test .”

With no chance to say anything else, Chevreuse left, and Thierry, standing near the door the entire time, took his turn approaching Wriothesley.

“A letter from the officiant. ” He said, carrying a silver plate with a sealed letter on it. Carefully, Wriothesley ripped the envelope, took a few seconds to read the letter's content, and then placed the letter inside his desk drawer.

“ I ’m getting married in three days.” That was all he said. Wriothesley said it in such a dispassionate tone as if an accountant were tallying up his finances. It was so matter-of-fact and made people wonder what was on Wriothesley's mind. He paid it no more attention and returned to his work in an instant. “ The water level is rising in Morte Region. Half of the East Slopes of Mont Automnequi suffered quite a severe flood. ” Morte Region was increasingly inaccessible by road. Torrential rains had caused the river to overflow its banks, submerging quite a lot of its area. There had been a warning for a month, but unfortunately, the evacuation didn't start until the first casualty was reported. Wriothesley only discovered now that the warning about the flood risk never reached this office. "Is it possible for them to travel?"

"It appears so." Jurieu said.

"Contact the hospital and have everyone examined. This area was prone to contamination risk in the past so move the temporary shelter to Erinnyes. Check for additional hazards after waters recede and begin to plan for restoration with local authorities as soon as possible. As for the fund, take it from my private account for now. Just talk to Alvard about it. ” The order was clear and concise. 

“Not from Treasury?”

“U ntil we sort out the assets in the Treasury, we are not touching anything .”

The more Neuvillette read the newspaper articles, the more devastated he became.

Sigewinne had explained that the previous Queen, his mother, and several other noble ladies were immediately sentenced to exile with their handmaidens by Wriothesley on the day of the coup. Unfortunately, Sigewinne wouldn’t know where Neuvillette’s mother was sent to, as she had just summoned from Liffey Region two days before Neuvillette’s release from prison. Sigewinne had said that Wriothesley specifically asked her to return to Palais Mermonia because of her good rep with Neuvillette. Still, he couldn’t help but wonder if it was just another way for Wriothesley to keep his eyes on him, seeing that Sigewinne had become one of his people for the past five years.

It certainly didn’t help that the following morning, a Gardes came to inform him that the marriage between him and Wriothesley would be set in two days. Indeed, Wriothesley could not even find it in him to tell Neuvillette in person, even though they were in this together for the performance of a lifetime.

He couldn’t muster any energy to do anything that day. When Sedene came with his breakfast, he asked for the newspaper from the day of the coup to the latest one, but he didn’t wait for her before returning to sleep. Not until much later, when Neuvillette was awakened with a sore body and starved stomach, did he pick up the newspaper and lay it all on the floor, reading each one one by one, each one that only contained more and more horrible news.

Duke of Meropide and his followers entered Palais Mermonia during the week-long celebration of the first month of Spring, where the direct relatives of the Royal Family and privy heads were staying. They marched mere minutes before midnight, and it had been confirmed that His Majesty the King died around two in the morning. As the person who committed the regicide, the last Duke of Meropide, Wriothesley, claimed the throne by usurpation.

Over the next week, the news was filled with confirmation of the prisoner’s execution. None of them were shown publicly, and the whereabouts of their remains were undisclosed. No news about the Queen and the Crown Prince. The news speculated that the two of them were either escaped from Fontaine or already executed.

The second week after the coup gave no indication about what would happen to the remaining prisoners; it seemed like none of them would be given such treatment because just as people began to lose hope, At the beginning of the second week since the coup, Palais Mermonia released a statement that the King and the Prince were discussing a treaty. They would follow this statement until the two parties reached an agreement. They also confirmed that the Queen had left Fontaine.

Neuvillette’s engagement to Wriothesley came out in an edition published yesterday morning. The title page stated, 'A Royal Wedding is Inevitable!' and 'Prince Neuvillette will wed His Majesty the King Wriothesley in a Private Civil Ceremony.' Upon reading the articles, many Fontainians voiced their opinions. Some were skeptical, more people were ecstatic and hopeful, and very few seemed indifferent. It reminded Neuvillette that he agreed to this marriage for them and not to save his neck from the gallow.

“Y our Highness, this is Liath. ” A maid knocked on the door. Liath, the young maid who had been with Neuvillette since he was a child, bowed her head before walking from the room. “Dinner is ready.”

“C ould you bring my dinner to my room? ” Neuvillette said, still sitting on the ground surrounded by crumpled newspapers. He didn't look like he was in the mood for company today. Or ever. “ And from now on, I will take my meal here, thank you .”

“D ozing off again, aren’t you, Your Majesty. ” He heard Sigewinne's voice before seeing her walking towards his desk. She sauntered into Wriothesley's office with a voice that had a knowing twang to it.

Wriothesley smirked, eyes still closed. “What can I say? Hustle never ends.”

“ I t’s because you are skipping meals again. ” Sigewinne disapproved of Wriothesley's lack of self-care for his health. “ Now, more than ever, you ought to care for your body. ” Sigewinne gently slapped Wriothesley's arm so he'd open his eyes.

She had brought him a tray of dinner and a small blue ampule. Wriothesley stretched and reached for the ampule before Sigewinne stopped him. “ Dinner first, and then you will take that before you sleep. ” She said. Out of anyone, Sigewinne might be the only person alive whom Wriothesley let order him like this. “ Don’t tell me you have not left your office all day .”

Wriothesley leaned back in his chair and held his pen between his fingers like an artist with a brush. “I’ve been busy.” He answered as he whipped his head towards her.

“Busy doing what?” She asked sarcastically, and Wriothesley humored her.

“B usy administrating the kingdom .”

“And how is that going?”

“ I t’s going well, Matron, thank you for asking, ” Wriothesley answered quietly before eating his dinner, knowing Sigewinne was watching him. He teased her about her worries about his health, and she scolded him gently. For someone who could talk so freely and ordered the King like this, she looked like she couldn't be older than twenty-five, but that would also mean Sigewinne had looked twenty-five since Wriothesley was ten years old. Sigewinne's features were delicate, her skin dusky and smooth, and she just had one of those faces, the ones who hardly aged.

"Why wouldn't you just come down when dinner's ready?"

“I don’t think he wants to see me in the dining room, no? ” Wriothesley said again. From the look of disappointment in Sigewinne's eyes, it was apparent that she knew who Wriothesley was talking about. “How is he?”

“H is Highness simply needs a lot of rest .”

“Did he ask?”

“Yes.” Sigewinne nodded. Just like Wriothesley said, the first thing he'd ask would be the Queen's whereabouts.

Wriothesley brought Sigewinne here because her connection to Meropide was long enough for Neuvillette to assume that Sigewinne was in it with the coup since the beginning and knew all of Wriothesley's plan, but they knew each other very well from the past that Neuvillette would dare to confront Sigewinne with that question. Had another person been in charge of nurturing Neuvillette back to health, Wriothesley doubted that he'd open up this soon, assuming those people were as oblivious as he was. “ I told him as much within my right.” Proving Sigewinne's lack of knowledge about the details would immediately dissipate Neuvillette's suspicion of Sigewinne, too. Ultimately, it all turned out just like what Wriothesley had anticipated; Neuvillette quickly caught up with the news because now he knew he had to find out about it himself. “ If His Highness wishes for more details, he must hear the truth from Your Majesty. It cannot be helped since I don’t know the answer anyway .”

Wriothesley chuckled, but there was a hint of sadness in his hollowed laugh: an echo, deep inside his aching head, of strangled wheezing, scarily soft, like a voice from a dream, like it could sneak up on you.  He doubted that Neuvillette would want to hear anything he had to say anyway, but Wriothesley did not wish to keep him in the dark completely. For now, he could only give Neuvillette the push he needed to learn about the truth himself. “ That’s the point of exile, right?” They want to be free from the bonds of the homeland so that they can be happy and unencumbered. He didn't say. “ So they won’t return and trouble us. And vice versa.”

Chapter Text

Neuvillette counted the days like someone under house arrest. It was bitter cold, and the woods were filled with wild white flowers. He tried to take comfort from the steady budding of the trees. This was new life; surely some of it would rub off on him?

Sedene, Liath, and Kiara worked swiftly and precisely to help Neuvillette prepare. Layers of clothing managed to disguise how skinny he’d been, and Liath had insisted on putting on a bit of makeup to hide Neuvillette’s pale complexion and bags under his eyes. She loved to style Neuvillette’s long hair, and he’d let her do anything. Today, she went with a simple low-hair tail.

Neuvillette, however, felt like he was shoved into a box with a hole in it. It felt like death. Ghoulish pounding and gonging in his mind that he wanted to ask for sedation. The problem was that Neuvillette was not supposed to move. He had no choice but to brace himself and go on with it, except he knew his heart was racing like mad, and Neuvillette couldn’t think of anything but the noise. All he could think of was hell. This was death.

“H is Highness is truly the most beautiful person in Fontaine. ” He heard Liath beamed in excitement. “ It’s such a shame that not everyone gets to see this in person. The Steambird better capture your good side !”

“N ow, now, Liath, what would that be, then? ” Sedene asked.

“H is Highness looks good from every angle, so.. .”

Neuvillette needed to think of something quiet and soothing, but quiet and soothing images failed to come. Nothing in his memory could coax laughter in his heart, none that didn’t have Wriothesley in it, at least. He was too numb to cry, but he was in too much agony to think whether he was numbed by pain, sorrow, gratitude, love, shame, panic, revulsion—for he felt all there at once, the fear of his body giving out on him each time he hesitated.

“You’re ready.” Sedene said, and for the first time, he attempted to look at his reflection in front of the standing mirror.

The unlovable child stared back at him, wearing his face. So? So, that it all came down to this, didn’t it? This moment, this marriage, this man he fell in and out of love with, this fire in his gut, this chamber that belonged to his mother—all of it added up to one thing: there was no hope, and things were far worse than he feared.

“I t’s too soon, and I don’t know if it’s appropriate for me to say but, ” Kiara’s fingers fidgeted, and Neuvillette understood the cue. He extended his hand towards Kiara, and she grabbed it with both hands. “ May your marriage be blessed with happiness !”

Smiling, all Neuvillette could think of as he stood there was fear—fear exposed, fear of daring and being caught daring, fear of wanting and hoping so severely. “Thank you.” He said instead. He could not let them know. He had to mull this lie a while longer, all life long, until it lost its pungency and became as ordinary as the water itself. “ From the bottom of my heart, thank you .”

For the first time since they met in prison, Neuvillette saw Wriothesley standing outside his chamber. He wore a black coat and had black hair. Neuvillette used to think it was his mourning attire, but if that was the case, the grief of losing his parents never left him until he became an adult. Neuvillette would’ve told Wriothesley that black-suited him if it was another time. He would’ve imagined Wriothesley with him; what would they say to each other?

There was a stunned moment of silence. Neuvillette could feel Wriothesley staring, yet he was tranquil and collected, smiling probably, like a nurse bending down to wipe the sweat off a wounded soldier’s face with a damp sponge. Neuvillette almost looked down to see what exactly about him that Wriothesley was staring at, but Wriothesley had already spoken. “Are you ready?”

“Yes.”

It's as if Neuvillette could wring some extra drops of time. As if the clock had rogue minutes hidden behind its steady hands. Minutes available only to Wriothesley. As though running into class, as the bell tolled nine o’clock , would save Neuvillette three hundred seconds of wasted...what?

“You look good.” Wriothesley turned and began walking. You look good, bleeding soldier, you know, in a suicide mission—that was how Neuvillette heard it. The shame made things worse—Neuvillette didn’t know if Wriothesley not saying anything would’ve been better than his non-commital, practiced remark. He did not love Neuvillette, maybe not even liked him initially, but Neuvillette was tolerable and part of the job . Wriothesley stared intently at the hallway before them as though resolving to ignore Neuvillette.

Neuvillette obediently walked by his side. With an almost clumsy fluidity, his hand brushed the tip of Wriothesley's glove, then moved higher to lock their hands together palm-to-palm. When he was still reaching out to do this, Wriothesley pulled away, pulling up a sleeve to conceal the momentary hardening of his fingers. “ Not now; there’s no need for that yet,” Wriothesley said quietly, and Neuvillette could feel his cheeks burning flame. “ I will tell you when, and you can take my hand whenever you’re ready .”

Neuvillette didn’t reply. Wriothesley took their ‘ act ’ precisely, actual to his words that he would not touch Neuvillette more than necessary. The hallway was empty, and no one could see them right now, so there was no need to act like they were two madly in love couples about to get married.

In a way, it might be good to wait for Wriothesley’s signal. Neuvillette couldn’t trust himself that the line between the act and the genuine touch-starved desire wouldn’t become blurry, and Wriothesley clearly treated this as nothing more than part of his job. Unlike Neuvillette, Wriothesley didn’t harbor any feelings towards the other. Marrying Neuvillette was part of his job, and Neuvillette was sure his heart belonged somewhere else. Maybe he’d bring that woman into Palais Mermonia to carry an heir for the King, which meant the woman would’ve carried Neuvillette’s child so that he could pass down his royal blood to someone. And once Wriothesley had a royal baby, Neuvillette would’ve been discarded away, and he could marry the mistress, and they would live happily ever after, dancing on Neuvillette’s unmarked grave.

Yeah, that sounded about right. Wriothesley must’ve had a plan like that.

Right before they made a right turn towards the meeting room, Wriothesley finally said. “Now.” And instinctively, Neuvillette turned to face Wriothesley. How he wished he didn’t . As if he was a completely different person than a mere seconds ago, Wriothesley smiled at Neuvillette as though he’d been laughing at something Neuvillette had just said to him, and borrowing the mir, he started in another context. He’d given Neuvillette his hand, and as soon as Neuvillette saw from the corner of his vision the sight of the Gardes, he took Wriothesley’s hand and pretended like he wanted to laugh at punch lines he hadn’t heard but whose drift corresponded to a sense of humor that was not his.

This was what marriage meant to both of them. It created the illusion of intimacy, of a friendship briefly interrupted and urgently resumed as love. Neuvillette held Wriothesley’s hand to say he had gotten the message. The Gardes opened the door for them, and Wriothesley chuckled, maybe in self-mockery, a sign that he’d admit that Neuvillette’s reading of his feint was close to the truth; he laughed to show their game was so much fun .

When The Steambird reported that the wedding would be held privately, they really meant it; inside the meeting room, aside from the new Privy Council that Neuvillette assumed consisted of Wriothesley’s allies, there was a report from The Steambird, a couple of Gardes, a Gestionnaire, and the Pastoress. Neuvillette felt like he knew this officiant—Focalors, wasn’t it? He believed her daughter was a theatrical starlet, not that he ever saw the daughter perform in person. Neuvillette couldn’t remember if there was any significant memory of him ever stepping out of Palais Mermonia.

Everything else flashed in Neuvillette’s mind. The greetings, the oaths, the watchful eyes that could’ve picked Neuvillette’s lie apart if he didn’t yield. Wriothesley and Neuvillette exchanged their wedding rings. The ring was a platinum band in Neuvillette's finger and gold for Wriothesley, weighing even in his hand. It was warm and glistened in the light. The reporter, Charlotte, flashed her kamera at them and stared with a knowing expression that was all too common around these places, but she did not understand their feelings. She did not know who had come to reign over whom. Neuvillette could already imagine tomorrow's article; it marked the union between old and new reigns, the royal blood remained in power, and two lovers bound together in a world that did not understand them.

He couldn’t hear what Pastoress Focalors was saying; another speech to bless them? Or something else? What did people do during their wedding anyway? Neuvillete was about to find out.

Wriothesley held Neuvillette’s hand on his wait while he brought his other hand up, his fingers carefully placed on Neuvillette’s chin and, then he kissed Neuvillette on the forehead, letting their hands lingered, as though the hands were part of the kiss. It unsettled Neuvillette more than his act, but he knew he had to keep quiet and focus on the kiss but was too flustered. Without thinking, Neuvillette clutched to Wriothesley’s shirt; its fabric belied every cutting inflection in Wriothesley’s kiss, in his face, his body.

Neuvillette then realized that he was reduced to almost something. Almost was almost a useless word. Sometimes, it served no purpose but to add rhythm, cadence, and two extra syllables to a sentence, like that guest invited at the last minute to fill an empty seat at a dinner table. He didn’t talk too much, wouldn’t annoy anyone, and disappeared as quietly as he’d arrived.

And yet, no word was useless or should be allowed to die simply because it cast a long shadow and perhaps was all shadow. Almost was a shadow word, like Neuvillette had accepted his fate as Wriothesley’s shadow. A quick and random sweep through his memories revealed how many times he never quite really lived through something: almost never, almost always, almost certainly, almost ready, almost willing, almost impulsively, almost as though, almost immediately, almost everywhere, almost kind, almost cruel, almost exciting, almost home, almost asleep, almost dead.

He looped his hands around Wriothesley’s arm and followed him everywhere like a stringer, a filler. An extra syllable just that required fuzziness, like ambiguity in an instance of candor. A halt in mid-speech, an additional tap on the piano’s pedal, a suggestion of doubt and degree, of resonance and approximation, where straight, flat surfaces were the norm.

To fill something in his mind, Neuvillette recalled the story of La Princesse de Clèves, a personal favorite of his mother: “She asked herself why she had done something so perilous, and she concluded that she had embarked on it almost without thinking.” Had she really not thought of it, or had she thought of it but didn’t want to admit it? The author, Madame de La Fayette, didn’t seem to know or want to know. She wanted her character to seem a touch more guileless than might seem appropriate. After all, the Princesse de Clèves was a model of virtue.

‘ Y ou two look very good together.’

‘ I truly believe this will make everyone in Fontaine very happy .’

‘ A s expected, even Your Majesty is not immune to His Highness’ beauty .’

The Prince was once almost the successor of the crown. Now, he was almost a real husband. It reflected a worldview where nothing was certain and where all things written could be rescinded or taken to mean the very opposite or almost the very opposite.

In the past, it would’ve suited Wriothesley more. Neuvillette liked the ambiguity; he loved the fluidity between hard fact and speculation, a game of guessing what Wriothesley was thinking. He would’ve turned to Wriothesley almost because it allowed him to feel more, to open more doors, to steer boldly and yet safely, to keep excavating and interpreting, to fathom the very recesses of the human mind, of the human heart, and of human desire. It gave Neuvillette an out in case he had strayed too far.

Today, he would laugh in front of these people with an amused expression like he could tell which one was disingenuous and desperately trying to find something else to say.

‘ I have loved the Prince ever since I met him .’

‘ I hope every Fontainian can share this blessing, too.’

‘ I t is my greatest honor that he accepted my proposa l’

In the end, it was Wriothesley himself who softened the conscious irony. This whole thing was spreading on his words even before they left Neuvillette’s mouth, as though Neuvillette’s concerns about them had never occurred to him before. Perhaps he was trying to dispel everyone’s doubts about Neuvillette and himself as a couple, but didn’t want them totally dismissed either.

There was not a day where Wriothesley’s words and actions did not slip in to mollify and mitigate anything Neuvillette presumed of him. Wriothesley, deliberate or not, had his way of undoing what Neuvillette thought, casting doubt and remaining uncertain, untethered, unmoored, and unaligned because there were no boundaries. Neuvillette had learned to hate those days but missed each one. What a lovely, straightforward outlook you have, Wriothesley, if only those were your honest thoughts. Neuvillette only spoke of it with his inner self because voicing it out loud would seem condescending or, worse, sarcastic. To match him, Neuvillette couldn’t show that he felt for paradox and had seen how far they could grope together in the murky terrain of guarded ambiguities uttered in attempted small talks.

‘ H is Majesty is the most interesting person I have ever met .’

‘ I wish everyone to know how happy I am right now .’

‘ T ruthfully, I never imagined anyone else to be my husband other than His Majesty .’

Two truths and a lie; Neuvillette was playing the game with his inner demon.

What happened to Wriothesley?

It was a question that plagued Neuvillette, branching out from his hatred. He wanted a reason to despise Wriothesley, like seeking a religion. Neuvillette thought of the black-and-white past of someone he used to be friends with and was tempted to say, " This was still you." But it was not. You didn’t stay you.

What have you done to me? Neuvillette glanced at Wriothesley, who looked straight ahead, and Neuvillette asked himself: What in Archon’s name have I done with my life? Who is this me who got cut off and never became me, the way I cut him off and never became him?

Wriothesley suddenly glanced back at Neuvillette, as if he could tell that Neuvillette had been staring. He smiled, partly because the Gardes and servants were still around to see their masquerade. Alas, Wriothesley offered no words of comfort.

Neuvillette wanted to say, " I stayed behind; you left ." You abandoned me; you abandoned who you were. I stayed behind, but you left. Neuvillette wanted to ask him who was real and who was not. But Neuvillette knew what his answer would be: neither of us .

Halfway through their walk back to Neuvillette’s chamber, Wriothesley spoke again. “ It’s okay to let go now. ” And almost immediately, Neuvillette let go and distanced himself from Wriothesley again. The side of his body that was close to Wriothesley’s was still warm from the heat of their body, but Neuvillette felt his chest was colder than ever. The way their palms caressed, there was as much good fellowship as unkindled passion in this tireless fingers rubbing. Then a long silence followed, bound to crop up between them anyway.

Wriothesley stopped a few feet away from the door. This was as far as he’d go. “ Thanks for your hard work .”

To parry his gaze, Neuvillette tried to look elsewhere and seemed distracted, as he didn’t want to show Wriothesley his struggle to keep his composure. Part of Neuvillette wanted Wriothesley to ask: Why did you suddenly drift away? Was it tiring? It was tiring for me.

Soldiers in the trench, you know?

Maybe if Wriothesley did not feel with muted organ, he’d worry that he could lose Neuvillette as Neuvillette knew he could lose Wriothesley, but also he imagined Wriothesley would’ve laughed at Neuvillette for doing precisely what he was told to do. If only Wriothesley could at least pretend like he could see through Neuvillette’s mock indifference and expose every one of his little maneuvers and by doing so, showed him that Neuvillette knew . Neuvillette knew that Wriothesley was familiar with this game; he’d played it himself many times and was playing it right now.

Neuvillette bit his tongue again as brash thoughts welled up within him. He clamored to speak, a shy man pretending to be shy. “Is that it?” Neuvillette's voice quavered. His eyes seemed to fill with tears, and his shoulders slumped forward like he was losing what little strength and control he had left. “Is that all I can do now?” He asked himself more than Wriothesley.

Neuvillette had given all his life to prepare himself so that one day, he’d be able to offer more of himself to Fontaine. It wasn’t like he was bitter that he would never be King now; what devastated him was how he couldn’t do anything but become a glorified token of union while Wriothesley did the rest. His compliance should’ve been enough to keep this kingdom harmonious, but doing nothing was not something he’d want to do with the rest of his life at Palais Mermonia now.

“W hat do you want to do, Neuvillette? ” Wriothesley asked back. He didn't sound like he was mocking Neuvillette like a dare; instead, the question was genuine. Almost like he was worried. Neuvillette had to remind himself that with this air of chronic turmoil, Wriothesley got him to mean precisely what Wriothesley had in mind for him; not because he liked to have his way but because everything about Wriothesley post-coup d’etat , his authentic self, seemed so unusally charged, craggy, and barbed.

Neuvillette had to remind himself that this fake sympathy was how Wriothesley cornered people. Even his way of arching his eyebrows warned Neuvillette he required instant submission. “Rest well.” Wriothesley said in response, almost gently. Almost like he was afraid of making harm worse than what already existed. Sandpaper turned to velour. Neuvillette wondered if this was Wriothesley’s way to defuse tension. “ And after that, we will talk about it .”

The sun had entirely disappeared by the time Wriothesley returned to his office. It was early evening, a soft pink light that spilled in through the few windowsills still adorned with wilted flowers. He walked slower through the hallway a little while, taking a deep breath of the cold, clean air and trying to clear his head. He returned to his office—well, a temporary one. To say the least. This was not his home anyway.

As soon as Wriothesley closed the office door behind him, he immediately bolted, retching violently into the sink. Vomit surged up his throat, sickening and bitter, and he barely had time to brace himself before he let loose with another brutal heave. A torrent of bilious fluids poured from his lips and splashed onto the tile. He panted for air, gasping for breath as his stomach muscles spasmed and contractions seized his abdomen. Finally, blessedly, the nausea passed and Wriothesley washed his mouth with tap water.

As soon as he had finished vomiting, Wriothesley ran a hand through his hair and over his face. Only then did he realize how exhausted he felt as if he had run a race to his office. His heart was pounding in his chest, his lungs seized for air, and his entire body was shaking.

He stumbled back to his desk, collapsing into the chair with a heavy sigh. Wriothesley had always been a fastidious man so even when sick, he had kept to his schedule and carried out his duties with military precision. This was nothing new, after all. And yet, he sat there and picked up his fountain pen, struggling to focus on the work that lay before him, but it had all been to no avail. He had been too distracted, too overwhelmed by the feeling of nausea that had been steadily growing within him.

Maybe it wasn't a physical thing that hindered him this time.

He thought perhaps he was overdoing it the other day when Sigewinne came to this office and egged him to dine. Or maybe the exhaustion finally caught up on him. Perhaps he should brew himself some tea. That used to be the answer to all his problems.

And now?

He wasn’t sure anymore. Closing his eyes, Wriothesley wondered if they had been telling the story backward. He knew he was more than blood and bones, but what it meant to be ‘ alive ’ was more than biological.

What it meant to be ‘ dead’ would be temporary.

Wriothesley officially suceeded the title of Duke of Meropide shortly after he turned twenty, making him the current youngest member of the Parliament. In theory, this should’ve put him in a certain kind of spotlight and made him the talk among noble houses: he was barely half the age of most of the senior members in the Parliament and yet he ranked above them. This should’ve been the case, however, Wriothesley opted to lay low, and planned to carry his duty as the Duke as quietly as possible.

However, his plan was cut short only a year late . When he visited Palais Mermonia again, Wriothesley requested an audience with the King instead of seeing the Crown Prince.

“ Oh, it’s you.”

Wriothesley had never personally encountered the King before, for apparent reason since his access to Palais Mermonia was highly restricted due to his status. Seeing his dismissive reaction, Wriothesley wondered if he knew who Wriothesley was other than the new Duke of Meropide; remember him? He was your son’s only friend for the past fifteen years.

“ T hank you for granting me an audience, Your Majesty. ” Wriothesley got his one knee and bowed.

“ I don’t have all time, Wriothesley. ” Oh, that was at least a good thing; the King at least remembered his name. He signaled Wriothesley to stand up. “What do you want?”

“ I am aware that I stand almost no chance, but I figure there is no harm in asking,” he begins speaking. Will you allow me to officially court His Highness the Crown Prince? Certainly, my position as the Duke of Meropide is worth consideration .”

“ Y ou won’t have the same status as him even if you marry him, do you know that ?”

“ W orry not, for I am fully aware that I will always be under His Highness .”

The King stared at him, and for once, Wriothesley stared back. He certainly had prepared answers for anything the King might throw at him. Would he ask if Wriothesley didn’t mind losing the duchy? Of course. What about heir? If His Highness wished to have a biological heir, Wriothesley would be more than happy to aid in finding a concubine. Did you think you are politically aligned with the royal family? Wriothesley had remained a pacifist, but after years of personally knowing His Highness, he was confident they shared a similar ideology. Your parents would’ve rolled on the bottom of the ocean if they knew you’d given away everything just because you couldn’t keep it between your pants? They would’ve wanted Wriothesley to find love.

Come at him , he would give his best shot to gain the King’s blessing.

“ Do you even know what Meropide really is?” The King instead sneered. Ah, so he went to hit Wriothesley where it hurt the most. “It’s a place of exile. Have you actually pay attention to your people? Even if you are a Duke, nobody will take you seriously because your people are worthless.”

Wriothesley could f eel his jaw tightened but he re mained ca lm throughout it all. The King wa s righ t ; people shunned by society would often find themselves thrown to Meropide and what followed... nobody cared to find out. Wriothesley learned very early on that the Parliament wouldn’t take him seriously because to them, he was only a Duke in title; in practicality, he was merely the administrator of a forgotten territory full of people deemed better off dead than alive.

Who wanted to strike a deal when the human resources Wriothesley could’ve offered were a bunch of nobodies? “ It must’ve been because of my lack of experience. Forgive me.”

Wriothesley almost wanted to laugh, he lost the fight before he could even present any argument. Yet, perhaps he knew he’d be flat out rejected like this but felt compelled to go through the humiliation than regret of never asking. It was okay, he hadn’t shown that he wished to pursue Neuvillette romantically anyway and they could remain friends as long as Neuvillette wished to. And when he married someone worthy of his status, he’d be the first to congratulate--

“ You’ll do.”

Wriothesley blinked, confused. Did he mishear the King? Was that an approval? But why?

What kind of person who let the future King of Fontaine marry someone who would only bring down his reputation? The King said himself, right? People’s opinion of him would’ve been reflected by whom he married--

Oh.

“ Is that so?” Wriothesley couldn’t help but chuckled . The fact that he was laughing terrified him. How everything just made sense now ; the lack of Neuvillette’s presence in front of other Lords, how Neuvillette always struggled to find an interesting thing to tell Wriothesley, the paucity of courting and even mere rumours about who was in competition to become the Crown Prince’s fiance. Oh, how these people really surrounded themselves in a tall palace surrounded by their own dirts , and they were planning to dump everything to Neuvillette once it was impossible to clean their hands off it anymore.

How revolting. Since the beginning, this father of his never intended to let his son gain any kind of power, like Cronus who knew if he wasn’t careful, his son would eat him. And this King dared to look down at Wriothesley as if he was the strangest person in the world. Maybe His Majesty was right , maybe Wriothesley was going mad at this moment.

What moved something in Wriothesley that moment, and would continue to move him for years to come, was that the passage of time could transform a person from an unsullied, uncorrupted, godlike boy into a thorough degenerate steeped in sin and damnation. Something about this charade suggested a truth about Wriothesley that he had never considered before: that he could quickly turn or was already turning and didn’t see it. He was already feeling guilty for acts he knew nothing about, much less how to commit them.

In that instant, Wriothesley was no longer the person he once was, yet he was still the same person. He was born to be this, but now he’d become that. The distance between the boy who fell in love with a prince and the yet-to-be traitor remained forever unbridgeable: past and present couldn’t be more different.

“ Y ou don’t seem satisfied with that answer. ” The King looked displeased, and Wriothesley imagined where he’d pierce his blade into this man’s body. But for now, he’d remain humble. Smile and say nothing.

However dissolute, Wriothesley was not without guilt or shame. The question remained ingrained in his heart for years to come: was there redemption for him, then? Which was another way of asking: How would I buy myself back?

(You would be the unsullied person, Wriothesley, and you would commit the worst act of murder ever recorded in man’s history: you would kill people, the way you’ve killed the innocent boy you once were, you’ve killed yourself. The moment you decided on your plan, you’ve been dead.)

If only he could go back, back, back to be nothing more than the child who’d be him one day.

Wriothesley shook his head. “ It’s because I am nothing, ” He told the King. “ I’ll always be nothing .”

Chapter Text

Neuvillette had counted the days until Wriothesley left Liffey Region to visit Court of Fontaine again. He diligently crossed out day after day for two months, and unfortunately, Neuvillette was still late to their meeting at the garden of Palais Mermonia. It was his fault, too; his tutor scolded him for losing focus and made him do extra assignments because of it, completely messed up his schedule for the rest of the day.

As soon as he was finished, Neuvillette marched to the garden. He was two hours late. Once he saw the garden, Neuvillette immediately stopped running and quickly switched to normal walking. He didn’t want to be rude by running towards Wriothesley or anything. “Wriothesley.” Neuvillette called. Part of him was happy to see Wriothesley still waiting for him at the gazebo, but he also felt guilty for making him wait. He wished Wriothesley was allowed to enter at least the library, because he could only imagine how boring it was to be sitting in this garden where Wriothesley couldn’t do anything.

When Neuvillette found him, Wriothesley was holding some kind of ornament in his hand. He put that on the table when he heard Neuvillette call him. “Good afternoon, Your Highness.” Wriothesley greeted politely, standing up and bowed slightly at the Crown Prince’s presence.

Neuvillette strode gracefully around the round table, his long legs moving in fluid strides. Wriothesley rushed to catch up with him, darting from the opposite direction and pulling out a chair for Neuvillette before returning to his seat. The polished wood of the table gleamed in the sunlight, casting a warm glow over their meeting. Neuvillette's movements were precise and elegant, like a dancer performing a carefully choreographed routine. And Wriothesley's quick actions showed his eagerness to please and assist his companion.

“What is that?” Neuvillette asked, curious about the ornament that sat next to Wriothesley’s cup of tea.

Grinning, Wriothesley took the ornament and handed it to Neuvillette. “A tassel.” He said. “I went to the city to find one for my sword.”

When Neuvillette took it, he realized the tassel was soft to the touch, but its woven strands were strong and durable. It felt like silk between the fingers but with the weight of potential danger. It was made of thin, black strands woven into a thick braid with vibrant red accents throughout, arranged in a sleek and intricate design, interspersed with flashes of red. Its colors were dark and foreboding, yet also eye-catching, as well as carrying a faint scent of leather and metal. It caught the light and shimmered, giving it an almost ethereal quality.

“Does it mean you will be given a real sword soon?” Neuvillette asked. Wriothesley's tales of sword practice never failed to capture Neuvillette' attention. The way he spoke of the art of sword fighting with such enthusiasm and passion always left Neuvillette feeling inspired. Wriothesley was a natural storyteller, his words flowing effortlessly, painting vivid images of practices and duels.

He spoke of the intricacies of different sword techniques, the strategic thinking required in a fight, and the adrenaline rush that came with a successful strike. He described the weight of the wooden sword in his hand, the way it felt as an extension of his arm, and the rush of power that surged through him as he wielded it.

Neuvillette had never held a sword in his hand, His Majesty forebode him from learning such dangerous skill because of his position as one and only heir with no spare. Yet, because of Wriothesley, at least Neuvillette could picture how it was in his head; he could almost feel the sharpness of the blade, the rigid handle against his palm, and the heat of battle on his skin. He could imagine the sound of clashing swords, the grunts of exertion, and the shouts of victory. Wriothesley's stories fueled his imagination, and it was enough. He progressed fast, with his innate talents and fast learning skills, how could he not?

To Neuvillette’s question, Wriothesley smiled and nodded affirmatively. He could see the fire in his friend's eyes, the excitement still bubbling under the surface. What a feat it was, to only be twelve years old and already considered to have mastered swordfighting. “Congratulations.” Neuvillette said. If only he knew about it beforehand, he would’ve gifted Wriothesley his first tassel to mark this wonderful achievement.

Wriothesley thanked Neuvillette as he poured him tea. Everything seemed to be going well until Neuvillette felt a sudden twinge of pain shoot through his hand as he raised his cup. He quickly concealed his trembling hand, not wanting to alarm Wriothesley. He slid his other hand under the teacup for extra support, hoping Wriothesley wouldn't notice anything was wrong.

Unfortunately, Wriothesley, keen as always, noticed. Or maybe he didn’t, because he was suddenly asking a completely unrelated question. “I’ve always wondered, why do you wear gloves all the time?”

“That is—” Neuvillette barely took a sip of his tea before he put the cup down again. “I prefer to wear gloves.” He said while avoiding Wriothesley’s stare. Neuvillette hid his hands under the table, fidgeting. He couldn’t tell Wriothesley the truth of why he hid his hands with gloves, he was too embarrassed to admit that especially to someone like Wriothesley who was the complete opposite of him.

“Can I see your hands?” Wriothesley asked. Neuvillette looked up, almost wanted to say some excuse but Wriothesley didn’t ask that question like a demand to fulfill his nosy curiosity. He asked so patiently, and the look on his eyes made Neuvillette feel Wriothesley wouldn’t mind waiting until Neuvillette agreed to comfortably showed him what was under the gloves. “I won’t say anything bad, I promise.”

Neuvillette felt hesitant, not because he didn’t trust Wriothesley but because he wondered if was it correct to assume Wriothesley had already figured out the answer himself. Would it be okay for Neuvillette to show it to Wriothesley?

Maybe. Maybe it was okay, right? Neuvillette groggily removed his gloves, but he didn’t immediately show his hands over the table for Wriothesley to see. With a heavy heart, Neuvillette looked down at his hands, the skin marred with fresh scars that burned red from today's brutal punishment at the hands of his merciless tutor, but also covered in older wounds; a stark contrast to the smooth, unblemished skin of his youth. The reminder of his failure and inadequacy stung like salt in an open wound. He couldn't help but second-guess everything, wondering if the cost was worth the pain and humiliation he endured everyday.

He had always been taught that obedience was paramount, that his duty as an heir to the country was to fulfill his tutor's every whim without question because his tutor knew best on how to train Neuvillette to become a king one day. But as he looked at the angry red scars on his hands, he couldn't help but wonder if all the lessons he'd been receiving were futile. Neuvillette had always been a studious kid, eager to please and eager to absorb knowledge, but his tutor somehow always found reason to lash out at him, physically and verbally. No matter how much Neuvillette studied, he always got something wrong every single time, and the tutor also said he was so slow with his studies.

As he was internalizing everything, Neuvillette didn’t even realize that Wriothesley had got up from his seat and made his way to Neuvillette’s side. He got on one knee and very gently took Neuvillette’s hands. Wriothesley’s hands were rough and full of callouses, but his touch was as light as a feather. He didn’t say anything, which made Neuvillette want to cry more. What did Wriothesley think of him now? Would he think less of Neuvillette?

“I am very far behind in my studies, unfortunately.” Neuvillette said quietly, he was focused on their hands; Wriothesley was still kneeling and traced his fingers over the old scars on Neuvillette's hand. Neuvillette couldn't help but think of how their relationship had begun and how easily it was for Wriothesley to convince Neuvillette to do anything he said. He had been hesitant at first when his mother introduced him to Wriothesley, thinking that he wouldn't know how to befriend a child who had just lost his parents. On top of that, Neuvillette was afraid to let anyone in, afraid of judgment and rejection. But Wriothesley had been persistent, patient, and kind, slowly chipping away at Neuvillette's walls until they came tumbling down.

Now, as Wriothesley's touch soothed his scars, Neuvillette couldn't imagine a life without him. However, would Wriothesley be okay if Neuvillette relied on him forever? “So, it is my fault. I just have to study more, and then...”

“We can study together.”

“I do not wish to hold you back on your study, I am sure Wriothesley is more...” Neuvillette's words caught in his throat as he tried to finish his sentence. The weight of shame and disappointment from having a friend who can't keep up with his studies consumes him. Neuvillette was constantly punished for being slow and stupid while Wriothesley, a prodigy in everything he did, remained unscathed, he had no problem juggling between his physical training and his education as a future duke. The thought of Wriothesley watching him struggle through his studies only added to Neuvillette's humiliation, an endless cycle of failure and inadequacy that crushed him every day.

“Oh, come to think of it.” Wriothesley suddenly changed the subject.“I finally read the poetry book Your Highness mentioned before.”

Neuvillette’s ears perked up. For a moment there, he had completely forgotten about his hands and everything else. “Really?”

“Yes.” Wriothesley said. He let go of his hands and returned to his seat as he continued, “Hm... What's my favorite passage again? I think it goes like 'et vous sommes en grant poverte, s'est riches de nostre deserte chil pour qui nous nous traveillons' isn't it? ‘while we exist in great poverty, rich from our labour grows he for whom we thus toil each day’.”

“Nous,”

“Pardon?”

“It is 'et nous sommes en grant poverte', vous goes with êtes.”

“Ack, I was so close!” Wriothesley slapped the top of his head playfully before he chuckled in self-deprecation. “I need to learn more from Your Highness then.”

Neuvillette couldn't help but feel a twinge of jealousy as he listened to Wriothesley's exciting tales over the years. He had always been the quieter, more reserved one, with nothing particularly interesting to share. The prospect sounded both thrilling and daunting to Neuvillette but perhaps this could be it - the moment they finally discovered a shared interest. Neuvillette's mind raced with possibilities as he imagined the two of them bonding over a newfound passion. The thought of reading books they both liked together filled Neuvillette with a sense of excitement and anticipation. “I can... with you if you want. I believe I am quite fluent at it.”

Wriosthesley’s smile was so earnest and absent of malice, that Neuvillette would not realize even back then, Wriothesley had complete control in maneuvering Neuvillette’s emotions as he pleased. “I know I can always rely on you.”

Neuvillette couldn't help but be drawn to him back then, and for years to come until that fateful night. It was a genuine smile, one that seemed to light up his entire face and make his blue eyes sparkle.

It wasn't until many years later, when Neuvillette was reflecting back on their encounters, that he realized Wriothesley had been manipulating his emotions all along. That smile, so warm and inviting, had been a tool used to charm and deceive. Wriothesley had seen right through Neuvillette, understood his weaknesses and vulnerabilities, and played on them effortlessly.

But at the time, all Neuvillette could do was smile back and let himself be swept away by Wriothesley's charm. It was only later, when he had lost everything, that he would see the truth behind that smile. The power and control that Wriothesley wielded over him, and the destruction it brought.

Then? Who was Wriothesley in those days, what were his thoughts?/What did Neuvillette fear, and how was he torn? Was Neuvillette already trying to convey to Wriothesley pieces of his projection of a best friend that he looked up to? In the future, when Neuvillette looked back at this moment from the outside in, would it feel like a dead star? A longing for a time in the past when he didn’t think he was projecting onto Wriothesley an imaginary person and companion he presumed Wriothesley had always been. This circuitous traffic that aimed to preserve something at the essence of the irrealis identity.

Whatever Neuvillette was trying to preserve might not be entirely real, but it wasn’t altogether false. One day, when he was older and wiser if he was still creating rendezvous with himself, it was because he would’ve kept looking for some sort of affirmation under his feet. He shouldn’t have set anything with a rooted spot in time and place. His reading of Wriothesley might be entirely erroneous.

Maybe, he misread Wriothesley the better to read himself.

Chapter Text

The sun rose majestically over the horizon, its rays casting a warm, golden light upon the chamber. As Neuvillette slowly opened his eyes, he immediately noticed the emptiness of the room. It was no surprise to him that his husband was nowhere to be seen; Wriothesley already left him alone before Neuvillette even returned to his chamber yesterday. The stillness in the air seemed almost palpable, as if it held secrets and whispered tales of love and longing. The rumpled sheets and disheveled pillows were a silent reminder of Neuvillette's attempt to fake the impression that someone slept there last night and slipped out of the chamber early in the morning. Alas, Wriothesley had never stepped foot into this cold and lifeless chamber. Neuvillette stretched and yawned, feeling a dull ache in his chest that he had grown accustomed to over the years. He had known that it would come down to this.

The maids entered the chamber with a large, silver tray piled high with a delicious breakfast spread. They moved with quiet efficiency, their skirts rustling and their aprons crisp as they set the table for Neuvillette. Despite their haste, everything was arranged perfectly - the golden plates gleaming, the delicate cups and saucers positioned just so, though there was a sense of urgency in their movements.

Neuvillette sat up in bed and watched them with a small smile, his heart racing as he tried to appear nonchalant. This was his wedding night, but he had spent it alone in his chambers: would they notice it?

Kiara peered around him to catch a glimpse of the untouched bed. She couldn't help but peek behind him to check on the bed. "I never knew His Majesty was the shy type," she commented slyly. Neuvillette chuckled nervously, grateful that they bought into his charade.

The room was filled with anticipation and excitement, but also a hint of uncertainty. The atmosphere in the room was slightly tense, but the aroma of freshly brewed coffee and warm croissants helped to ease some of the tension. Neuvillette could feel his heart racing as he waited for what would come next. Neuvillette couldn't help but feel a pang of disappointment. This wasn't how he had imagined spending his first morning as a married man, but he knew he had to put on a brave face for the sake of appearances.

A warm, beaming smile graced Kiara's face. "Your Highness," she exclaimed, her voice full of excitement. "Let us see the ring!" Her eyes sparkled with curiosity as she eagerly awaited a glimpse of the prized jewel.

Neuvillette smiled nervously, feeling a surge of emotion in his chest. Slowly, he raised his hand to show the maids the platinum band that adorned his finger. They leaned in closer, admiring its delicate yet subtle details. But as they marveled at its beauty, Neuvillette's mind was preoccupied with thoughts of the previous day. Did he remember to put the ring back on his finger after he had taken off his gloves? And why did he do it in the first place?

Neuvillette fixated on the scar-riddled hand before him, tracing each raised line with his eyes. The scars had once been bright and angry, but time had faded them into a faint reminder of the pain and shame he still carried. As Crown Prince, he had always felt like a disappointment growing up, never living up to the expectations placed upon him. Even now, as an adult, those old wounds still sting.

The memory of Wriothesley flooded back to Neuvillette, the kind and gentle version of Wriothesley who had given him ointments for his hands after seeing their sorry state. The ointment had worked miracles, far better than any treatment Matron Sigewinne had prescribed. Wriothesley had mentioned it was a common remedy used by most Meropide residents for similar ailments. Neuvillette couldn't help but wonder about the lives they led that required such frequent use of the ointment. How did they endure? What struggles did they face?

In the end, his insatiable curiosity was met with disappointment. Despite his longing to see beyond the walls of Palais Mermonia, Neuvillette had never ventured far from its opulent halls. He had heard tales of Wriothesley's territory, but they remained distant fantasies in his mind. Now, as he pondered their fate under their new king, he couldn't help but wonder what secrets lay beyond the borders of his sheltered world.

Liath's eyes widened in awe. "It's beyond beautiful," she exclaimed. "That reporter was spot on about the hidden symbolism. It's as if His Majesty and His Highness have exchanged colors."

Neuvillette couldn't help but notice the details, even amid the grandeur. Wriothesley, usually adorned with silver accents even in his black attire, now wore touches of gold that seemed to enhance his regal appearance. Neuvillette wondered if this was a deliberate choice or simply a coincidence. Did Neuvillette wear gold that often, too? He thought Wriothesley chose a gold wedding band because of his status as King.

Kiara's voice carried a hint of awe and disbelief as she spoke. "I always pictured His Majesty as a stern, cold man, but perhaps he has a softer side after all." She glanced at Sedene for confirmation.

Sedene nodded thoughtfully, her eyes flickering with memories. "It's understandable though, isn't it? They've known each other since they were young."

Kiara nodded, taking in the information. Even without firsthand knowledge of their long history together, the companionship between Neuvillette and Wriothesley was widely known among those living inside Palais Mermonia walls. And then there was Matron Sigewinne, who always seemed to have a story or two about them ready to share at any given moment.

Neuvillette retracted his hand as he listened to the maids. Smiling like someone who was amused by how much other people adored his love story. This was good. As long as they believed in this marriage, Neuvillette wouldn't try to correct them.

However, Neuvillette's heart sank as Sedene posed her question, crushing him with a weight he had hoped to avoid. He could feel his composure begin to crumble, his facade of indifference slipping away by three clipped words: "Who fell first?" she asked, her voice soft and oblivious, with no hint of malice. Sedene would never know how much the words hung heavy in the air, lingering like a bitter taste on his tongue.

Neuvillette's mind raced, searching for a way out of this uncomfortable situation. He could feel his emotions bubbling to the surface, threatening to spill over at any moment. How he wished he could just disappear into the shadows and escape this painful interrogation.

To fight the overwhelming urge to cry, Neuvillette's smile stretched wider across his face. In reality, his marriage was completely devoid of love, at least from Wriothesley's perspective. He quickly changed the subject. "Could you assist me in preparing for today?" he pleaded with genuine vulnerability and need in his voice.

As the breakfast was finished, two figures entered Neuvillette's chamber. The older gentleman, with an air of authority, introduced himself as Roialte - Neuvillette's new Private Secretary. Walking beside him was a young woman, her hair pulled back into a neat bun and her eyes sparkling with determination. She was Jacquetta, his Equerry, who would assist Neuvillette in carrying out his duties as a royal consort. Together, they led him to his new office, a room filled with shelves of books and documents waiting to be sorted. As he settled into his desk chair, another woman entered the room with a warm smile and an outstretched hand. This was Isadora, his treasurer, who would help manage his finances.

Neuvillette was given a comprehensive briefing on the extent of his duties and authority. Aside from supporting the monarch in a constitutional capacity, he would also be responsible for organizing ceremonial and public events - a task his mother had performed during his father's reign and Neuvillette felt a sense of pride and responsibility in continuing her legacy. But there was more to the role than Neuvillette expected; he would also have full authority over Palais Mermonia and its domestic staff. This came as a surprise, as his mother had always told him that a member of the Privy Council was in charge of managing the palace. However, Neuvillette suspected that Wriothesley, with his power and influence, could easily make changes as he pleased. Still, it was a good thing that this responsibility would keep Neuvillette occupied - perhaps Wriothesley didn't want him meddling in important matters.

“I should interview the staffs,” After carefully perusing the stack of papers in front of him, Neuvillette finally broke the silence by tapping the cap of his fountain pen against its surface. His eyes scanned over the list of names, noting the significant number of people who had resigned after the coup. Despite Sedene's reassurance that Wriothesley had ordered them to continue their work as usual, Neuvillette couldn't help but feel a tinge of worry for those who had chosen to stay. Were they truly willing participants or were they simply constrained by circumstance? The weight on their shoulders would surely increase with fewer hands to share the workload. Neuvillette couldn't help but wonder what their true motivations were for staying amidst such turmoil. “Less people means more workload for them.”

“I may be able to assist with that, Your Highness,” Roialte said with a small bow. Neuvilette remembered that he had previously worked as a butler, placing him in close proximity to the rest of the staff. His posture and tone were professional and efficient. “However, if it pertains to the intricate workings of Palais Mermonia, Your Highness should seek advice from Jacquetta.”

Neuvillette could feel Roialte and Jacquetta's gaze on him, waiting for his response. He took a moment to collect his thoughts before answering.

"Was it you who served under the Duke of Argire?" Neuvillette inquired, his mind suddenly filled with memories of the powerful nobleman. The Duke of Argire, a distant family of Neuvillette's, had been entrusted to oversee the management of Palais Mermonia during his father's reign. A man known for his shrewd business tactics, he was a formidable figure in the court.

Neuvillette vividly recalled his face among Privy Council members in particular. He could never forget the man, as Neuvillette had often sought him out to plead for a new tutor when his current one became unbearable. His desperation and selfishness were apparent, but his persistence knew no bounds. Eventually, he made the mistake of pushing too much that the Duke confided his complain in his father, the King, and was publicly reprimanded by His Majesty during a Privy Council meeting. From then on, Neuvillette learned to suffer in silence. Even as his tutor's teaching methods grew more insufferable each year. Even as his beloved staff members were fired or relocated to other homes.

Jacquetta's head bobbed in acknowledgement. "Yes, Your Highness," she replied with a respectful dip of her head. The mention of her former master brought back a wave of emotions, both good and bad, but she kept them hidden behind a calm facade.

Neuvillette spoke to Roialte with a determined tone. "I want thorough written feedback from all of the staff," he instructed. "Let them know that they have the option to remain anonymous, but I expect honesty in their responses. I want to know their thoughts on working conditions, any doubts or questions they may have about our new reign and policies. And make sure they understand that there will be no repercussions from me or His Majesty for speaking their minds." The room was quiet as Neuvillette's words hung in the air, the weight of his request palpable. He gazed sternly at Roialte, waiting for his confirmation before proceeding with the plan.

Roialte nodded, carefully jotted down Neuvillette's order in a worn leather-bound notepad, making sure to capture every detail accurately. With a respectful bow, he turned and strode towards his desk, where he began crafting questionnaires for the staff to complete. The scratch of his pen against paper filled the quiet room as he diligently worked to create a comprehensive assessment for the employees.

Neuvillette's inquisitive tone was laced with concern as he asked again, this time turning towards Jacquetta. "Shall I take on the task of writing recommendation letters for those who have resigned?" His delicate fingers tapped nervously against his desk.

But Jacquetta's response was calm and reassuring. "His Majesty has already attended to that matter," she said with a small smile. "However, I can request Cornelia to join us if Your Highness desires more detailed information. She holds a position within the King's Private Secretary's Office."

"Oh?" He couldn't hide the surprise in his voice. Neuvillette's eyebrows shot up in surprise as he heard Jacquetta's words.

How had Wriothesley managed to take care of everything so quickly? Despite being preoccupied with important governmental and political issues, Wriothesley had somehow found the time to attend to this small matter regarding staffs that weren't even his to begin with. Neuvillette couldn't help but feel touched by his thoughtfulness. It was, of course not entirely unexpected, after all, Wriothesley was the one who held the power to allow them to leave if they wished. But it seemed that Wriothesley had taken care of it without any hesitation, given his current responsibilities in handling governmental and political matters.

"It's not necessary, thank you," Neuvillette replied graciously, still trying to process Wriothesley's unexpected gesture.

Neuvillette then flipped the pages in front of him until he found a list of names that for some reason, filled him with immense guilt. He sat in silence for what felt like hours, gathering his thoughts before finally handing the list to Jacquetta. "Please compile the addresses of their relatives," he said, voice heavy with emotion. Slowly rising from his seat, Neuvillette made his way towards the door.

"Where are you going, Your Highness?" Isadora inquired.

Without looking back, Neuvillette replied as he opened the door, "In the meantime, I will inform His Majesty that I intend to visit them."

Despite his efforts to avoid Wriothesley, Neuvillette couldn't shake the image of the powerful man's disapproving scowl as he entered his office. The thought of disappointing and angering him was suffocating, like a snake coiled around his throat. But what choice did he have? He was nothing but a glorified prisoner, forced to deceive and pretend to be someone he was not for the sake of survival. And beneath it all, the truth remained: his relationship with Wriothesley was tenuous at best, built on lies and manipulation. He knew any attempt to leave Palais Mermonia under any circumstances would be met with fierce resistance from the king's iron grip.

Despite the daunting task ahead, Neuvillette resolved to reason with Wriothesley. He knew there must be a way to meet with these grieving families, even if it meant going against Wriothesley's wishes.

Determined, Neuvillette squared his shoulders and approached Wriothesley with a calm sense of purpose. Despite the potential denial that lay ahead, he would do his best to reason with the man. “I will visit the families of the Gardes who lost their lives during the coup.” Neuvillette declared confidently, his voice steady and determined.

Wriothesley sat perched on what was once Neuvillette's father's desk, his piercing blue eyes peering over his glasses at the numerous documents spread out before him. When had Wriothesley started wearing glasses? It was a detail that had escaped Neuvillette's notice until now.

Neuvillette held his breath, his heart pounding against his ribcage as he waited for Wriothesley's reaction. He was expecting a sharp and dismissive response, but instead, Wriothesley turned to face him with an air of cool curiosity.

"When are you planning to go?" Wriothesley asked, his tone neutral but tinged with intrigue.

"Right now," Neuvillette replied immediately. "I understand it may seem insignificant, but I wish to offer my condolences in person--"

"Take at least a couple of Gardes with you," Wriothesley instructed as he cut Neuvillette off mid sentence. His pen came to a sudden halt on the paper as he leaned forward, fully engaged in what Neuvillette had to say. It was unexpected, to say the least. Did this mean that Wriothesley would actually allow him to leave Palais Mermonia?

"How many carriages will be necessary for your journey?" Wriothesley asked, his eyes scanning over Neuvillette thoughtfully.

"Pardon?" Neuvillette's mind raced, trying to keep up with the sudden change in tone. He was taken aback by the sudden turn of events.

Wriothesley clarified, his demeanor surprisingly accommodating. “Are you going there empty-handed?”

Neuvillette remained silent. Was he supposed to bring something for these families?

Wriothesley's calculating eyes roamed over Neuvillette thoughtfully, as if sizing him up for a challenge. The sudden change in tone caught Neuvillette off guard and his mind raced to keep up. What could he have possibly done to elicit such a shift in demeanor?

As Neuvillette's confusion became apparent, Wriothesley's piercing gaze softened and transformed into a kind and understanding look. He leaned in slightly and offered a thoughtful suggestion. "If you need assistance, Semaine can accompany you. He has experience from his time at the Lord Chamberlain's Office and can guide you through the process."

Neuvillette nodded gratefully, his voice barely above a whisper. "That would be greatly appreciated. Thank you."

Neuvillette's heart raced as he quickly bowed before striding towards the door. Despite Wriothesley's unexpected kindness, it was excruciatingly difficult and uncomfortable for Neuvillette to be alone with him, even when discussing work matters. Every moment spent in his presence felt like walking on eggshells, afraid of saying or doing anything that would displease Wriothesley and jeopardize their already fragile relationship.

“You don't have to come here to ask for my permission to do something like that.” Neuvillette felt a sudden chill run down his spine as he heard Wriothesley's voice behind him. It was like an icy hand gripping his shoulder, startling him out of his thoughts. “You have full authority when it comes to Palais Mermoinia and everyone who works here.”

Neuvillette clenched his jaw, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. Wriothesley was clearly implying that he didn't want to be bothered with such trivial matters. Did he truly think Neuvillette would be so foolish as to disturb him if he didn't need to? "I will keep that in mind," Neuvillette replied with a hint of bitterness. "I apologize for disturbing you, Your Majesty. I will not bother you further."

Inside the luxurious carriage, surrounded by plush velvet seats and adorned with intricate gold details, sat the Prince, with Roialte, Jacquetta, Isadora, and Semaine. All were deeply engrossed in planning the upcoming visits to various locations, except for Neuvillette. His gaze was fixed out the window, taking in the sights and sounds of the bustling city outside. He watched as people hurried by, their colorful garments fluttering in the breeze and their voices rising in a cacophony of languages. The energy of the city was electric, and Neuvillette couldn't help but feel drawn to its vibrant chaos.

As the carriage took them outside the walls of Palais Mermonia and into the road of Court of Fontaine, Neuvillette took in the sight of Fontaine for the first time. His kingdom was a vibrant world, filled with bustling activity that seemed to move at an unrelenting pace. Everywhere he looked, there were people and events and sights that demanded his attention. This was his home, and yet somehow it felt like a stranger to him now. Despite all his years spent within its borders, Fontaine had never slowed down or waited for him to catch up. It was a living, breathing entity that moved on without him, leaving him feeling lost and out of place in his own kingdom.

Conflicting emotions tugged at his heart as he stood in the midst of the conversation. A mix of sadness and happiness fought for dominance within him, but he pushed them aside, focusing on the task at hand.

“It's very last minute but we can stop at a local florist whenever we pass one—” Semaine had interjected, a hint of urgency in his voice. Evidently, when Wriothesley had requested 'at least two Gardes', he had actually meant triple that amount. And when he had asked for the number of carriages needed for Neuvillette's trip, he had actually meant carriages for the presents he was supposed to give to the grieving families. There was no time for the latter, so Semaine suggested flowers instead - quick and simple gifts that could convey heartfelt sentiment.

Jacquetta rummaged through her bag and pulled out a carefully folded map. “I have the map here, we can plan our routes,” she announced, laying it out on the table. Semaine nodded in agreement as he took his pen and began marking down the addresses and nearest flower shops they would need to visit. The urgency of their plan hung heavy in the air as they frantically planned their route through the bustling city streets.

As Neuvillette watched his staffs work with impressive speed, guilt gnawed at him for hastily involving them in his unplanned journey. He had no idea there were so many preparations required before visiting his own people; all he had envisioned was offering his condolences.

"Is this too much to handle? Should we have planned it beforehand?" he questioned, a tinge of regret coloring his words.

Jacquetta's swift response put his worries at ease. "No, no, it's not a bad thing at all. In fact, I believe this is a wonderful opportunity." She shot a reassuring smile at the Prince before glancing over at Semaine, who nodded in agreement.

"If Your Highness doesn't mind, your presence among the public would be greatly appreciated. Few have had the chance to see you in person and they will surely be thrilled to catch a glimpse, especially after the news of the royal wedding." Semaine explained enthusiastically.

Apparently it'd be good to boost some morale and convinced people that Neuvillette was doing fine, instead of being coerced into marriage by the usurper king. Neuvillette nodded in agreement. Yet, with a heavy heart, Neuvillette knew he was forced to play the role of a confident and content royal consort in front of an even bigger audience, despite the truth of his situation. The weight of his responsibility settled heavily on his shoulders as he nodded in agreement with the plan. How could he possibly face these people, pretending everything was fine under the rule of an usurper king? But he had no choice but to trust the experienced individuals in this carriage, all of whom were familiar faces he had known for years. Their reassurance and support gave him a small glimmer of hope, but deep down he still felt the overwhelming burden of lying to no end.

Semaine's anxious eyes darted towards Roialte, silently inquiring if the Gardes would be enough to protect Neuvillette once he emerged from the carriage for all to see. With a reassuring nod, Roialte replied, "Don't worry, Your Highness. The Gardes are well-equipped to ensure your safety. And once we enter the shops, Isadora will take care of everything."

They made their first stop and the grand, royal carriage had already draw so much attention even before they could see who was inside. The sun glinted off the polished armor and weapons of the Gardes standing at attention, their stoic expressions hinting at their unwavering dedication to protecting the royal family. Semaine and Isadore got out first, with the latter immediately entered the flower shop. Then followed by Roialte and Jacquetta. Neuvillette took a deep breath, trying to push away his nerves as he stepped out from the carriage and entered the bustling marketplace. The sounds of merchants hawking their wares and horses clopping on pavement filled his ears. He couldn't help but feel a sense of unease about being out in public, but he trusted everyone to keep him safe.

The air was thick with anticipation and curiosity as citizens caught sight of Prince Neuvillette, his figure draped in regal attire, making a rare public appearance. The chatter among the crowd grew louder and closer, eager to catch a glimpse of their elusive prince. The Gardes, dressed in crisp uniforms, swiftly cleared a path through the masses, careful not to disturb the delicate balance of excitement and reverence. With a gentle touch on his shoulder, Jacquetta whispered to Neuvillette, reminding him to greet the people with a smile and wave. As he made his way into the flower shop, he obliged, earning cheers and adulation from those lucky enough to witness the prince in person.

As they stepped inside the quaint flower shop, the florists were taken aback by the sight of their customer - the Prince himself. However, they quickly composed themselves and maintained a professional demeanor as they listened to Isadora's bouquet order. With deft fingers, they began selecting various blooms and arranging them into a stunning display. As they worked, the lead florist handed Isadora a card adorned with delicate hand-drawn flowers for her to write on. She hesitated for a moment before turning to Semaine, but before she could say anything, Neuvillette interjected, insisting that he should be the one to write the condolence message himself.

This was the least he could do.

Before they left the quaint flower shop, Semaine insisted that Neuvillette be the one to carry the exquisite bouquet of vibrant blooms. As expected, the crowd outside had grown in size and their excited cries filled the air as they called out for the Prince's attention. It was a sight to behold, this display of adoration from his people.

But was it truly a good thing? To step out of the grand walls of Palais Mermonia and be met with such fervent enthusiasm. He had always been taught that his people held high expectations for him, so he braced himself for a barrage of questions and skepticism. Yet here they were, simply delighted to see him carrying a bouquet of flowers. It brought a genuine smile to their faces.

Was that all it took? His mere existence alone enough to bring joy to his people? This was a baffling and surreal experience for Neuvillette, leaving him feeling both confused and strangely touched.

As Neuvillette made his way back to the carriage, his sharp eyes caught sight of a small figure being roughly pushed forward. Reacting quickly, he lunged forward and caught the little girl before she could hit the ground. With one hand bracing for impact and the other clutching a handful of freshly picked wildflowers, she looked up at him with wide, excited eyes.

Before he could even ask if she was alright, the little girl bounced back to her feet, a beaming smile on her face. It was clear that she had hand-selected the flowers in hopes of pleasing Neuvillette, as she proudly showed off her bouquet as if it were a precious treasure. It looked like she picked the wild flowers herself because she thought Neuvillette loved flowers. As their eyes met, she tilted her head slightly, revealing a Pluie Lotus tucked behind her ear. In that moment, Neuvillette understood what it meant: his bouquet also had Pluie Lotus, in the girl's mind they liked the same flowers.

Her mother's eyes widened in panic as she rushed to her daughter's side, yanking her away from the Prince. With a sheepish smile, Neuvillette accepted the handful of wild flowers that had been hastily plucked from the nearby fields. As they waved goodbye to the Prince, Jacquette tugged on Neuvillette's arm, reminding her of their urgent schedule ahead. With a quick hop, they both climbed back into the luxurious carriage and continued their journey.

Neuvillette settled into the plush cushions of the carriage, his gaze fixed on the world outside as it shrank and blurred into a distant view. The rhythmic clip-clop of the horses' hooves and the gentle sway of the carriage lulled him into a state of contentment. His lips curled up into a soft smile as he watched the bustling crowd diminish in size, feeling grateful for this moment.

The carriage came to a stop with a gentle jolt, and Roialte spoke up. "We have arrived, Your Highness," he announced with a respectful bow. The first destination on their journey was a quaint three-story house nestled in the southeast corner of the Court of Fontaine. It was once home to the late Gardes Cloutier, who had given up his title as Viscount to pledge loyalty to Palais Mermonia. As they stepped out of the carriage, the faint smell of freshly baked bread wafted through the air, mingling with the crisp scent of leaves. From the outside, the house appeared modest yet well-kept, with a charming garden blooming in front. Intricate vines climbed up its walls, and small birds flitted about in the trees nearby. Despite its simple appearance, there was an air of elegance surrounding the place, hinting at the noble family who once called it home.

Roialte's hand hovering over the door before Neuvillette signaled that he'd do the knocking himself. With three firm taps and a long pause, the door creaked open to reveal an enthusiastic little boy who jumped at the sight of them. "It's the Prince!" he exclaimed, eyes wide with excitement.

Neuvillette's face lit up in a warm smile, but it quickly disappeared when he noticed the stern expression on the older woman standing behind the boy. She looked surprised, yet also displeased, as if she wasn't expecting visitors.

A young woman with tousled hair burst out from behind, her arms outstretched to grab the little boy. "Come here, don't be rude—" she scolded playfully as they disappeared around the corner.

Once they were gone, the older woman finally opened the door fully and greeted them with a polite, rehearsed smile. Neuvillette presented her with a vibrant bouquet and she accepted it gracefully with a silent nod.

It wasn't until later that Neuvillette realized this woman was Cloutier's mother. She led them through the spacious hallway and into the small living room. "Forgive me, I couldn't offer something better for Your Highness," she said apologetically.

Neuvillette waved away her apology with a charming smile. "Please don't apologize. It is my fault for coming here unannounced." He took a seat on the plush sofa, Jacquette and Roialte standing behind him. Cloutier's mother took a seat across from him, settling in comfortably as they began their conversation.

“What do I owe Your Highness this honor, if I may humbly ask?” Cloutier's mother inquired with a weary tone. Despite her polite words, the lines of grief etched on her face made it clear that she already knew the answer.

“I come to offer my deepest condolences,” Neuvillette stated solemnly. “Your son was a valiant and admirable knight. I regret that circumstances prevented me from telling you earlier.”

The room was filled with a heavy silence, punctuated only by the soft whirring of the fan above. The scent of lavender hung in the air, mingling with the faint smell of incense burning in the corner. Outside, birds chirped as if oblivious to the heartache within these walls.

The woman's voice was filled with a mix of bitterness and pride as she spoke, her gaze turning to the portrait of her son on the wall. The painting captured his youthful features, but also the determination and passion that he had possessed in life. "Becoming a Gardes was his lifelong dream," she said, her voice tinged with sadness. "He gave up his title as Viscount in pursuit of this purpose," she continued. "He knew the dangers that came with the job, but he believed it was worth it for the fulfillment it brought."

A heavy, suffocating silence settled over them before she spoke again. Her words hung in the air like a dark cloud, casting a shadow of grief and sorrow over the Neuvillette's heart. "We were always prepared for the worst because of his chosen path," she said, her voice tinged with bitterness.

The weight of her words hit him like a ton of bricks, and he couldn't find the words to respond. The guilt of his actions lay heavy on his conscience as he stood before her, unable to defend himself.

"He dedicated his entire life to protecting you," she continued pointedly, her eyes boring into his. "And yet, you ended up marrying the very man who took his life."

Neuvillette could only hang his head in shame, knowing that she was right. How hypocritical of him to come here offering sympathy when he had no problem betraying his people's memory by marrying Wriothesley. The candor gradually dissipated from his features, replaced by an incipient look of fear. He knew what this woman expected from him - remorse and shame for his betrayal. And he couldn't deny that he felt it deeply now, more than ever before.

She then continued speaking with a tone of disdain. "His children are still unaware of their father's passing," she sneered, "but they are all too aware of Your Highness' wedding." She shook her head in disgust, continuing, "His daughter can't seem to stop romanticizing it when she reads the news. She believes that what you and the King have is nothing short of a fairytale." The bitterness in her voice was palpable, a stark contrast to the fairy tale-like image she was describing.

“Well, Your Highness certainly leads a life beyond the grasp of ordinary citizens. Sacrificing the well-being of a few of your subjects is a small price to pay for something they cannot even begin to fathom.”

“That is not—” Neuvillette's words faltered as he looked into the woman's piercing eyes. “I apologize,” he repeated, his voice heavy with defeat. Neuvillette's already pale face turned even paler as he met her intense glare. He tried to form a defense, but her gaze was like a sword that cut through his resolve. His voice quivered as he apologized once again, the weight of his failure heavy on his shoulders. “I am acutely aware of the burden of my failure to care for my people, and I understand if you cannot find it in your heart to forgive me. Each day, as I reflect on that fateful night, I am consumed with regret over what more I could have done.”

The woman's gaze flickered away, unable to meet his sorry stare. Her heart ached with the knowledge of his pain and remorse, but she could not bring herself to offer him absolution nor clemency. "I'm sure you do."

As they stepped out of the first house, a sense of dread settled over the group. The staff members looked at the Prince with worry etched in their faces, knowing that this was not the result he expected nor deserved. His expression remained inscrutable, but they could sense his disappointment and discouragement.

“Perhaps we should return to Palais Mermonia, Your Highness?” Jacquetta suggested, her voice filled with sympathy.

But Neuvillette refused to give up. He climbed back into the carriage, avoiding eye contact with everyone. “We must continue.”

The King sat at the head of the long oak table, his expression betraying nothing as his privy council debated the state of the kingdom. His blue eyes darted between each member, taking in their arguments and counterarguments with a detached air. To most, he seemed like he couldn't wait to leave this meeting and retreat to his own thoughts, but beneath his inscrutable surface, Wriothesley was always calculating, always planning.

His fingers drummed rhythmically against the polished wood, a subtle sign of his impatience. He had summoned his council for a reason, and he expected results. Yet, as the hours ticked by and the debate grew more heated, it seemed that no one could come to a consensus. The council continued to bicker and debate, but Wriothesley's mind was elsewhere. He couldn't help but think about the reports he had received from his spies - whispers of rebellion brewing in the outer regions, of disgruntled citizens plotting against him, one that he didn’t necessarily want to share with his council just yet.

His advisors droned on about so many issues that had been dismissed by the previous reign and in the grand speck of it all, understanably, those were far more important in comparison to the looming threat of a revolt where he would most likely be the sole target. He knew that he needed to act quickly and decisively, but he also knew that he could not reveal his true concerns to his council. They were too caught up in their own agendas and would not understand the gravity of the situation, nor Wriothesley’s true intention. It mattered not for the time being, Wriothesley knew it wasn’t him they should be loyal to anyway. He would need to be strategic, cunning even. He could not afford any missteps or miscalculations. The fate of his kingdom rested on his shoulders until... Well.

It mattered not that he would not go gently, but it was also too soon for him to die.

Once they exhausted themselves with endless arguments, the Privy Council fell silent, their eyes trained on the King as he rose from his seat and strode out of the room, leaving them to digest his cyrptic ruling; convincing Wriothesley in a group was a futile effort, akin to challenging a master strategist in a game of mental warfare. He would summon each council member individually and dissected every single word they uttered during the meeting. His silence during these gatherings was a cunning ploy, for his observation and analysis were razor-sharp, far surpassing anyone in the Court of Fontaine. These individuals who rose to the rank of Privy Council not only held immense power, but also possessed the intellectual capacity to match their new King's sharp wit - a ruthless natural selection at play.

As he walked down the long corridor, Wriothesley’s expression softened, revealing the lingering traces of weariness and sadness that weighed upon him. With a loud thud, he slammed the doors of his private office shut and let out a deep breath. The weight of the kingdom threatened to crush his very soul, but he refused to succumb to its immense pressure. Not yet. His shoulders sagged under the burden, yet he stood tall with determination. He knew that he could not afford to show any weakness in front of his council, so he had to maintain a stoic facade even as he felt the weight of the kingdom's problems pressing down on him.

Maybe there was some cursed yet blissful about ignoring everything, as much as it was extremely selfish, but Wriothesley had no other choice. This was not the state of Fontaine he’d want Neuvillette to see.

Once inside his office, Wriothesley let out a sigh and rubbed his temples. His mind raced with thoughts and plans, but he needed a moment of peace and solitude to gather his thoughts. As he closed his eyes, he could feel the sharp sting of his responsibilities burning into his skin. He was expected to be strong, unwavering, and infallible - even when every fiber of his being screamed in exhaustion. But behind closed doors, he allowed himself a moment of vulnerability and let out a silent scream.

(Was it worth it, Wriothesley? Was killing yourself slowly like this gave you any sort of peace of mind? All you could feel with your muted organ was a deep emptiness, an endless void that consumed you from within.)

He walked over to a large window overlooking the sprawling Court of Fontaine and gazed out at the people going about their daily lives. For a moment, he envied them - their simple concerns and worries seemed insignificant compared to what weighed on his mind. But then, a determined look settled on his face as he remembered what was at stake. He would not let these thoughts tear apart everything that he had worked so hard to build.

A Gardes knocked politely on the heavy wooden door of the King's office. "Your Majesty," they announced, "there is a visitor waiting for you." Wriothesley straightened up and told for them to enter. The Gardes then opened the door and ushered in a tall figure in shining armor - a female knight with a midnight blue plumed hat atop her head.

As she walked into the room, the Gardes quietly closed the door behind her, leaving the two royals alone. She gracefully made her way to the King's desk and placed a sealed file before him. "A wedding gift," she said simply.

Wriothesley, known for his sharp wit and dry humor, replied with a hint of playfulness in his voice. "How considerate of you, Clorinde. Thank you." With a small smile, he opened the file and began reading through her report on possible rebel sightings. As always, Clorinde had done her duty diligently and provided thorough information for the King to consider.

“Erinnyes, huh?” Wriothesley muttered. As expected, they were slowly gathering people who shared the same contempt towards Wriothesley. Names of the previous Lords who sympathized with the late King were listed there, seen frequently as of lately purchasing Aquabus tickets for Navia Line. seemed that his enemies were growing in number, but he remained unfazed by their attempts to undermine him.

“Chauve is the current managing director of Opera Epiclipse, no?” Wriothesley inquired, casting a knowing look towards Clorinde who nodded in confirmation. The name sparked recognition in Wriothesley's mind - someone who had been known to support the late King. It was no surprise to him that this individual may be involved in a potential rebellion, but he couldn't help finding it somewhat amusing if it turned out that Chauve was, hypothetically, using Opera Epiclipse as their secret meeting ground; the clandestine hub for all things subversive. A wave of intrigue washed over Wriothesley as he contemplated the possibilities of what could be happening behind the scenes at the opera house. He could almost taste the thrill of uncovering such a covert operation.

“By the way, I didn’t find any proof that anyone from The Steambird is involved.” Clorinde said again. “Yet.” She added, staring at Wriothesley until he returned her gaze. Her was low and almost accusatory, her words cutting through the tense air. “So, at least that’s one less problem for you, no?” Her tone held a hint of disdain, as if she knew there were still plenty of other problems weighing on Wriothesley's mind.

The Steambird was crucial in maintaining what the mood all over Fontaine. In the past, there were rumblings of discord among its members, but somehow their reports concerning the Monarchy always remained pristine and unblemished. Wriothesley's initial hypothesis was that they were being directly influenced and corrupted by the previous King, but upon delving deeper into the matter... It became clear that the truth may have been slightly less convoluted than originally thought.

"It's fine," Wriothesley reassured, his voice dripping with confidence. "I have faith that The Steambird will handle the situation on their own."

Clorinde arched a brow, betraying her curiosity. "And how can you be so sure?"

A smirk spread across the King's face as he replied, "Let's just say I'm eagerly anticipating the outcome of the next La Verite Prize."

Rolling her eyes, Clorinde raised her hands in surrender. She had never been a fan of deciphering Wriothesley's cryptic words. She was simply here to do her job, nothing more.

“By the way, I have tickets to see Mademoiselle Furina’s next musical.” Wriothesley shifted the conversation to a different topic, casually mentioning his possession of tickets. But Clorinde knew better.

“Oh? Wedding gift from her mother the Pastoress?" Clorinde asked, her tone nonchalant. Wriothesley nodded with a grin. "But you’re not coming, aren’t you?”

Wriothesley chuckled as he reached into his desk drawer and pulled out one of the elaborately designed tickets. “Well, my dear Chasseur de la Maréchaussée, can you perhaps reschedule your date with Baroness Caspar?”

Chapter Text

"You don't seem to have much love for the current reign, Your Grace." As the Baron leaned in, his voice low and conspiratorial.

Wriothesley turned to look at the distant tower of Palais Mermonia. The grand building stood out against the cloudy sky, its windows glinting in the sunlight. Wriothesley scoffed and took a sip of his tea. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"You know exactly what I am talking about." the Baron said, his tone laced with knowing amusement.

Wriothesley chuckled and shook his head. "We'll both be out in the cold if we continue this double-talk."

The Baron tilted his head innocently. "What double-talk?"

Wriothesley couldn't help but grin at the man's cunning. "You know, with a heart of greed and plunder, a thirst for power and control - it takes a certain kind of person to build a palace as ostentatious as Palais Mermonia. The towering walls of stone, the imposing structure looming over the land like a tyrant's throne - all meant to keep out those who dare oppose their rule. And oh, how lonely they must be behind those impenetrable barriers, surrounded by nothing but their own insecurities and paranoia. Their minds warped by their insatiable desire for more, more than any mortal should rightfully possess. They preach righteousness while guzzling on the spoils of their conquests, leaving destruction in their wake. Yes, this is the perfect home for such selfish creatures - grand yet empty, dank with corruption and decay, surrounded by their own filth."

The moon was high in the sky, casting a pale, ethereal light upon the cobblestone streets of Fontaine. The clip-clop of horse hooves echoed in the quiet night as Neuvillette's carriage returned to Palais Mermonia, and seeing how late he returned home, Wriothesley took this opportunity to welcome Neuvillette back. After all, it was the duty of a good husband to show love and support to his hardworking partner, especially when they had been toiling away outside all day.

Wriothesley gracefully stepped into the luxurious carriage, a small smile playing on his lips as he noticed Neuvillette serenely sleeping on his seat. He leaned in towards the window, allowing the cool breeze to brush against his skin and tousle his hair. "Allow me to take over from here. Your hard work is appreciated," he said warmly to the staff, who bowed respectfully and stepped away to let the King tend to Neuvillette. With utmost care, Wriothesley lifted Neuvillette into his arms, cradling him like a precious treasure in a bridal style hold. His footsteps were soft and steady as he made his way back into Palais Mermonia.

Every eye in the hall was fixed on them, expectations heavy and palpable. Wriothesley could feel their scrutiny, their silent urging for him to do the expected thing. And so, with a forced smile and a practiced grace, he carried Neuvillette to his private chamber. Wriothesley knew that appearances were everything. The facade of a loving husband in a blissful marriage must be maintained at all costs. And so he played the role perfectly, keeping up the charade with each step he took down the hallway and into his chamber. It was an elaborate dance, one that required precision and careful steps to maintain the illusion of love and happiness.

But Wriothesley was determined to keep up the act, no matter what it cost him privately.

Slowly and very gently, Wriothesley laid Neuvillette on his bed. The soft moonlight streaming through the window cast a gentle glow on the young man's pale face, highlighting the peacefulness in his features. Wriothesley took a moment to simply admire the beauty of the sleeping Neuvillette before tucking him under the warm covers.

Careful not to disturb his slumber, Wriothesley then took the wildflowers that Neuvillette had been carrying even as he slept and arranged them in a makeshift vase made from a glass of water. The vibrant colors of the flowers, contrasting against the cold, clear glass, were a sight to behold.

As he stepped back to admire his handiwork, Wriothesley couldn't help but feel a sense of warmth and tenderness towards Neuvillette. He had never seen someone so vulnerable and yet so resilient at the same time. The way Neuvillette had slept so soundly, even amidst the chaos and uncertainty, was a testament to his strength.

Wriothesley carefully sat on the edge of the bed, his fingers trembling as he brushed a stray lock of hair from Neuvillette's forehead. He longed to lean in and press a loving kiss to his husband's temple, to show him how much he adored him and would do anything to keep him safe. But their union was nothing but a façade, a cruel deception forced upon them by society's narrow-mindedness. Wriothesley's heart ached as he gazed at Neuvillette, torn between wanting to hold him and being forced to keep up a fraudulent relationship, even though his love for Neuvillette was real. How could something so beautiful be considered wrong? How unfair it was that he couldn't even hold him in his arms, yet his love for Neuvillette burned brighter than ever.

In his mind, Wriothesley could already hear Neuvillette's voice asking the question, when all of this would no longer matter, that would haunt him for years to come: why didn't you ever kiss me? The thought filled him with a mix of anger and self-hatred. He couldn't deny the growing bitterness inside him, a result of his own actions. He didn't know how to handle it all. He didn't want Neuvillette to continue struggling by his side, silently enduring their strained relationship. But as he watched Neuvileltte slip further away from him, he couldn't help but feel a sense of shame and frustration. It was as if he was purposely pushing Neuvillette away with this coup he had planned, determined to speed up their inevitable separation. In the midst of it all, Wriothesley felt like a fool, weak and powerless against these conflicting emotions that he himself had created. And yet, he couldn't let go of his inhibitions, even though deep down he knew they were unjustly placed on Neuvillette.

Wriothesley turned around, his footsteps echoing against the marble floor as he made his way towards the plush couch overlooking the expansive window. With a heavy sigh, he sank into the soft cushions and closed his eyes, feeling their velvety touch against his skin and succumb to the spell of slumber that had been tugging at him all evening. But even in his dreams, a sense of emptiness lingered, like a hollow ache gnawing at his heart.

Neuvillette awoke to the darkness of the early morning, his senses slowly adjusting to the lack of light. He knew that the sunrise would not grace the sky for at least another couple of hours. As he sat up in bed, he couldn't help but notice that this was not his own chamber. The room was dimly lit, casting shadows across the unfamiliar walls. The scent of incense and herbs lingered in the air, creating a sense of mystery and intrigue. Neuvillette's heart raced as he realized he had been taken to the last place he wanted to.

With a low, guttural grunt, he pulled himself up to sit on the edge of the bed. His hands gripped tightly at the sheets as he struggled against his own weight. From his vantage point, he could see Wriothesley sprawled out on the couch, fast asleep. Memories flooded back as he wondered if he had brought Neuvillette here himself in a similar state. The faint sound of Wriothesley's gentle snores filled the room and as Neuvileltte watched his peaceful slumber, a wave of exhaustion washed over him. He couldn't help but feel a sense of unease at the sight of Wriothesley sleeping so peacefully, as if he didn't have a care in the world. But then again, that was always his demeanor - carefree and nonchalant. Was it all just an act? He shook his head and pushed those thoughts away, only for something else worse to creep on the back of his mind.

Naturally, it had come to this. As expected, Wriothesley had broken his promise not to lay hands on Neuvillette unless they were in public. Like a snake slithering towards its prey, Wriothesley had inevitably taken Neuvillette to warm his bed. It was the least he could do for someone as unlovable as himself. And who was Neuvillette to protest? He was nothing but a pawn in his twisted game, a hapless victim trapped by his insidious charm and manipulation.

Neuvillette sat frozen on the edge of the ornate bed, his mind ablaze with a tumultuous whirlwind of emotions. Betrayal and disgust swirled together as he remembered Wriothesley's broken promise, while an unfamiliar yearning tugged at his heartstrings. The luxurious silk sheets seemed to beckon him closer, tempting him to surrender to desire. With slow, hesitant movements, Neuvillette rose from the bed and approached Wriothesley's slumbering form. He reached out a trembling hand to gently shake the King's shoulder, unable to resist the urge to call out for him in a hushed tone. How brazen of Neuvillette to be in the King's bed while he slept on the couch nearby, the least he could to was to invite Wriothesley back to his own bed. Right?

With the gentlest of touches, Neuvillette awakened Wriothesley from his slumber. His lashes fluttered open, revealing deep blue eyes that seemed to light up with each passing moment. He was a notoriously light sleeper, his senses always on high alert. Even in the deepest of slumbers, he was attuned to the slightest disturbance.

"Why didn't you use the bed?" Neuvillette asked, his voice laced with sarcasm and a hint of something more; hung in the air, heavy with judgment and accusation.

Wriothesley felt a twinge of guilt, but he couldn't bring himself to admit the real reason why he had avoided their shared bed. He forced a smile onto his face, masking the inner turmoil that threatened to consume him. How could he explain the conflicting emotions that left him torn between desire and fear?

"You know why," replied Wriothesley.

Neuvillette's heart clenched in agony at the weight of unspoken emotions, aching and heavy as if dragged down by an invisible force. "Do not hold back on my account. I am merely your subject, Your Majesty," he said through gritted teeth.

As soon as the words left his lips, he realized with a sinking feeling that his victory would be short-lived. Like a sharp blade slicing through the air, there was something cruel and cutting in the way their conversation took an abrupt turn. The warm camaraderie he had just felt in Wriothesley's voice dissipated like a candle being snuffed out by two cold fingertips. The irony, which he had always found solace in and which had brought them together in the first place, now seemed to mock him. It was a reminder that they were both lost souls adrift in a barren and heartless world, leaving Neuvillette feeling hollow and alone once again.

Wriothesley's facade remained stoic, but Neuvillette could sense the turmoil within him. The pained look that flashed in Wriothesley's eyes struck him like a physical blow, as if his own words had pierced through his armor and wounded him deeply. But the king quickly masked his hurt with a cold, distant gaze, refusing to meet Neuvillette's pleading eyes.

Instead of answering, Wriothesley stood up from the couch and began to make his way towards the door. Neuvillette's heart raced as he watched Wriothesley, unsure of what he was planning on doing. Part of Neuvileltte wanted to beg him to stay, but the other part knew it wouldn't make a difference.

"Stay here until the morning," he said softly, his hand resting on the doorknob. "I'll come back before the maids arrive."

A mixture of relief and disappointment washed over Neuvillette as Wriothesley left, leaving him alone with his conflicting emotions. As Wriothesley spoke, his words seemed to leave a trail of raised welts in their wake. Neuvillette couldn't help but read the hurt in them, like an open wound begging for attention. It was as though he were daring Neuvillette to understand, to feel the pain that he had caused. Neuvillette had been brought up to know his place in a strictly three-dimensional world, but he couldn't help falling in love with the wrong man. And he didn't know it until it was too late. Even here in this private place, where they could be themselves, his carefully constructed syntax had crumbled, giving way to the messy reality of his heart's desires.

Here was the problem: Neuvillette couldn't remember a time when he wasn't setting his story against Wriothesley's. It wasn't just about survival anymore, it was about his very identity, molded and shaped by the constant struggle against Wriothesley. Neuvillette felt like a creature of his own making pieced together from the broken shards of his past and driven by an insatiable hunger for retribution. Maybe the consorts before him felt the same too. Maybe they didn't. But as he looked around, he couldn't help but notice the absence, the emptiness, the gaping void that marked the beginning of his existence - a life that had truly begun long after he was born into this world of never-ending enmity.

Neuvillette's world exploded with the sudden absence of a crucial piece of his story. It was ripped away violently, like a bomb detonating in the most vulnerable part of his being. The pain was raw and searing, leaving him exposed and embittered like an open wound. He felt humiliated and ashamed, like a crawfish whose shell had been cruelly stripped away, its deformed and twisted body held up for all to see before being thrown back into the water to be mocked and ridiculed by its fellow creatures.

Neuvillette's mind spiraled with confusion and frustration, unable to comprehend why he continued to subject himself to this torturous dance. Each time he attempted to perfect their twisted game, he was met with countless flaws and unanswered questions. The mere thought of Wriothesley sent a wave of conflicting emotions coursing through his veins - never before had he felt such a potent mixture of love and loathing towards someone. And yet, they couldn't seem to stop themselves from telling lies, building walls between them that may never be forgiven. Neuvillette could not fathom why Wriothesley insisted on playing this charade, pretending to love him in private only to destroy him behind closed doors. And in that moment, surrounded by opulence and deceit, Neuvillette found himself almost believing in their fabricated love.

As promised, Wriothesley kept his word. After returning to his chamber, he immediately made his way towards the marble-tiled bathroom. The next morning, when the maids arrived, they were taken aback and couldn't hide their excitement upon seeing none other than the royal consort himself sitting on the bed. As if on cue, Wriothesley emerged from the bathroom, impeccably dressed and exuding an air of effortless grace, as if he had been there all along. With a tender gesture, he kissed the back of Neuvillette's hand and mentioned an early matter that needed his attention. He then commanded the maids to take care of Neuvillette while he went ahead, which they eagerly obliged to do. The room was filled with a sense of royalty and elegance as Wriothesley briskly left, leaving behind a trail of lingering cologne and a faint scent of lavender soap.

And Neuvillette couldn't get a single honest word out of his mouth before Wriothesley left him again, they were sticking in his throat like clumps of dry clay. Neuvillette could sense a deliberate calculation in Wriothesley's precise timing, as if he didn't want to give Neuvillette any opportunity to retract his previous words. The tension between them was palpable, like a tightly strung bow ready to snap at any moment. Neuvillette couldn't help but wonder what Wriothesley was truly thinking behind his composed facade.

Jacquetta's cheery voice echoed through the spacious office as Neuvillette made his grand entrance, greeted him with a warm smile and a crisp "Good morning, Your Highness." As he settled into his luxurious chair, Jacquetta placed a neatly folded newspaper in front of him. He curiously grabbed it, knowing that it held a story about his unexpected public appearance the day before. The Steambird had devoted a large section to cover his surprise appearance, more than Neuvillette could've ever imagined. The paper was filled with vivid image and detailed accounts of his every move, making him feel like a celebrity in his own right.

Neuvillette's gaze fixated on the photo they had chosen for the article. It depicted him, the Prince, waving at the adoring crowd with a bouquet of vibrant flowers in his grasp, a charming smile gracing his face. Neuvillette couldn't help but feel slightly impressed by his own convincing performance, as if he truly were as content and jubilant as the portrayal in the news.

As the words left his lips, he turned to face the group, searching for some sign of approval. "Is this satisfactory?" he queried, his voice filled with anticipation and a hint of nervousness. He knew that Semaine, with his discerning eye and attention to detail, would undoubtedly reply.

Upon hearing Neuvillette's question, Semaine walked closer. "It is really good," Semaine nodded in reassurance.

Despite the visitations being a disaster, there was at least one small glimmer of positivity captured in the news. The families of the victims, still reeling from their loss, couldn't help but feel a sense of bitterness towards Neuvillette for offering condolences while simultaneously marrying the person responsible for their loved ones' deaths. Some were resigned to accept it, albeit begrudgingly. While others, unable to make sense of it all, questioned why Neuvillette was apologizing for something he had no hand in. It was a situation that left a sour taste in everyone's mouths and created tension in the air like an approaching storm. The general public didn't know that, of course.

The more Neuvillette thought about it, the more guilty he felt; for the families, and, ironically for Wriothesley. Maybe he was a bit too harsh with his implication that Wriothesley would've had used him as a bedwarmer. Despite his initial accusations, Neuvillette began to question if perhaps he had been too quick to judge Wriothesley's intentions. Was it possible that his own frustrations and insecurities had led him to lash out and project onto Wriothesley? After enduring a full day of criticism and scorn from their families, it was not surprising that Neuvillette felt the urge to direct some of that misplaced anger back towards its source.

Maybe he should've apologized, but Neuvillette didn't know what excuse he should make to meet Wriothesley. Yet.

Roialte handed Neuvillette the draft of questionnaire for the upcoming employee satisfaction survey that needed Neuvillette's final approval before being handed off to the rest of the staff.

"Your Highness," Roialte began with deference, "I've made some adjustments to the questionnaire based on valuable feedback from our colleagues. However, I need your final approval before we distribute it to the entire staff."

Neuvillette, harried and overworked as ever with a messy desk nodded as he flipped through the pages. Roialte waited patiently, and after a few minutes, Neuvillette looked up at Roialte, his expression thoughtful.

"This looks good," he said, surprising Roialte with his quick approval.

"Well, I'll make the final copies and distribute them to the staff," Roialte said, already mentally planning out his next steps.

"Excellent, thank you Roialte." Neuvillette replied, and Roialte could see a glimmer of relief in his eyes.

Roialte's gaze lingered for a moment on Neuvillette, causing him to pause in his steps. A sense of curiousity crept over Neuvillette as he wondered if something was amiss. "Is there anything wrong?" he asked, trying to shake off the feeling.

Roialte simply shook his head, but there was a hint of relief in his smile that made Neuvillette wonder if he had done or said something to make him happy. The way Semaine had been giddy earlier also caught Neuvillette's attention, but he wasn't sure way. All Neuvillette did was voicing his gratitude for their hard work.

After that, he moved on to another matter. He methodically flipped through the list of people who had resigned, scanning each name and position with a critical eye. As his fingers traced over the paper, his mind whirled with thoughts of how to fill their vacant positions - could current staff take on more responsibility or would Neuvillette have to hire new recruits? But then, as he delved deeper into the details, something caught his attention and piqued his interest. His eyes widened and he leaned in closer to study the information before him.

"Isadora," Neuvillette called out, his voice echoing through the ornate office. His furrowed brows were a sign of his confusion and concern "The severance pay for the ex-staff doesn't come from the treasury."

Isadora's nod was slow. "His Majesty seems to be paying them out of his own personal funds."

Neuvillette's mind raced to understand why Wriothesley would take on such a personal responsibility. "What is wrong with our treasury?" he asked, trying to piece together the puzzle.

"His Majesty froze most of it, excluding Your Highness's allowance. It seems there have been numerous unaccounted withdrawals from...before he took over. The investigation is ongoing."

The gravity of the situation weighed heavily on Neuvillette as he processed this information. He couldn't believe that someone within their own circle had been embezzling funds, causing such turmoil within their finances. Had this reached his late father prior the coup? Neuvillette wouldn't know.

Turned out, Neuvillette was not stubborn enough to ignore his guilt towards Wriothesley because he ended up walking towards his office to apologize. Neuvillette's guilt towards Wriothesley weighed heavily on his conscience, tugging at him for the whole day and he knew this would've been gauche and shameful but better get over with it as soon as possible because the longer Neuvillette stalled, the more uncomfortable the conversation would've been. So, with determination in his stride, he made his way through the bustling hallways, anxious to get this unpleasant task over with.

With each step, the hallway seemed to stretch on endlessly as he made his way towards Wriothesley's office, dreading what awaited him inside. It felt like an eternity before he finally arrived at the doors. This was the second day in a row Neuvillette had been coming, and he couldn't shake off the feeling of unease that gnawed at his gut. Despite his hesitation, he took a deep breath, steeling himself for whatever lay beyond it. But before he could even speak, the Gardes announced his arrival in a loud and formal tone.

The heavy wooden door creaked open, revealing a cluttered and chaotic office. Papers overflowed from every surface of Wriothesley's desk, creating a maze of documents and folders. The faint scent of ink and parchment hung in the air, mingling with the musty odor of old books. Each stack seemed taller than the last, threatening to topple over at any second. It was clear that this was not an organized workspace, but rather a reflection of the busy mind of its occupant. Neuvillette thought that these stacks had grown since yesterday.

"Neuvi–"

"I would like to apologize," Neuvillette cut him off. The words tumbled out of Neuvillette's mouth with hesitance, his eyes finally meeting Wriothesley's gaze. "For my behavior this morning. I was... rather harsh on you." he said, his voice laced with regret.

Wriothesley let out a scoff, but his smile remained in place. "Don't worry about it," he said with a shake of his head. Despite the slight tinge of hurt still lingering in his eyes, Wriothesley's voice remained gentle and understanding. It was a skill he had honed over the years, masking his true emotions with ease. Neuvillette could see it now, the facade slipping just a little.

Neuvillette was taken aback by Wriothesley's response. He had expected a fiery reaction, filled with anger and resentment, but instead, Wriothesley seemed to be handling the situation with grace and understanding. His posture remained relaxed, his expression calm. It was hard for Neuvillette to admit it, but his heart swelled with gratitude towards the other man.

"Thank you," Neuvillette said sincerely, his voice filled with emotion.

Wriothesley's smile broadened, becoming more genuine and warm. "Of course, we are all under a lot of pressure here. Understandably, tensions can run high."

"Yes, I suppose that's true."

But Neuvillette couldn't understand it. Why wasn't Wriothesley seething with anger towards him? He was accustomed to being chastised for even the slightest misbehavior, so this lack of reprimand from Wriothesley was perplexing. Perhaps Wriothesley saw Neuvillette's words as meaningless and unworthy of attention. 

Yet, Wriothesley had never been dismissive before. In fact, he always seemed to expect cruelty to spew from Neuvillette's mouth at any moment. Yes, Neuvillette knew he deserved Neuvillette's animosity after what he'd done, but he couldn't make sense of Wriothesley's silence and passive acceptance. It only fueled Neuvillette's inner turmoil, driving him further into confusion and despair. Why wouldn't Wriothesley offer an explanation or apology, then? 

The absence of any reaction from the man cruel enough to usurp and worn the bloody crown left Neuvillette feeling lost and helpless, drowning in a sea of unanswered questions. What secrets did he contain, hidden within the depths of his being? The vastness of death and time, light patterns spanning millennia, like a tapestry of stars drifting through the vast expanse of the universe. As Neuvillette stood there, his insides felt as though they were expanding with this knowledge, opening up to the infinite possibilities of the cosmos. Are you simply made up of sixteen feet of intestines, or are you a vessel for something much greater, Wriothesley?

The weight of their unspoken thoughts hung heavy between them, like a dense fog that refused to lift. The silence stretched on, suffocating and uncomfortable as Neuvillette struggled to find the right words. But they remained elusive, leaving him feeling helpless and misunderstood. 

"I better go--"

"--Your Majesty, seriously--" Before Neuvillette could even reach for the door, it was flung open from the outside by a strong hand. Startled, he turned to see Sigewinne standing in the doorway, her eyes widening in recognition as she saw him standing before her. Her surprise quickly melted into a warm smile, signaling that his unexpected presence was a welcome sight. "Your Highness," she greeted with a respectful bow and a nod of her head.

Neuvillette returned her smile and replied, "Good evening, Matron."

Neuvillette stepped aside to allow Sigewinne to enter the room, where Wriothesley sat behind his ornate desk, already back into studying some papers intently. The air was thick with the smell of burning incense and polished wood, creating an almost ethereal atmosphere within the elegant office.

Sigewinne's smile lit up her face as she clapped her hands together with excitement. "Well, isn't this just splendid!" she exclaimed. "I was just about to inform His Majesty that dinner is ready."

As Neuvillette looked around, he realized that the sun was setting and it must be dinner time. He had been so lost in conversation with Wriothesley that he had lost track of time. He felt a pang of guilt for imposing on the king's time and was about to politely excuse himself to return to his chamber when Wriothesley spoke up. "That sounds delightful, we will be there soon," he said with a warm smile.

As the thought of dining with Wriothesley filled him with nervous energy, he couldn't help but fidget in his seat. He knew there was no polite way to decline now that Sigewinne had seen them together. So, with a forced smile and a nod, he tried to reassure her.

"I will let them know both of you will dine together." Sigewinne said, her voice filled with excitement at the prospect. She quickly excused herself and made her way towards the staff and the cook to inform them of the special arrangement. The sound of her brisk footsteps echoed in the hallway as she went about her task with efficiency.

Neuvillette exhaled a deep sigh, feeling the weight of everything settling on his shoulders. As he turned around, his eyes met with Wriothesley's, who approached with a look of guilt etched on his face because once again, he had taken it upon himself to make decisions for Neuvillette without consulting him first.

"I deeply apologize, Neuvillette," Wriothesley said, his voice filled with remorse.

"It's okay," Neuvillette sighed, though he couldn't quite shake off the hurt and disappointment he felt. As they stood there, awkwardly facing each other, Neuvillette suddenly reached out his hand towards Wriothesley.

At first, Wriothesley looked even more bewildered. But then understanding dawned on his face as Neuvillette explained He desperately wanted to salvage their relationship and spare them any further embarrassment. "There are people outside the doors," Neuvillette explained softly, nodding towards the doors. "Let's give them something to talk about." He gestured again towards Wriothesley's hand, silently pleading for him to take it and play along as a loving couple once more.

When Wriothesley and Neuvillette arrived at the dining room, the air was already suffused with the tantalizing aroma of freshly prepared food. The staff had clearly put a great amount of effort into presenting a meal fit for royalty, despite the fact that there were only two diners.

Wriothesley escorted Neuvillette to his designated seat, a gesture that felt both formal and intimate at the same time. The staff quietly went about their duties, setting silverware on the pristine white tablecloth and pouring wine into crystal glasses.

He raised his glass to Neuvillette, a silent toast to the evening ahead. Little did he know, this dinner would be the catalyst for a sequence of events that would change both of their lives forever.

As soon as the doors closed behind them, the warm and playful atmosphere between Wriothesley and Neuvillette evaporated. Their faces carefully composed into neutral expressions. The silence was heavy and uncomfortable, broken only by the sound of utensils clinking against plates.

Neuvillette tried to think of something to say, some way to break through the tension that hung in the air like a dark cloud. But every topic that came to mind seemed either insignificant or inappropriate for their current situation. Wriothesley, on the other hand, seemed content to eat his meal in silence. He avoided looking directly at Neuvillette and instead focused on his plate, seemingly deep in thought. As they reached the end of their meal, Neuvillette made a decision. He couldn't bear this awkwardness any longer. He had to say something, even if it was just to break the silence.

"Are you enjoying your meal?" he asked, trying to keep his voice casual.

Wriothesley glanced up at him with a slight frown before replying, "Yes, it's quite delicious. Thank you."

Neuvillette nodded in agreement and took a sip of his wine.

After a moment of silence again, this time, Wriothesley spoke. "I apologize for roping you here."

"It's quite alright," Neuvillette said with a shrug. "These things happen." He decided not push any further and instead focused on finishing his meal in silence, knowing the rest of dinner passed in much the same way – with strained conversation and awkward silences.

Then, out of nowhere, Neuvillette's attention was suddenly pulled away from his meal as the sharp clatter of a falling fork rang out through the dining room. The sound reverberated off the walls, filling the once quiet space with a jarring noise that seemed to linger in the air. Neuvillette couldn't help but startle at the sudden interruption, his eyes darting around to see the source of the noise: Wriothesley. The tension in the room seemed to thicken as everyone paused, their forks and knives frozen mid-air. Even the candle flames flickered nervously in response to the unexpected disturbance. It was as if time had momentarily stopped, held captive by that single, echoing sound.

Neuvillette's keen gaze caught the subtle shift in Wriothesley's previously composed expression, now contorted into one of sheer panic. Before Neuvillette could even utter a word, Wriothesley sprang up from his seat and dashed towards him with wild abandon. Wriothesley's hands anxiously grasped at Neuvillette's arm, pulling him away from the dining table with frenzied desperation. The clatter of silverware and crystal echoed through the dining room.

"What are you--" Neuvillette started to ask, but was abruptly cut off as Wriothesley stumbled clumsily backwards, dragging Neuvillette with him. The two men tumbled to the ground, with Neuvillette landing on top of Wriothesley in an awkward heap.

Neuvillette's ears are deafened by a loud cough, followed by a wet splatter against his face. He recoils in horror, feeling the warm liquid trickle down his skin and realizing with sickening dread that it is Wriothesley's blood. The metallic smell fills his nostrils, overwhelming him.

"Wrio--"

Slowly, Wriothesley lifted themselves up and looked down at Neuvillette, his face contorted with fear and regret. The sound of his raspy breaths filled the air, intermingling with the stench of iron and fear followed by hoarse whisper spewn out of his lips. "I'm sorry..." he said, his voice barely audible, in contrast to a sudden raw and violent coughing fit gripped Wriothesley as he screamed, blood spilling from his mouth in a grotesque fountain. "Gardes!" he bellowed, his voice sounded ragged and desperate as he desperately clung to consciousness.

In a flurry of movement, the Gardes rushed into the opulent dining room. The air was thick with tension as Wriothesley barked out orders, his face drained of color and resembling that of a ghost. "Escort the Prince to his chambers and have Matron Sigewinne thoroughly examine him for any trace of poison," he commanded urgently. The atmosphere was heavy with fear and confusion as all eyes turned to the Prince, who stood trembling in the center of the room.

Wriothesley's gaze settled on a particularly striking Garde with vibrant purple hair and an eyepatch. "Chevreuse, the cook--"

"And the servants who prepared the dinner, got it," Chevreuse interjected, her sharp features tensing with determination. She knew exactly what needed to be done without Wriothesley having to finish his thought. "I'll trace every ingredient back to its source." Her eye flashed with intensity as she mentally calculated the steps needed to solve this mystery. Her slender fingers tapped against her thigh, eager to get to work and uncover the truth behind the tainted meal. Wriothesley nodded and moved towards the dining table again.

"Please, I am fine," Neuvillette's words fell on deaf ears as he desperately tried to stop the Gardes from dragging him away from the dining room. His body trembled, but he forced himself to remain upright and composed. "Bring Matron Sigewinne to His Majesty instead--" 

But Wriothesley paid no heed to Neuvillette's request. With a dismissive wave of his hand, he continued giving orders to the Gardes, despite the blood steadily dripping from his lips. "I think it's the salad."

It was clear that something was not right, and Neuvillette couldn't help but feel a sense of unease settling in the pit of his stomach. The scent of iron filled the air, mingling with the fragrant aroma of the rest of the meals that laid untouched on the table.

Neuvillette's voice was urgent and pleading as he spoke to Wriothesley, the King. His eyes were full of concern as he watched his ruler fight against the effects of the poison that coursed through his body. "At least come with me, Your Majesty," Neuvillette's desperate plea hung in the air like a heavy fog, permeating every inch of the room. Wriothesley's expression remained stoic, his jaw set and his eyes darting around the room as if searching for enemies that might be hiding.

How could Wriothesley prioritize Neuvillette over himself, when he was clearly the one suffering from the deadly substance?

Wriothesley let out a raspy cough, his face contorted in pain. "I'll take care of myself," he managed to say between gasps for air. "This might be contagious."

Neuvillette's heart raced with fear and adrenaline as he refused to back down. He couldn't abandon his king in distress. "Wriothesley!" he cried out, taking a threatening step forward.

But Wriothesley's voice boomed with an unwavering authority that halted Neuvillette in his tracks. His words were like a sharp blade cutting through the air, commanding obedience. "Leave," he bellowed, his tone cold and unfamiliar, sending shivers down Neuvillette's spine. "This is an order."

Chapter Text

Wriothesley's sharp, penetrating gaze followed Sigewinne's skilled movements as she deftly wrapped his sprained wrist in a clean bandage. They were in the tranquil garden of Palais Mermonia, an oasis of peace amidst the chaos of the royal court. Wriothesley had come here to pay his usual visit to the Crown Prince, but he could tell by the Prince's horrified expression that he didn't appreciate how badly Wriothesley treated his own injury. He nonchalantly explained that he had injured himself during a sparring session with one of his knights, but the worry and concern in the Prince's eyes told him that his explanation was not enough to ease his friend's distress.

With a sense of inevitability, Neuvillette fetch Sigewinne to the garden. As always, the petite but determined woman arrived swiftly, her hands moving with practiced speed as she tended to Wriothesley. Despite his position as a Duke and all the privileges that came with it, he couldn't escape Sigewinne's gentle but firm scolding, just as he couldn't escape her care when he was eleven and fell from a tree, or now at twenty-one when he was hurt once again. She was a constant presence, a calm force in their lives.

Neuvillette unfortunately had to return to his study, leaving Wriothesley and Sigewinne alone. So after he brought her to Wriothesley, he bid them goodbye, and the Matron began treating the Duke.

"Matron," he called. "I've recently learned about something interesting."

Sigewinne's voice was smooth and sweet, like honey dripping from a spoon. She leaned over her patient's wrist, her skilled hands gently exploring the pulse points. "Hm? And what do you suppose that to be, Your Grace?" Her eyes flicked up to meet his gaze before returning to her task.

Wriothesley's sharp features remained fixed on her face, his intense stare never wavering. "Mithridatism," he answered, his words laced with intrigue and curiosity. "Are you familiar with it?"

The air hung heavy with anticipation as they both awaited Sigewinne's response. The soft rustle of fabric could be heard as she paused, considering his question. A delicate perfume lingered in the air, mingling with the scent of herbs and ointments. It was as if time had frozen in this moment, where two minds met in a dance of knowledge and understanding.

Sigewinne finally spoke, her features stoic and unflinching. "I cannot claim to have knowledge of such a practice, Your Grace. What is it you speak of?"

A slight smile tugged at Wriothesley's lips as he observed the nurse's effortless deception. "It is the ancient tradition of building up one's immunity to poisons through gradual exposure. A practice still utilized in modern times."

Sigewinne's face became a canvas of thoughts, her brows furrowing as she mulled over the suggestion. "Fascinating," she finally breathed out, her eyes lighting up with curiosity and intrigue. A small smile tugged at the corner of her lips, revealing a glimmer of excitement. "Perhaps I'll have to try it out myself."

Wriothesley's smile grew wider, satisfaction radiating from his features at her response. "I would be delighted to assist you, Matron. It could be our little clandestine affair." The corners of Sigewinne's mouth turned upwards into a mischievous smirk, a playful twinkle dancing in her eye.

"Indeed, Your Grace. Our little secret," she laughed. "So?"

"So?"

"Is that the reason for your unexpected arrival, despite your obvious ability to handle your injured wrist on your own? Did you perhaps also conveniently forget about His Highness' busy schedule, preventing him from joining us?"

Wriothesley's lips curled into a sly smile. "I cannot say for certain."

As he was escorted back to his chambers, Neuvillette couldn't shake off the feeling of unease that settled over him like a dark cloud. The halls were eerily quiet, with only a few guards here and there, their eyes avoiding his as they quickly went about their duties. Neuvillette, his usually pristine appearance now disheveled and panicked, stood before Sigewinne, pleading for her to listen. "Matron, you have to listen–" Neuvillette said urgently. "His Majesty needs you more than I do–"

Sigewinne remained calm despite the gravity of the situation, gently interrupting Neuvillette's protests. "Your Highness, I understand you. I really do." Sigewinne calmly interjected. "If you just let me do my job, the more you cooperate, the sooner I'll be able to treat His Majesty, okay?"

Neuvillette slowly nodded and let Sigewinne take him to the bed so she could begin examining him for possible poisoning.

"Do you feel pain anywhere? Did your food taste strange?" Sigewinne asked, her experienced eyes scanning Neuvillette's body for any signs of illness. Neuvillette shook his head, still gripping onto Sigewinne's arm for support.

Sigewinne continued her examination, trying to remain calm and reassuring in the face of Neuvillette's increasing panic. She carefully checked his pulse and temperature, finding them both slightly elevated but not enough to cause alarm. However, as she moved down to check his abdomen, Neuvillette let out a sharp cry of pain.

Sigewinne's heart clenched at the sound, her mind racing with possibilities of what could be causing the prince's distress. She gently placed a hand on Neuvillette's shoulder to comfort him as she continued her examination.

Neuvillette's breathing had become shallower and faster, his eyes wide with fear and tears beginning to escape from their corners. Sigewinne knew she needed to act quickly before the prince became too overwhelmed.

"Your Highness, I need you to relax and try to focus on your breathing," Sigewinne said.

Neuvillette took a deep breath and tried to calm himself down, focusing on the rhythm of his breathing. Sigewinne continued her examination, looking for any other symptoms that could give her a clue as to what was causing the prince's distress.

"Does anything else hurt, Your Highness?" Sigewinne asked gently. Neuvillette shook his head, his breathing becoming more steady.

Sigewinne sighed in relief, glad that at least physically the prince seemed to be fine. But she couldn't ignore the fact that he was clearly suffering from some kind of emotional turmoil.

After a tense moment, Sigewinne's brow unfurled and her lips curved into a small smile. "You are not in immediate danger," she declared. "but I will need to take some blood samples for further examination," Sigewinne informed Neuvillette. With practiced ease, she retrieved a clear, empty syringe from her medical bag and carefully drew out a sample of Neuvillette's blood. The needle glinted in the light as Sigewinne worked with precision and efficiency.

After she was finished, Sigewinne turned to the two maids standing nearby. "Please remove His Highness' clothing immediately, it may have come into contact with something contaminated."

The maids nodded respectfully in unison. "Yes, Matron," they replied in sync.

The world seemed to blur and spin around Neuvillette as he stood still, his mind trying to process the events that had just occurred. The maids bustled around him, quickly changing his clothes and cleaning the blood from his face. He could feel the knot in his stomach tighten with each passing second, a physical manifestation of the chaos in his mind. His heart raced as he struggled to piece together the details of what had transpired only moments ago.

Though his body showed no physical signs of illness, the mental anguish that consumed Neuvillette was almost unbearable. Like a tangled web, questions and doubts spun in his mind, each thread leading to another. Was his husband the sole target of this poison, or was he also meant to die tonight? The weight of the unknown pressed down on him like a heavy cloak, suffocating and unrelenting. With every passing moment, the answers seemed to slip further from his grasp, as if taunting him with their elusiveness.

Neuvillette couldn't help but wonder if Wriothesley had been right all along. Perhaps people truly were unhappy with his rise to the throne, and this was their way of expressing it. He should have known, he had seen the contempt in those who blamed Wriothesley for the sudden change in Fontaine's leadership.

A wave of guilt crashed over him as he finally allowed himself to see the truth. He had been so consumed by his anger towards Wriothesley and his desire to understand his betrayal that he failed to notice the depth of resentment festering towards Wriothesley from other people. Their marriage was supposed to be a remedy for these conflicts, but clearly, it had failed. Was it Neuvillette's fault? He couldn't say for sure. In this moment of realization, everything he thought he knew was thrown into question, leaving him feeling lost and uncertain.

Neuvillette's mind raced as he pictured the scene unfolding with Wriothesley. Did Sigewinne make it in time to save him? Did the poison take hold, and was Wriothesley now fighting for his life? The weight of not knowing gnawed at Neuvillette's weary mind. Driven by desperation, he threw caution to the wind and made a mad dash towards the door of his chambers, the imposing Gardes standing guard almost stopping him in his tracks. Sweat dripped down Neuvillette's forehead as he pushed past their firm grip and bolted towards the unknown fate that awaited him outside.

"Your Highness, you can't–"

"I will see my husband." Neuvillette cut their words. His voice sounded so authoritarian that he almost didn't recognize his own tone.  "Come escort me if you are worried."

When Sigewinne entered the opulent chamber, her eyes were immediately searching for Wriothesley, who slumped against the bathroom wall. Blood, smeared from the toilet bowl, indicated that the King had vomited once again. On the tiled floor lay a discarded bottle of antidote and an empty syringe, evidence of his desperate attempts to rid himself of whatever poison plagued him.

Sigewinne was at least glad it was Wriothesley because he knew what he was doing, and he wasn't going to die from poisoning as easy as normal people, but still, it didn't mean that Wriothesley was no more in danger. Even with his expertise, there was always a risk when dealing with deadly substances.

Wriothesley's voice shook as he spoke, his hand clutching at his stomach. "It's from a puffer fish," he gasped out, identifying the source of the poison that had accidentally slipped into his food. Sigewinne rushed to his side, concern etched on her features.

"So I took the antidote made from Qingxin," Wriothesley continued weakly, trying to steady his breathing.

"How much did you take?" Sigewinne asked, gently checking his pulse.

"250 milligrams," came the reply, followed by a sharp intake of breath.

"I'll increase the dosage," Sigewinne declared firmly, already reaching for another vial of medicine. The pungent scent of herbs and spices filled the air as she worked quickly to save her King's life.

Sigewinne carefully measured out a higher dosage of the antidote, then as she administered the medicine, Sigewinne prayed silently for it to work quickly. She knew that every second counted in situations like this. Wriothesley's breathing was growing more labored by the minute and his skin was turning an unhealthy shade of grey.

After a seemingly endless stretch of time, Wriothesley's ragged breathing began to even out and his pallor faded back to its usual healthy hue. Sigewinne let out a sigh of relief, her hand gently wiped the beads of sweat from Wriothesley's forehead. "That was incredibly dangerous," she murmured, her voice filled with concern. "If they had realized His Highness was with us, they could have targeted him instead."

"I doubt they were aware of Neuvillette's presence," Wriothesley chuckled weakly, his brows furrowing and there was a hint of bitterness in his voice.

"That'll make the list of suspects shorter then." Sigewinne sighed. She was the one who informed the necessary staff that the Prince was going to dine with the King, so the easiest suspects would've been those who prepared the dinner but weren't made aware of the change of plan. 

"You need to be careful. You only have one left." Her slender hand rested gently on Wriothesley's lower abdomen, just above his kidneys--well, kidney . Her touch was both comforting and cautionary, as if she knew the delicate state of his body. He nodded in response to her words, but it was clear that his attention was elsewhere. His eyes seemed distant and unfocused, lost in his own thoughts. She could see the worry etched into his features, thinking about a constant reminder of his mortality, a fragile organ keeping him tethered to this world. But even with this knowledge, she could sense the determination in his gaze, a stubborn will to keep moving forward despite the odds.

Wriothesley, sensing the tension was a bit too gauche between them, then spoke, "Matron," Wriothesley called, "Will I live?"

Sigewinne, who knew too well about Wriothesley's absurd dry and dark sense of humour, chuckled. "Yeah, yeah, you will," she replied, rolling her eyes. "Now shut up and let me do my job."

"Shucks." Wriothesley muttered, a faint smile on his lips. Despite his usual bravado, Sigewinne could sense a darkness in him, a tortured soul that he tried to hide behind his jokes and antics. But as she looked into his eyes, she saw a glimmer of something more, something vulnerable and fragile. And for a moment, she wondered if she could help him heal, both physically and emotionally.

Sigewinne, scowled at Wriothesley. "Don't make me regret saving your life," As quickly as it came, the moment passed and she went back to check his vitals, knowing that words weren't enough to heal a person's soul. It was something that Wriothesley would have to figure out for himself. And she could only hope that he would find peace someday.

After a good ten minutes, Wriothesley managed to find the strength to get up and leave the bathroom, while Sigewinne wrote something in her notebook. She jotted down every detail of Wriothesley's condition, noting his reaction to the poison with painstaking accuracy. The more data she collected, the more precise and effective her future antidotes could be for him. The sound of pen scratching against paper filled the room as she meticulously recorded every symptom and reaction displayed by her patient.

"Are you sure His Highness wasn't the target as well?" Sigewinne asked for confirmation.

Wriothesley answered as he changed his blood stained shirt. "No, if they wanted to kill him, they would've done it while Neuvillette was in the prison." He explained, his tone serious and calculating. "Those who remain loyal to the previous reign are still employed at Palais Mermonia. The only ones who chose to stay and work for me are those who cared about Neuvillette, or those who harbor hatred towards me."

Sigewinne carefully closed her leather-bound notebook and slipped it back into her bag, its contents teeming with detailed notes and evidence. She furrowed her brow in deep thought as she processed the information before her. "But they couldn't possibly be the true mastermind, right? The timing seems too perfectly planned."

Wriothesley merely shrugged, his tall form looming over her desk. He approached Sigewinne as she gathered her things, so she could leave and continue with further tests on the poison. Together, they walked towards the door of his chamber. As they made their way towards the door, Wriothesley spoke again. "I'd say the timing is exactly as I was expecting. Whoever committed this crime must have done so under someone else's instruction--"

With a sharp click, Wriothesley swung the door open for Sigewinne. Mid-sentence, his words stumbled and fell as their eyes fell upon the figure standing outside. His face contorted into a mask of shock and horror, his mouth agape in disbelief at what he had just overheard.

"Neuvillette," Wriothesley called. Neuvillette didn't respond. Sigewinne immediately bowed out and left, which was then followed by Neuvillette entering the chamber without permission. Wriothesley sighed and closed the door once again behind him.

"Look–"

The words burst out of Neuvillette's mouth, his fists clenching at his sides in frustration. "You lied," he accused, anger and hurt etched on his face. "You promised that if I married you, people would stop being hostile towards you. But here we are!" 

He shook his head, feeling foolish for even believing Wriothesley. "Did I do something wrong? Should I have not gone out alone without you by my side?" His voice trembled with a mix of emotions as he searched for answers.

The timing of Wriothesley's attempted assassination immediately following Neuvillette's public appearance couldn't possibly be a mere coincidence. But what was the underlying connection between these events? The question lingered in the air, shrouded in mystery and unease.

Wriothesley's head shook with a slow, almost imperceptible movement. "No, what you did was perfect," he spoke softly, his words carrying the weight of authority and understanding. "It was exactly what you needed to do. This has nothing to do with what you did yesterday."

Neuvillette felt his heart racing in his chest, the beats so loud that he feared Wriothesley could hear them. He struggled to make sense of the situation, his mind swirling with confusion. He had been warned about the danger of their union, but he never expected it to take such a brutal and physical form. Wriothesley's words only added to his bewilderment, like a puzzle piece that didn't quite fit.

The words pierced Neuvillette's heart like sharp, pointed daggers as they fell from his trembling lips. His voice cracked with emotion, tears threatening to spill over from his stinging eyes. "Then how did this assassination attempt still happen?!" he cried out in disbelief, the pain and betrayal evident in his tone. 

He had trusted Wriothesley, believed that he would protect Fontaine as he promised at all cost. But now, faced with the possibility of losing him, all of his anger and hurt came bubbling to the surface. "I thought you were going to--You can't die on me, Wriothesley. You don't get to do that. You don't get to leave with an easy way out after everything you've done to me." he pleaded, gripping onto the fabric of his pants tightly as tears streamed down his face.

Wriothesley reached out a hand, wanting to comfort Neuvillette in his time of distress, but the prince pulled away sharply. He knew he was being harsh and unfair, but he couldn't help feeling betrayed by Wriothesley's promises and by his own conflicted emotions. The feelings he had tried so hard to suppress for this complicated man now surged forward, mixed with fear and anger at the danger he had been put in. As much as he wanted to hate Wriothesley for putting him through this, he also couldn't deny the depth of his feelings for him. It was a confusing and painful realization that left him reeling.

Wriothesley pulled his hands away. "I deserve that, don't I?" Wriothesley's voice was barely a whisper, but it echoed through the empty chambers of the room. He looked at Neuvillette, who could only offer a helpless shrug in response. He stared at his hands, still clutching desperately at something, anything, as if trying to hold on to the remnants of his shattered pride. He suddenly pulled his hands away, as if they had been burned by his own self-loathing.

"I didn't lie. Not really." Wriothesley's admission was interlaced with a hint of bitterness, his voice heavy with the weight of obligation and sacrifice. "Our marriage may have prevented an uprising that could have brought harm to innocent civilians, but I never claimed it would completely quell attempts on my life. As you can see, there are plenty of ways to take me out without harming anyone else."

"But that is--" Neuvillette choked on his own words. What did he want to say? That it wasn't fair? Did Neuvillette seriously think that Wriothesley, of all people, the great sinner and murderer that he was, deserved to live without constantly looking over his shoulder, living in fear of revenge for his heinous crimes? For it seemed that there was no retribution for his crime?

But the act of killing Wriothesley would have only resulted in yet another usurper taking his place on the throne. And who's to say that this new leader would find Neuvillette as valuable as Wrio did? Perhaps there was a deeper motive behind their desire for the throne to remain vacant, rather than allowing Wriothesley to rule for even one more moment.

Wriothesley let out a bitter laugh, the sound so foreign in Neuvillette's ears. He knew Wriothesley had always prided himself on his wit and charm, but in this moment, Neuvillette felt as if he had lost every shred of it. He turned away, unable to face the pity in Neuvillette's eyes. "It's okay, I've built better resistance to poison for a few years now. This incident is far from enough to kill me."

Neuvillette's eyes narrowed as he stared at Wriothesley. "So you've been planning the coup for a while, then?" he asked incredulously.

Wriothesley met his gaze with a steely determination, unapologetic for his actions. "For five years, I've been waiting for the right moment to strike," he admitted.

A surge of anger coursed through Neuvillette's veins. How dare this man deceive him and manipulate him while plotting to overthrow their rightful ruler? "And yet you continued to visit me, pretending as if nothing was amiss," he spat out with venom.

Wriothesley's expression softened, a hint of regret in his voice. "I had no other choice." But Neuvillette could see the truth in Wriothesley's eyes - he had simply used him as a pawn in his game for power.

Neuvillette's anger gave way to confusion as he considered Wriothesley's words. "No other choice?" he repeated, his voice laced with skepticism. The pieces began to click into place for Neuvillette. Wriothesley had always been ambitious, but surely he couldn't have orchestrated such a complex plan simply for his sole desire.

Neuvillette studied Wriothesley's face, searching for any signs of deception. But all he saw was sincerity and perhaps a hint of desperation. Could it be possible that Wriothesley was telling the truth?

"Even if what you say is true," Neuvillette said cautiously, "how could you expect me to believe it?"

Wriothesley's jaw clenched as he struggled to find the right words. "I know I have wronged you and our kingdom," he said finally, his voice heavy with remorse. "But I swear to you, I never wanted to harm Fontaine."

Neuvillette weighed his options carefully. He could turn Wriothesley in and have him punished for treason - a punishment that would surely result in death, assuming that Neuvillette could somehow convince the Privy Council to turn against Wriothesley. Or he could choose to trust him and try to uncover the truth behind this apparent coup.

But what if... What if Wriothesley was forced to do this? Who in the right mind would've purposely consumed poison for half a decade just for a cushy position that wasn't worth the risk? The very notion seemed unthinkable.

"Who made you do this, Wriothesley? Taking poison for years because you know people will try to kill you with it, becoming an usurper but losing your wealth. What about Meropide?"

But Wriothesley's response was cold and calculated. "I've abolished it. There will be no conflict of interest with my old duchy." he said, his voice devoid of any emotion. "So you don't have to worry." Despite his calm demeanor, there was a flicker of pain in his eyes at the mention of his lost hometown.

"That's not–" Neuvillette's exasperated sigh echoed through the room. The conversation with Wriothesley only seemed to add more questions rather than answers. His mind swirled with confusion. "What is your ultimate goal in all of this? Your men are not here, the treasury remains untouched, and your Privy Council seems to have gained more than you have from this coup. So what do you truly get?"

It surprised Neuvillette that he was pushing Wriothesley far enough like this, egging him to talk. TIt was out of character for him, as he had always been a quiet and non-confrontational person. But something about Wriothesley's behavior ignited a deep emotions in Neuvillette and he was so close to falling into some kind of madness, causing him to act completely out of character.

Wriothesley's response was a tired, defeated exhale. He refused to answer, his shoulders slumping in weariness rather than triumph. Despite orchestrating a successful coup, he seemed burdened by exhaustion rather than fueled by ambition. "I'm just so tired, Neuvillette," he finally admitted. "Can we discuss this later?"

Neuvillette's frustration turned to concern as he took in Wriothesley's appearance. He looked worn, as if the weight of the world rested on his shoulders. Neuvillette couldn't help but feel a twinge of sympathy for his former friend turned husband-enemy.

"Of course," Neuvillette hesitated, his voice softening as he spoke. He knew he should stand his ground and not give in to Wriothesley's every demand, but he couldn't help but feel drawn to the man's persuasive ways. "Perhaps we should take a break and clear our minds before continuing," he suggested, torn between standing up for himself and giving into Wriothesley's wishes.

As Neuvillette left the chamber, the heavy doors closed behind him with a resounding thud. A chill ran down his spine, causing his hair to stand on end and his skin to prickle with apprehension. It was as if his instincts were warning him that he was not yet prepared for what he was about to hear - the truth that lay hidden within those walls. He took a deep breath, steeling himself for what was to come, before walking away. The echoes of his footsteps filled the dimly lit corridor, adding to the tension that hung in the air like a thick fog.

Chapter Text

Three days had passed since Neuvillette last spoke to Wriothesley in private. Despite his growing concern for Wriothesley's health, he continued his work at Palais Mermonia as if nothing had happened. The news of the assassination attempt had not yet spread among the staff, as Wriothesley was either locked away in his office or hidden in his chamber for full recovery. Most of the staff never saw him in person to begin with.

Neuvillette, Sigewinne, and a select few were the only ones granted access to the king's chamber. Neuvillette played his part as a concerned and active consort, checking on Wriothesley every morning on his way to his own office. But deep down, he felt like he was contributing very little to the situation.

He couldn't help but wonder if it was a blessing or a curse that he wasn't involved in the investigation of the people he had known for so long. However, with new hires needed at Palais Mermonia, he knew it was only a matter of time before they brought someone new into their midst. And with a killer still on the loose, Neuvillette couldn't shake the feeling that this could potentially open the door for even more infiltrators to enter their walls.

Neuvillette sat at his desk and was occupied with so many thoughts. The office was still busy even at this hour, filled with soft chatters and rustle of papers. They had been working late, as they often did after earlier that evening, they had all gathered for dinner in the office, Neuvillette listened to his staff sharing stories and laughter over their meal and wine; the lives they had outside of work was fascinating.

If only Neuvillette could share his stories too. But for now he sat there, quiet and attentive, trying to untangle his thoughts and make sense of it all. And though he knew he couldn't stay in that moment forever, he allowed himself a brief respite, a fleeting peace amid the chaos of his mind.

But as the night wore on and everyone returned to their tasks, Neuvillette found himself battling inner turmoil. He couldn't quite put his finger on what was bothering him. Perhaps it was the relentless pressure to perform, or the looming deadlines that seemed to always be just out of reach. Or perhaps it was the constant hum of discontent that seemed to pervade his thoughts, despite their successes.

He heard a soft clink of a cup being placed on the desk and looked up to see Elphane, one of his new personal staff members, and her concerned gaze met his.

"Your Highness, are you feeling well?" she asked, her voice filled with genuine worry.

Neuvillette sighed and rubbed his temples. "I am fine. My apologies for being so absentminded. It seems my mind is preoccupied with other matters."

She nodded understandingly and returned to her desk.

Elphane joined him alongside Semaine who was ecstatic to work for Neuvillette, as he had already exhausted all possible duties for Wriothesley since that man was already well-versed in many areas and there wasn't much left for office staffs to aid him. It was the polar opposite to Neuvillette, though, and he sometimes wondered if he was a difficult and exhausting employer to work for.

As he took a deep sip, he noticed a small envelope placed neatly under the cup on his cluttered desk. In the midst of his hectic schedule, he had nearly forgotten about the wedding gift from the Pastoress and her daughter. Jacquetta's gentle reminder yesterday had saved him from committing such a faux pas. Setting down the cup with care, he delicately opened the envelope. Inside lay two precious tickets, adorned with intricate designs, to see Demoiselle Furina's highly coveted play at Opera Epiclese. He knew it was nearly impossible for even nobles to obtain such sought-after tickets.

Neuvillette, with a curious tilt of his head, posed a question to Jacquetta, "What gift do you typically bring to the actors when attending their play?"

"As Your Highness is a distinguished guest, perhaps some delicacies?" Jacquetta suggested. "I have heard that Demoiselle Furina has a particular fondness for desserts."

"I'm afraid I am unaware of her preferences," Neuvillette admitted with a small frown.

Isadora, whose desk was adjacent to Jacquetta's, chimed in, her fingers tapping away at her typewriter as she spoke. "She does plenty of interviews for The Steambird. I'm sure she talks about her favorite food at least five times," she said before returning her attention to her work and the snacks on her desk. Neuvillette had never seen someone with efficient multitasking skills - eating with one hand while working with the other.

"Could you retrieve those articles for me?" Neuvillette turned back to Jacquetta.

"Of course, Your Highness," Jacquetta replied with a graceful nod.

"Thank you," Neuvillette said.

Neuvillette wanted to personally select the gift, knowing that it would hold significant meaning and convey his gratitude. This was a pivotal moment for him, as going to the Opera House with Wriothesley would mark their first public appearance together. As Semaine had pointed out, it would also bring positive attention to all parties involved; Demoiselle Furina's play would become even more popular after being seen by the reigning King and his consort, and the mere idea of attending a play would evoke feelings of joy and excitement in the audience. It was like a rare glimpse into the "honeymoon phase" of the couple's relationship, whatever that may be.

In a surprising move, the King and his husband forgoed their extravagant vacation plans and opted for a low-key evening as they snuck out of Palais Mermonia to catch a play. Breaking royal tradition, the couple proved to be down-to-earth and relatable like any commoner . -- Neuvillette could already picture the reactions to it. In the end, it was a good business for everyone. He wondered if Pastoress Focalors and Demoiselle Furina planned this with Wriothesley.

The sounds of quills scratching against parchment and the flipping of pages filled the air as the works resumed, and nothing seemed to be out of the ordinary until Neuvillette's overheard the conversation Roialte had with Semaine when he picked a Law Codice from the bookshelf next to Roialte's desk that piqued his interest.  

"Is your daughter with a babysitter again?" Semaine asked.

Roialte shook his head. "No, my mother-in-law actually came to visit this morning and she offered to stay for the night."

Neuvillette's eyebrows furrowed, a look of concern crossing his face. The news was rather unfortunate - Roialte was being forced to stay at work instead of going home at a reasonable hour. Neuvillette wasn't sure what time they were supposed to finish their duties, as he was more familiar with the staff who lived in Palais Mermonia and this new team of helpers, who were only available during certain hours, was something he had never encountered before in his privileged lifestyle.

"I am sorry to interrupt, but did you leave your daughter unattended?" Neuvillette asked, trying to sound as polite as possible in fear that he would say something that offended Roialte. "And why were you not able to return home sooner?"

Rioalte and Semaine exchanged a quick glance, their expressions mirroring Neuvillette's own confusion. Had he perhaps asked the wrong question? As the words left his lips, Neuvillette noticed a shift in the room. Suddenly all eyes were on him as he made his way to the center of the room, the sound of shuffling feet and faint murmurs filling the air. "I couldn't help but notice that everyone has been putting in extra hours lately," Neuvillette spoke, addressing the group gathered before him. His curiosity piqued, he couldn't help but ask, "May I inquire as to why this is the case?"

"Well," Rioalte finally spoke on everyone's behalf, makes sense since he was the oldest. "It is considered impolite to depart from work before Your Highness does."

"Pardon?" Neuvillette blinked in confusion. "My apologies, I was unaware of this protocol. Why did you not inform me that my workload was overburdening you?"

"The responsibility does not lie with Your Highness," Rioalte reassured him, his eyes filled with respect and admiration for their ruler. "We are wholly satisfied with the current state of affairs." The other staff members nodded in agreement, their loyalty unwavering. However, Neuvillette couldn't help but feel a twinge of guilt that he had unknowingly caused his own people to overwork themselves.

Isadora grinned as she chimed in, her words laced with amusement. "Yeah, plus nobody else offers snacks and dinner every single day like Your Highness does. I, for one, am quite content with this arrangement." She playfully shook the jar of Madeleine in her hand, the scent of freshly baked cookies wafting through the air.

Jacquetta's voice carried a soothing tone as she reassured, "As we all reside in close proximity, remaining here late into the night poses no issue." Her words were punctuated by genuine smiles from the group. "You never overwork us," Jacquetta continued, "we are simply grateful to spend our time in your presence."

Though the guilt dissipate a little, Neuvillette still felt a pang of shame for not realizing this sooner. He didn't know his own work habit would ever affected other people like this. "I sincerely apologize." He said. "I will ensure proper compensation for all parties involved. Furthermore, there will be no more overtime required for any of us."

Neuvillette assumed, in order to create a healthy work environment for them, he had to set it for himself first. He knew that if he expected his employees to leave at six, he too had to finish his own tasks and not be bogged down by piles of paperwork. These were good people who had shared stories of their fulfilling personal lives with Neuvillette, and the last thing he wanted was for work to consume all their time and take away from those precious moments outside the office. He wanted them to enjoy life outside of work so they could come back and share their experiences with him once again - after all, wasn't that how it had always been?

For as long as he could remember, his only connection to the outside world had been through the stories and lives of others. In his childhood, it was the tales told by Wriothesley. But now, in this ever-changing present, it was the lives of his own people.

Elphane sighed wistfully, a playful pout on her lips. "I shall surely miss dining with Your Highness, though." she quipped, earning a sharp glare from Jacquetta. The older woman subtly signaled that her comment was inappropriate, but with the sound of hearty chuckles from the group, including Neuvillette, reassured Elphane that she hadn't said anything to offend anyone.

"Very well, we can still enjoy evening meals together on a weekly basis if you are willing to remain in Palais Mermonia for a short while longer."

The group nodded in unison, their eyes fixed on Neuvillette as he returned to his desk. The old grandfather's clock ticked steadily in the corner, reminding them all of the time passing. "With that said, let us conclude today's proceedings. Thank you all for your diligent efforts."

With a furrowed brow, he leaned in for one last glance at the tickets on his cluttered desk, double-checking the date etched in black ink. "I will speak with His Majesty once more regarding the invitation at hand."

With each step towards the King's chamber, Neuvillette's nerves tingled with anticipation. Would he finally have the chance to speak with Wriothesley in private? And if so, what could he possibly say? Despite his true motives for coming to his chamber being to put on a show, there was always a lingering hope of a private conversation with Wriothesley. But every time he arrived there, it was never just the two of them. No, instead of finding Wriothesley alone, Neuvillette was greeted by Sigewinne, whose soothing presence was meant to nurse the King back to health after the recent assassination attempt; or Chevreuse, who took charge of investigating said attempt; or perhaps Lourvine and Jurieu, Wriothesley's only companions from Meropide who had accompanied him to Palais Mermonia. Each visit held a glimmer of possibility, but always ended in disappointment

With a brisk knock on the door, he announced his arrival. Inside, Sigewinne busied herself gathering the tools scattered across the bed, neatly placing them back into her bag. Meanwhile, Wriothesley sat on the edge of the bed, carefully buttoning up the last two buttons of his shirt.

"Good evening, Your Highness." Sigewinne greeted and Neuvillette acknowledged her with a slight nod before turning back to Wriothesley, his posture relaxed but his expression carefully composed, who flashed him a polite, common courtesy smile. "And how are you doing?" he inquired, keeping up appearances of civility and politeness in front of the visiting dignitary.

Wriothesley just shrugged. The last time he said something like: I've been worse , Sigewinne flicked his arm with disappointed head shake, and Wriothesley knew that any words he could offer would be too morbid for Neuvillette's delicate sensibilities, so he opted for noncommittal gestures instead. Neuvillette felt the weight of unsaid thoughts pressing against his own tongue, but he swallowed them down and chose silence as well over potential discomfort.

"About the play this weekend, do you–will Your Majesty be able to come?" Neuvillette asked. His heart throbbed a little--was he nervous? Was he, deep inside, looking forward to see this play with Wriothesley? Or was he nervous by the prospect of acting in front of other people, most of whom would've been strangers? In front of professional actors, they would've see right through Neuvillette in comparison, wouldn't they?

"What do you say, Matron?" Wriothesley turned towards Sigewinne, who responded with heavy sigh.

"I'd recommend Your Majesty to fully rest for the weekend."

"I'm sorry. I'm afraid you have to attend it alone." Wriothesley turned to Neuvillette and smiled apologetically. "Don't worry, I'll send someone to accompany you, if you don't mind."

"No, that is not a problem at all." Neuvillette's response came out flatter than he intended. Was he disappointed at having to go alone, or was it the unspoken understanding between them that left him feeling deflated?

Sigewinne walked away from the bed and approached Neuvillette. "We are finished here, Your Highness. I will take my leave now."

"Are you sure?" Wriothesley asked teasingly. "I mean, I still feel… weird."

"Weird." Sigewinne repeated the word coldly, a hint of sarcasm lacing her tone.

"My stomach doesn't feel good."

Hearing that, Neuvillette felt a surge of panic. "What happened? Is it another–"

"His Majesty is fine," Sigewinne interjected, giving Wriothesley an exasperated look for always saying things that could be taken out of context. "He's just a finicky eater. His stomach tends to growl when he's hungry."

"Can you really blame me, though, Matron?" Wriothesley retorted with a boyish grin.

Sigewinne didn't respond, instead she curtsied at Neuvillette before she left them alone.

They were alone now. Finally . And Neuvillette didn't know what to do with this.

As Sigewinne made her exit, a heavy silence fell between Neuvillette and Wriothesley. The air in the chamber felt stagnant and oppressive, weighing down on Neuvillette's chest. He couldn't shake off the unease and awkwardness that had settled over him like a damp cloak. Despite eagerly awaiting this private conversation with Wriothesley, he now found himself ill-prepared for it. The memories of their last private meeting came flooding back to Neuvillette; the weary lines etched on Wriothesley's face, the telltale signs of exhaustion evident in his pallid complexion. And then there was Neuvillette's own foolish and excessive anger at the time, now appearing needless and petty in retrospect. It was difficult to gather his thoughts in this space, where everything seemed to remind him of their strained relationship.

Neuvillette hesitated before speaking, unsure if it was the right time to approach Wriothesley. Would he be dismissed again, without a word? "Is this a good time to talk or should I return at a more convenient hour?" Neuvillette finally asked.

Neuvillette never imagined that conversing with Wriothesley would become such a daunting task. What transpired between them to cause such a change? Did Neuvillette's own inability to balance his conflicting feelings, the delicate balance between love and loathing towards Wriothesley play a role, or was this simply how Wriothesley had always made others feel? With his clever use of double entendres and evasive maneuvers, he left those who dared approach him feeling lost in a maze. The man whom Neuvillette had admired and revered his entire life now exuded an intimidating aura without saying a word, leaving Neuvillette feeling trapped and exposed at every turn.

"No, it's a good time to talk." Wriothesley answered, breaking the stillness that had lingered for far too long. He led Neuvillette towards a small table set with a delicate tea set, as if it were awaiting his presence at all times. And perhaps it was, considering Wriothesley's affinity for tea that Neuvillette had come to know so well.

Wriothesley pulled out a chair for Neuvillette, a familiar habit, and he settled into the padded seat with a gentle sigh, taking in, watching Wriothesley began expertly preparing their tea, his movements smooth and practiced, delicately selected the tea leaves and measured them precisely into a porcelain teapot.

"What do you want to know?" Wriothesley asked as he poured the hot water into the tea cup. The fragrant steam rose from the delicate porcelain teapot, filling the air with notes of jasmine and bergamot.

Neuvillette let out a heavy sigh, his thoughts in disarray. "I don't even know where to start," he muttered, his words barely audible.

Wriothesley leaned back in his chair, studying Neuvillette's troubled expression. "You have to decide on that," he said gently.

Neuvillette's gaze remained fixated on the delicate tea cup sitting on the table between them. The steam rising from the teapot swirled like wisps of thoughts in Neuvillette's mind. He knew he had to come up with something before the fragrant tea was poured into their waiting cups.

As Wriothesley deftly poured the steaming tea into Neuvillette's cup, he felt a sense of unease settle over him. Neuvillette knew the time was up, and he settled with: "What would happen to the people of Meropide without their Lord now?" Neuvillette finally asked, breaking the tense silence between them.

Wriothesley followed suit, pouring his own tea and adding two cubes of sugar with a subtle clink. Unsurprisingly, Wriothesley didn't offer Neuvillette any sugar, as he knew Neuvillette preferred his tea bitter because he found solace in the sharp, robust flavor of unsweetened beverages. But as Neuvillette watched Wriothesley stir in his sugar, he couldn't help but wonder when this change had occurred - when did Wriothesley start taking sugar in his tea?

"Most of the citizens have been relocated to other villages, we've let go all of the staff with severance pay since a month ago. Some of them, fortunately, have found new jobs, and the rest are in Poisson. I reckon they'll all get back on their feet by another month or so." Wriothesley begain to explain.

"Why?" Neuvillette's voice was filled with confusion and disbelief. "Why did you send them away from their home?"

Neuvillette wanted to ask the unspoken question: why did you abandon your people? How could you turn your back on those who had trusted and relied on you the moment you no longer wanted to take care of them? But Neuvillette held his tongue, knowing that there were some answers that he may never receive.

"Truth be told, Meropide has never been an ideal place to live. It's a barren land turned into a giant factory. I was never a fan of how these people have to live near factory waste but relocating them was not possible either if they are still part of my duchy and work for me. None of us could afford to have them commute."

To imagine living in a place constantly churning out products and spewing out waste, Neuvillette couldn't help but feel a twinge of pity for the people who were forced to live in such conditions. And it seemed like Wriothesley agreed because he looked... saddened, when he talked about the living conditions of his people. When Neuvillette saw his expression, it forced him to reconsider his initial assumption: Neuvillette realized that perhaps he also felt dejected at the thought of having to let go of these workers, many of whom he had known since childhood. Neuvillette had always heard that the majority of Meropide's inhabitants were exiled criminals, unable to readjust back into society after serving their time. It must have been difficult for Wriothesley to find other lords willing to accept these outcasts into their territories.

"And you were able to relocate them because of the help from other Lords, then?"

"Some were nice enough to help me and take them in." he admitted, a touch of gratefulness in his voice.

"But not without some sort of repayment, I assume?" Neuvillette prodded, wondering what price Wriothesley had paid for their assistance.

Wriothesley scoffed, but there was a glint of pride in his eyes. Neuvillette looked down on his tea, unable to make sense of Wriothesley's expression just then.

"Nothing in this world comes for free," he answered cryptically.

So it was true then, Neuvillette thought. Wriothesley did have allies outside of Meropide who had aided him in his coup.

"Besides," Wriothesley continued, his chin resting on his fist as he idly played with the handle of his tea cup. "If anything were to happen to me, there would be no one left to search there even if they turn Meropide upside down. It's a win-win situation for everyone."

If he failed the coup, Neuvillette presumed. Aristocrats were rarely prosecuted but if they were, the court would go after their territory and all of its resources including the people living there, so one could only imagine what kind of consequences these civillians would've had faced if their Lord was caught in a botched regicide attempt; the ultimate treason against the crown.

"So, they are safe?"

"Yes."

"Good." Neuvillette sighed in relief. "I'm glad."

As the last drops of tea slid down their throats, Wriothesley leaned back in his chair and asked, "Is that all you'd like to know?" His voice was laced with patience and understanding, a subtle hint that he knew more than he let on. Neuvillette couldn't deny the truth - Wriothesley had a way of seeing right through him, leaving no room for evasion or deception. Neuvillette shifted in his seat, feeling exposed and vulnerable under Wriothesley's perceptive gaze. The warm aroma of freshly brewed tea lingered in the air, mingling with the tension between the two men.

"If…" Neuvillette's voice cracked as he began to speak, his eyes downcast in shame. He cleared his throat and took a deep breath before starting over again. "If one of the staff in Palais Mermonia is the culprit for poisoning you, I apologize. They are under my care and their misconduct is a direct result of my negligence."

"Don't be too hard on yourself, you just overtook the position recently." Wriothesley said, which was a nice way to say that it was indeed his fault; don't let this happen again.

"Have you caught the person yet?"

"No, Chevreuse and the others are still looking, I believed she had come to you to ask for permission to question some people?"

"Yes, she came to me yesterday." Neuvillette nodded. The memory of her request to question several individuals resurfaced in Neuvillette's mind, but he could not recall any of them being detained or showing any signs of concern.Neuvillette posed the question, his brow furrowed in confusion. Wriothesley tilted his head slightly, a playful crooked grin on his lips. "You know what I mean."

"What do you think happened?" Wriothesley countered.

"I– I don't know. People are still wary of you but not to the point that they want to kill you." Neuvillette answered.

From his observations, the few in-person interactions he had with staff, and the written questionnaires, he could tell that none of them harbored any active hostility towards Wriothesley. At first, they had been confused by his presence and skeptical of his intentions, but as they got to know him, they realized he wasn't there to complicate their lives with new rules from Meropide. Some even admitted to only seeing Wriothesley once when he addressed them after the coup. To them, Wriothesley was simply a figure that existed somewhere within Palais Mermonia, posing no threat to their familiar daily routines. Despite his position of power, he blended in seamlessly with the palace's surroundings, like a hidden piece of furniture that didn't draw attention but served its purpose quietly and efficiently.

"So, could it be that they are ordered by someone else? Other Lords are starting to rebel against you, then?"

"Maybe," Wriothesley sighed, refilling his cup. "I wonder who will benefit the most from my absence."

"That's–"

"Are you interested?"

"Pardon?"

Wriothesley set his cup aside for some reason and instead he grabbed a glass and poured water into it before he slide it in front of Neuvillette. "The first Parliament meeting with all the Lords is in five days." He finally answered. "Come with me."

"Why?"

"It's a good place to see everyone's true color." Wriothesley said, and yet Neuvillette still didn't understand. What did attending a political meeting have to do with finding the culprit who had poisoned him? Did Wriothesley plan to confront them all at once? Seeing his confusion, Wriothesley added. "I thought you were interested in figuring out who forced your people to poison me."

"I am." Neuvillette said. "But can I really come? I mean, I have separate duties so there is no reason for me to attend the meeting."

As a consort, he had little to no say in the affairs of the country. The role was merely to maintain Fontaine's appearance for its citizens and other nations. Despite potentially becoming a patron for various causes, previous consorts had no direct influence on politics.

"If you ever change your mind, my offer still stands," Wriothesley said, refraining from pressuring Neuvillette - a gesture that he appreciated.

"Thank you, I will consider it."

"Good luck at the Opera House, then. I've heard great things about the play. I'm eager to hear your thoughts."

Wriothesley meant the play, Neuvillette assumed.

The day finally came for Neuvillette to see Furina's play at Opera Epiclese. He had a present prepared, something he proudly picked himself, and Roialte also came along with him, aside of the person Wriothesley said he'd find to accompany Neuvillette.

With each step down the winding staircases, Neuvillette's anticipation grew. As he reached the bottom, his gaze met that of a tall, regal woman, poised and vigilant like a knight on guard duty. Her hair, a striking shade of purple, was pulled back in a sleek low ponytail, emphasizing her sharp features. Her attire was not what one would expect from someone affiliated with Maison Gardiennage - a fitted suit adorned her figure, giving off an air of elegance and power. Peering closer, Neuvillette caught a glimpse of a sword hanging at her hip and the subtle bulge of a gun holster concealed under her tailored jacket. The realization dawned on him that she must be someone else entirely.

"I believe you are my companion for today?" Neuvillette greeted the woman at the bottom of the stairs and she curtsied gracefully before taking Neuvillette's hand in hers and pressing her lips to the back of it. Her appearance and demeanor were strikingly androgynous, with sharp features and a confident stance that seemed to suit her perfectly.

"It is my honor to be your companion for today, Your Highness," the woman spoke, her voice smooth and formal. "I am Clorinde. A chevalier from Chasseur de la Maréchaussée."

"I've heard great things about Marechaussee Hunter." Neuvillette acknowledged. "I believe this is the first time we've met, Dame Clorinde."

The Marechausse Hunters, a prestigious group with a long history tied to the very beginnings of Fontaine, were not officially employed by Palais Mermonia. Yet, their members still held titles bestowed upon them through knighthood, a testament to their service and skill. Their duties ranged from outsourced investigations to tracking down fugitives, making them a valuable asset to the country. And it was in this capacity that Wriothesley had commissioned Clorinde to be his bodyguard, cleverly disguising her as a companion.

"I believe so." Clorinde nodded. "Shall we?"

As they approached the grand Opera House, Roialte spoke with the Maison Gardiennage who were stationed there. They immediately sprang into action, guiding Neuvillette and his companions towards the back of the stage. The air was filled with the scent of perfume and velvet curtains, the wood and fresh paints of stage decors, and the sound of muffled voices and clattering heels seemed to fill every corner of the ornately decorated lobby. As they made their way through a maze of hallways and stairs, they finally arrived at the dressing rooms reserved for the esteemed actors of the Opera House. The walls were adorned with portraits of famous performers. It was clear that this was a place where magic happened, where ordinary people became larger than life on the stage.

Before Neuvillette had the pleasure of meeting Furina in person, he heard her voice from behind the closed door first. It was a melodic sound, like a symphony of angels, rehearsing her lines with precision and grace. With each word she spoke, it seemed as though the room was filled with a warm glow, drawing him closer to her presence. "Demoiselle," One of the Gardes knocked. "You have a visitor. His Highness, Prince Neuvillette is here."

And then, as if a switch had been flipped, the room fell silent. A hush settled over everything, hushing even the most minute of sounds. But then, like a sudden storm, came frantic shuffling and rustling, as if someone were trying to tidy up their room as quickly and efficiently as possible before opening the door. "You came!" The joy in her voice was palpable, the relief evident as she exclaimed happily. It was high-pitched and filled with excitement. The scent of lavender wafted through the air, mingling with the faint aroma of freshly brewed tea. "Maman's so good, I should take her out for a tea party next time– wait!" Furina's words seemed to catch up with her thoughts and she abruptly stopped, realizing she had been talking aloud. Her attention snapped back to reality before her, her expression shifting from carefree to thoughtful.

"Please forgive my lapse in manners, Your Highness. My name is Furina, and it brings me great joy to know that you have graciously accepted the invitation to attend my play." As soon as the words left her lips, she transformed into a composed and refined Demoiselle, fitting of high society. However, the excitement bubbling inside her could not be contained for long and she shifted back to her natural, giddy self as she eagerly invited them into her dressing room. The space was filled with the scent of flowers and perfumes, and adorned with mirrors, costumes, and trinkets. "This is my first performance as an actor and playwright, and I'm so excited! I hope you like it."

"I do believe I will. You are undeniably the most promising actor that Fontaine has had the pleasure of witnessing in this current age." Neuvillette said. He signaled Roialte to hand him the gift before he presented it to Furina, who eagerly accepted it with a smile. She closed her eyes and breathed in deeply, savoring the weight and faint scent of the confection before flawlessly guessing what delectable treats her dear guest had chosen for her.

As he gazed at Furina, a striking resemblance to her mother struck him. It was as if the two were mirror images, their features and expressions so alike that they could have been twins. Furina, too, seemed to pay attention to Neuvillette more than he had expected. "Your Highness, have you ever considered acting on stage?"

"I do not believe I possess the necessary talent for such a profession."

"I'll be more than happy to help!" Furina said. "After all, you are extremely gorgeous in person. It's like you were born from the moon itself, who wouldn't want to see such beauty on stage?" The words flowed out of her mouth effortlessly, laced with flattery and admiration. "Speaking of the moon, where is His Majesty?"

"Unfortunately, His Majesty will be unable to attend. He sent you his regard."

"Ah, what a shame." Furina mumbled. "Well, just tell him about the glorious play I created, yes?"

Wriothesley crept down the winding staircase that led deep into the dungeon of Palais Mermonia. The musty smell of damp stone and mold filled his nostrils as he made his way to a hidden room in the farthest corner. A single torch flickered on the wall, casting eerie shadows across the rough-hewn stones. In front of him, Chevreuse stood with her back against the heavy wooden door, her eyes fixed on the young man strapped to a chair before her. The dim light danced off the sweat on his brow and the fear in his eyes, creating a haunting scene in the otherwise barren room.

"Any progress?" Wriothesley asked.

"He won't say anything." Chevreuse answered. They have detained this man, the chef's assistant, merely hours in the morning after the assassination attempt and kept him here discreetly.

"That's unfortunate." Wriothesley sighed, faking disappointment.

The detained culprit's face twisted into a sneer when he caught sight of Wriothesley. He tried to hide his confusion, unsure if it was just a figment of his delirious state from the psychological torture or if Wriothesley was truly standing before him. "How can you still be alive?" he spat, his voice laced with disbelief and fear. Beads of sweat dotted his forehead and his restrained hands shook uncontrollably as he tried to process this unexpected turn of events. Despite his efforts, panic and doubt crept into his mind, clouding any sense of reason or understanding.

"Gods hate me, you know," Wriothesley replied with a sardonic smile. "Even the God of Death." Death had always been a constant companion for Wriothesley, lurking in the shadows and whispering promises of peace. But he had always managed to evade its grasp, a feat that both amazed and terrified those who knew him.

"You can either tell us who gave you the poison or we will find the person ourselves." Wriothesley said. "I'm pretty good with my instinct, you see. I'm sure I have a good idea of the true culprit."

The air crackled with anticipation as they waited for the suspect's response. "And let's not forget," Chevreuse added, "if this deceitful individual realizes their plan has failed, who do you think they'll try to blame for their actions?"

The looming threat of death hung heavily in the air. They would've deemed him a liability, a weak link that needed to be eliminated before he could cause any harm to their bigger operation. He knew that once they were done with him, there would be no trace left behind, no evidence of his existence. He shivered. Perhaps he knew it already, or Chevreuse had been telling him what would happened if he didn't cooperate, but one thing for sure: he didn't like being confronted with the fact that he was nothing but a pawn in their dangerous game, disposable and expendable.

The man's wariness was clouded by a seething anger, his eyes blazing with fury. "You have no right to the throne," he spat at Wriothesley. "You betrayed Fontaine and Prince Neuvillette--"

Before he could finish his tirade, Chevreuse stepped forward with her musket raised and shoved the cold barrel into his open mouth, effectively silencing him. "Seems like your tongue only works when it wants to spew nonsense," she sneered, her voice dripping with disdain. The metallic smell of gunpowder filled the air, intensifying the tension between the three figures in the room.

"So what?" Wriothesley suddenly asked, voice dripped with arrogance as he taunted, "So what if I sit on the throne instead of the Prince? I am just as powerful, just as capable. What does it matter?"

Wriothesley's taunt struck him like a slap to the face, igniting a fiery anger within him. He clenched his jaw tightly, but when he felt the cold barrel of Chevreuse's musket press deeper into his mouth, threatening to reach his throat, he was unwilling himself to remain composed despite the rising rage.

"I am going to be blunt with you," Chevreuse said, her voice low and menacing. "This act of treason will undoubtedly result in a lifetime behind bars. But if you refuse to cooperate, I will ensure your punishment is far worse than that."

The culprit fell silent, his eyes darting back and forth between Wriothesley and Chevreuse. It was as if he was weighing their offer, considering whether to speak or remain silent. Seeing that he had calmed down, Chevreuse pulled out her musket, giving the culprit a chance to talk again.

"He killed the king and now you want to punish me for treason?!" His voice rose in desperation and anger.

Chevreuse exchanged an incredulous look with Wriothesley, who let out a heavy sigh. This man seemed to be going in circles, unable to provide a clear, smart answer or defense.

"You seem to forget that before I become a king, I am still of noble bloodline, and you are just a common civilian." Wriothesley scoffed. The words dripped with condescension as Wriothesley leaned in close. "According to the oldest rule in Fontaine, my punishment is not your business to enact. Isn't it?" A smug smile stretched across his face as he reveled in the power of his position, belittling the other person's importance in comparison.

"You--"

The tense air in the room was suddenly shattered by the arrival of another person. "I apologize for my tardiness, it takes a while to prepare." she said nonchalantly, her voice a stark contrast to the morbid scene before her. Her tone was almost unnervingly cheerful, considering the gravity of the situation. It was as if she were completely disconnected from reality, floating through with an air of indifference.

"You're actually in time, Matron." Wriothesley said, before returning to the culprit. "You remember Matron Sigewinne, right?"

The culprit's eyes widened at the sight of the nurse, unsure of why she was here and why she was holding...a gun? Upon closer inspection, it wasn't a traditional firearm with a narrow barrel. Instead, it was bulkier and resembled a toy water gun. "What are you doing?" he asked in a panic as he noticed Sigewinne filling her 'gun' with some sort of liquid from an ominous glass vial she had brought.

"This will sting a bit." Sigewinne said. "Chevreuse, a little help, please."

"No--" The culprit tried to resist, but Chevreuse held his head secured and forced him to tilt to his side, exposing his next. Sigewinne pressed her device into his neck and whatever it was, it felt like being bit by an ant. As she walked away, Chevreuse released her grip on the culprit's head and he let out a shaky breath.

"That's the poison that your employer gave to me." Wriothesley explained. "How does it feel?"

"Impossible, I didn't leave any leftover–"

"No, you didn't. But Matron Sigewinne is not a nurse, she's a toxicologist."

"So, you lied about your credentials, Matron?" Chevreuse commented.

Sigewinne smiled. "Let's worry about that later."

"Matron, how did you discover that I was poisoned?" Wriothesley asked, clearly to taunt the culprit further.

"His Majesty began to have difficulty in breathing, followed by drowsiness and confusion and cold sweat out of nowhere." Sigewinne listed everything, and how convenient that the culprit experienced the exact same symptoms.

"I still have a little bit of antidote that I used, though." Wriothesley reached for a small vial from his pocket and showed the culprit. "You know what to do, don't you? I don't have the temperament of Maison Gardiennage's personnel, I am not exactly a fan of repeating myself."

The culprit's breath came in short, ragged gasps as he desperately tried to outrun his fate. Fear and panic consumed him as he realized that his life was about to end here, in this very spot. It was ironic how he had taken such a strong stance as a vigilante, only to be brought down by his own mortality. The once confident and cocky criminal now trembled in fear as death loomed over him, ready to strike at any moment.

"Count… Dougier."

"Vassal for Scylla House." Chevreuse confirmed. Duke Scylla was part of the previous Privy Council, and the King's cousion.

A sly grin spread across Wriothesley's face. "That isn't so bad, is it?" he asked, his tone dripping with amusement. But something in his expression betrayed a hint of dissatisfaction with the answer.

"Give me the antidote now, you promised!" The culprit demanded, his voice laced with desperation.

"I did, didn't I?" Wriothesley replied nonchalantly. He held up the small vial in his hand, its contents glinting in the dim light. With a flick of his wrist, he tossed it into the air and Chevreuse drew out a sleek handgun from her jacket pocket. As the vial soared skyward, Chevreuse expertly aimed and fired her weapon, shattering the vial into pieces with a single shot. The room was filled with the sound of breaking glass and the smell of bitter chemicals.

Wriothesley turned away before he paid any attention to what kind of expression the culprit made when Wriothesley toyed with his life like that and practically sentenced him to agonizing, slow death. Anger, confusion? Let him feel it all. He didn't know, did he? That he was one swapped plate away from hurting Neuvillette instead? That was enough reason for Wriothesley to punish him like this.

He heard the culprit sob behind him, and Sigewinne finally said to him, "It wasn't a poison, just a genetically modified influenza virus. You will not die." Her voice was laced with satisfaction at having caught the perpetrator in their own trap.

The play was set in a fictional kingdom called Remuria. It told a tale of a God King, who had committed the ultimate sin by stealing divine power from the Dragon des Eaux . With this power, he created humans that were meant to be perfect, according to his own ideals and desires, in order to populate his kingdom. However, this act did not go unpunished, as the King met his downfall while his creations bore the weight of his sins for centuries to come with an impending prophecy of a doomsday looming over their head; the only way to 'wash away their sins'. The Dragon of Water continued to weep for two thousand years for he felt immense grief for having everything taken away from him. Though he tried to contain the overwhelming emotions that swirled within him, he could not help but feel a deep sense of grief and betrayal towards the very creatures who rose from his stolen power.

Why did he continue to live, even as his power dwindled and he was reduced to the form of a mere human? What was the true purpose behind his long, enduring life? Should he hold onto bitterness towards the people of this kingdom, or was there a greater force at work here? His body may have shrunk, but his mind remained sharp as he pondered these questions, surrounded by the crumbling ruins of his once-glorious kingdom. The weight of centuries pressed heavily upon him as he searched for meaning in a world that had long forgotten his name.

Furina played the role of a False God who brought the Dragon of Water to the city of Capitolium. Despite her insignificant appearance, she exuded an air of determination and purpose. She was a sinner in the eyes of the Dragon, but she seemed to possess a pure heart and a desire to bring hope to their bleak world despite the prophecy and decided to assume a persona of a mighty new God. She promised the Dragon an answer to his question: come with her and see the world with his own eyes; the beauty and disarray, hope and despair, bloom of sorrow–only then would he be able to distinguish his friends from foes.

Act Two was a tangled web of political maneuvering in the kingdom of Remuria, where power and deception ran rampant. The Dragon and the False God stood at the center of this treacherous snake pit, navigating their way through betrayal after betrayal. Yet, despite the constant wounds inflicted upon him, the Dragon remained steadfast in his duty to protect these people with whatever power he had left. As Act Two drew to a close, it brought about the devastating destruction of an underwater prison, foretelling the tragic prophecy that would ultimately bring down the kingdom. And just like that prison sinking deep into the dark waters, so too did the play sink into its second intermission, leaving the audience on edge for what would come next from this turning point in the play's plot.

"What are your thoughts on the performance?" Neuvillette asked Clorinde during intermission.

"She is very committed, as always." Clorinde answered.

"Have you seen Demoiselle Furina's play before?" He asked again, before he realized what a stupid question it was. "My apologies, did that sound peculiar? She is quite renowned, after all." His words came out in a rush, as he struggled to maintain his composure.

Clorinde shook her head. "I do not frequent these events often, Your Highness. To be truthful, I find this form of art challenging to follow." Her reply was quiet and hesitant.

"In what way?"

"To heighten the dramatic tension, they often opt for unrealistic swordsfight. I cannot tell you how many times I want to gag watching someone giving a five-minute soliloquy while getting stabbed in the chest. But Na–Baroness Caspar holds a strong appreciation for this form of entertainment, particularly Demoiselle Furina's plays. I must admit, she has impeccable taste in selecting her projects and I have never been disappointed by any of her productions."

"I am unable to comment on the theatrics of it all, but Demoiselle Furina's writing is exceptional." Neuvillette said.

"I agree. Though, personally, my only suggestion would be for the wolf to give himself more credit."

Clorinde meant the 'wolf' character from the underwater prison that made his appearance in Act Two. He was introduced as a warden but because he couldn't leave the prison as well, with it being underwater, the only person who could meet him was the Dragon himself, who would swim into the bottom of the ocean to meet the Wolf, even though they were still separated by a thick, gigantic glass window that prevented the prison from getting submerged in water.

The Wolf was mere secondary character, he had no interaction on stage with anybody but the Dragon, and he perished with the prison after he helped the inmates escaped to the surface. In hindsight, his death and the destruction of the prison only served as narrative tool so Act Two would end in an interesting cliffhanger, but Neuvillette had to agree with Clorinde about the Wolf may not have been created as a character that people would pay attention to, let alone root for. The Dragon had been conflicted about what to do with the people of Remuria, believing that they were sinners, but the Wolf helped the real convicted sinners without hesitation. Neuvillette wondered if this would affect the Dragon's action in upcoming Act Three.

"The intermission is drawing to a close. Would you like me to procure a refreshment for Your Highness?" Clorinde then suddenly offered Neuvillette. He noticed she was looking up before she immediately rose from her seat. Maybe she saw something or someone, but it was none of Neuvillette's business.

"Water will suffice, thank you."

As soon as Clorinde disappeared from sight, another figure made their way towards Neuvillette. The buzzing energy of the crowd seemed to part around them, like a ship through water. Clorinde had warned him earlier that he was easily recognizable even under the dimmed lights of the audience seats, so he braced himself for the inevitable attention.

"Greetings, Your Highness." Neuvillette inclined his head towards the middle-aged man who approached him, a slight smile playing on his lips. The grandiose gestures of the man's bow were in line with the dramatic atmosphere of the Opera House, where even something as simple as a greeting felt like a performance. "I apologize for any disruption I may cause–"

"It is of no concern." Neuvillette shook his head, a polite smile plastered on his lips as he dismissed the matter. His eyes scanned the man before him, taking note of his well-tailored suit and slicked back hair.

"Please allow me to properly introduce myself. I am, or rather was, Duke Scylla's business associate." The man spoke again, his voice smooth and practiced. "My name is Dougier."

Chapter Text

“How are you liking the play so far, Your Highness?” Dougier asked. 

“It’s certainly a very interesting play.” Neuvillette nodded. 

“It’s a pity that His Majesty can’t come to see the play.” Dougier sighed, a smirk appeared on the corner of his mouth. “Rumour has it that the tickets to this play is a wedding gift from your officiant, is it not? He would’ve loved this play.”

“Indeed, it is a shame His Majesty couldn’t attend,” Neuvillette replied wistfully. “But I do hope he enjoys the story I will share with him afterward.” 

Dougier let out a soft chuckle, adjusting his rich cloak as he swept his eyes across the opulent and bustling theater. “You know, this Opera has a hidden saloon at the back. It's where many high-ranking aristocrats are currently gathering, would you like to join them?” 

“Oh, I—” 

“They would be delighted to meet Your Highness. In fact, it will be the first time for most of them.”

Neuvillette hesitated for a moment, weighing Dougier's proposition. "I am grateful for the invitation, Count, but perhaps it would be wise to stay here for now. I do not wish to cause a commotion among the nobility."

Dougier's lips curled into a knowing smile, his mischievous glint sparkling in his eyes. "But Your Highness, causing a stir is often the most thrilling aspect of any social gathering. And they are eager to make your acquaintance."

Neuvillette pondered the situation once more, his mind grappling with the delicate balance between courtesy and duty. He couldn't possibly be impolite by abruptly forsaking the remainder of the play, but it was equally incumbent upon him to extend greetings to these distinguished individuals, particularly the nobility whose opinions held such weight. If he were to dismiss Dougier's invitation, it could potentially cast a shadow on Wriothesley's reputation, tarnishing their standing in society. Surely, a mere few minutes wouldn't cause irreparable harm.

With a final flicker of hesitation, Neuvillette nodded in acquiescence, his resolve solidifying. "Very well then," he conceded, his tone laced with a hint of reluctant acceptance. "Lead the way, Count."

Just as Dougier reached out to clasp the Prince's hand, Clorinde reappeared on the scene, her eyes intently scrutinizing their hands.

"Dame Clorinde," Dougier nodded, his lips curling into a smug smirk that hinted at hidden amusement. His voice held a touch of condescension as he addressed her, his gaze lingering on her with a calculated intensity.

"Count," Clorinde replied, her tone devoid of any warmth or enthusiasm. Her words were curt, as if she was determined to maintain an air of indifference in the face of Dougier's arrogance.

A mischievous glint sparkled in Dougier's eyes as he continued, his voice laced with a subtle mockery. "No need to be so alarmed, my dear. I was merely extending a courteous greeting to the Prince." A low chuckle escaped his lips, resonating with a self-assured confidence. Neuvillette couldn't help but notice how Dougier's grip on his hand tightened ever so slightly, a possessive gesture that sent a shiver down his spine.

"Or perhaps," Dougier mused, a sly smile playing at the corners of his mouth, "His Majesty has instructed you to ensure that no one dares to address His Highness without your presence and interference?" The words dripped with insinuation, challenging Clorinde's authority and implying that she was merely a pawn in a game orchestrated by higher powers.

Clorinde scoffed, her reaction betraying a mix of annoyance and defiance. "You jest," she retorted, her voice tinged with an edge of defiance. It was clear that she refused to entertain Dougier's taunts and would not allow herself to be undermined so easily.

"Ah, but I reckon you are here because of His Majesty, correct?" Dougier's voice carried a hint of mischief as he directed his attention towards Neuvillette. His gaze then shifted to Clorinde, his finger pointing in her direction. "They go way back. Very close," he remarked, his words laden with insinuation. With a sly glance, he locked eyes with Clorinde. "You've been acquainted with him for a very long time, haven't you?"

Clorinde, undeterred by Dougier's taunting demeanor, crossed her arms defiantly. Her posture exuded confidence as she met the Count's gaze head-on. "What about it?" she retorted, her voice laced with a touch of defiance. "When he was a Duke, His Majesty and Baroness Caspar were business partners. Wouldn't it only be natural if I had plenty of encounters with him?"

Dougier's interest piqued further as he mused aloud, his eyes flicking back and forth between Neuvillette and Clorinde. "Business partners, you say? How intriguing," he murmured, his tone laced with curiosity. A mischievous glimmer danced in his eyes as he continued, his words dripping with suggestion. "I can only imagine the fun you two share."

Clorinde's gaze hardened, her eyes narrowing as she regarded Dougier coolly. She refused to let his attempts at provocation unsettle her. "I fail to see how my past affiliations are of any concern to you, Count," she stated firmly, her voice tinged with a hint of disdain.

Dougier merely shrugged, a nonchalant smile playing on his lips. "Oh, but my dear Dame Clorinde, everything is of concern when it comes to the royal court, is it not?"

Clorinde let out a sigh. She had no desire to engage in a battle of stupid, useless wits with Dougier. Just let him think he won. "I guess I can't argue with your logic," she conceded. With a nonchalant shrug, she brushed off his prying questions.

Grinning, Dougier turned to Neuvillette again. “Shall we, then?” 

“Where are you taking His Highness?” Clorinde asked, her stance implied that she was ready to interfere at any moment.

Neuvillette didn’t wish to create a scene so he quickly explained to Clorinde, “The saloon on the back. I wish to greet some peers.” 

“You seemed reluctant, Dame Clorinde. Do you perhaps wish to argue with the Prince’s will?”

Clorinde's expression softened slightly at Neuvillette's words before she turned her attention back to Dougier. "I am here to ensure the Prince's safety and well-being, Count. It is my duty and honor to serve His Highness in any capacity he deems necessary."

Dougier raised an eyebrow playfully. "Of course, of course. Such loyalty is truly commendable, Dame Clorinde. But surely you can understand the allure of mingling with fellow aristocrats and sharing in the excitement of the evening?"

Clorinde remained steadfast, her unwavering gaze fixed upon the Count. "My duties are unwavering, regardless of the social setting, Count. I am here to protect the Prince, no matter the circumstances," she declared stoically. With a resolute tone, she added, "That being said, I shall accompany you both to the saloon then."

Neuvillette quickly interjected, almost hastening his words. He couldn't bear to meet Clorinde's eyes for too long, as if avoiding some unspoken truth. The four clipped words from Dougier reverberated within him - they go way back. It stirred a strange feeling in Neuvillette's heart, an unease he couldn't quite pinpoint. Shouldn't it be normal for his husband to have numerous connections? Wriothesley wasn't obligated to inform Neuvillette about every person he befriended.

Yet, amidst the uncertainty that clouded Neuvillette's thoughts, a glimmer of insecurity emerged. He questioned himself, wondering if he should have known more about Wriothesley's associations. But deep down, he understood that it was unreasonable to expect his husband to disclose every detail of his social circle.

She’s a strong, impressive woman, and she knows Wriothesley. She is befitting of—

—this isn’t fair. You are not supposed to show bitterness towards her.

“They know I am here so it is impolite to ignore them.” Neuvillette explained.

Clorinde looked at him, quite concerned but ultimately she respected his decision to leave alone. She was his companion for the day, but it didn’t mean the whole Opera House weren’t surrounded by Palais Mermonia’s gardes for extra security. “I understand.” She nodded, then turned towards Dougier who couldn’t even mask his smug, victorious smile. “Please take care of His Highness.” 

“Certainly.” 

Neuvillette had a cousin on his father's side, six years his senior who used to cast an overpowering shadow. This was a guy blessed by the family's affection and even the council's admiration; he was the shining star of the lineage, next in line for the duchy. His radiant golden looks were accompanied by a picture-perfect young fiancé, as popular as she was beautiful, their presence transforming Palais Mermonia into a grand mecca when they paid their visits.

Whenever his cousin graced them with his presence, Neuvillette could hear in the distance, sound of laughter echoing over polished marble floors, lightening up Neuvillette’s typically rigid father. The wallflower that Neuvillette felt himself to be shrank further into obscurity against this cousin's bright confidence; a dazzling sunlight verse his under-the-bed darkness. And despite it all or maybe because of everything he lacked himself, Neuvillette would stare at him from across those cold hallways admiringly—his royal proportions so picturesque they bordered unreal—a living portrait representing everything that he wasn’t but inspired to become someday.

Neuvillette, you really look like Her Majesty . The fiance once playfully remarked, casting a mischievous glance at his cousin. The comment was followed by a giggle, which echoed through the room.

His cousin, with a twinkle in their eye, chimed in. If you grow your hair long, you will look exactly like her. 

Neuvillette used to think it was a compliment.

Under the inky darkness of that night, he received a message from his father, stern and commanding. It was a decree to let his hair grow long, and without hesitation, he obeyed. For years upon years, he followed this strict rule, never once daring to trim or cut his locks. The strands cascaded down his back, like a flowing river of obsidian silk. He became known for his mane, as it stretched down to the small of his back and swayed with each step he took. But with each passing year, the weight of his hair seemed to burden him more, a constant reminder of his father's words echoing in his mind. And yet, he remained loyal and obedient to this, honoring his King’s wish.

Neuvillette, you really look like Her Majesty.

(He looks like a girl)

Neuvillette truly looked like his mother, with delicate features and soft, feminine appearance immediately prompted sneers and snide comments from those around him. In a society that values masculinity above all else, he had yet to learn that his effeminate nature made him an easy target for ridicule and disrespect.

How can anyone trust or respect someone who presents themselves as weak and unmanly?

But it was what His Majesty wanted. And if Neuvillette obeyed, then maybe he too, would be able to make his father happy, like his cousin always did.

"Is it too hot for you, Your Highness?"

Caught off guard, Neuvillette looked up, meeting Wriothesley's gaze. He couldn't help but notice how effortlessly his friend's short-cropped hair seemed to defy the scorching sun. It was as if Wriothesley had found respite from the relentless heat while Neuvillette perspired profusely in his regal attire.

Neuvillette furrowed his brow, feeling beads of sweat trickling down the nape of his neck. The oppressive heat of summer had turned his long, lustrous locks into a tormenting burden, and he couldn't help but resent the discomfort it brought. “Pardon?”

“You can return inside if you want, I can come back later when the weather cools off a little.”

"I'm truly well, Wriothesley." In truth, he dreaded the thought of Wriothesley departing so abruptly and it was far outweighed any fleeting discomfort it may bring.

"I understand," Wriothesley nodded, then, he circled around Neuvillette, his steps purposeful and deliberate. A surprising request escaped his lips, carried on a breath tinged with anticipation. "Would you mind if I tie your hair?"

Neuvillette's initial reluctance wavered, his uncertainty yielding to a growing sense of curiosity. With a hesitant nod, he granted Wriothesley permission, his heart fluttering with a mixture of apprehension and intrigue. As Wriothesley's nimble fingers reached for the ribbon and hair tie that adorned the end of his tresses, a rush of anticipation coursed through Neuvillette’s veins.

With meticulous care, Wriothesley gently removed the ribbon and hair tie, setting them aside as if they were precious artifacts. His touch brushed against Neuvillette’s skin like a whisper, sending shivers down his spine. Tenderly, his fingers glided through the silken strands of Neuvillette’s hair, each stroke an intimate caress that spoke volumes of his hidden tenderness. The sensation was both foreign and exhilarating, awakening dormant emotions within Neuvillette's soul.

Finally, with an artist's precision, Wriothesley gathered his hair into a high ponytail, securing it with a simple but elegant tie. The transformation was subtle yet profound, at least it helped with the heat on the back of his head a little.

And as Wriothesley stepped back, his gaze lingering on Neuvillette's transformed visage. “Your hair is very beautiful,”

Ah, yes, Wriothesley, too, thought that he looked like his maman .

(But why was that such a bad thing?)

“It makes me look like Her Majesty, right?” He said, attempting to conceal the bitterness that gnawed at him, praying that Wriothesley wouldn't discern his subtle self-doubt.

“Yes, and no.” Wriothesley answered. But what did he mean by that? “Whether it is the hair, or everything else about Your Highness, I can recognize Your Highness anywhere and not mistake you for someone else.”

With Dougier as their guide, Neuvillette ventured deeper into the bowels of the magnificent Opera House. Descending one floor below ground level, they arrived at a clandestine haven, tucked away from prying eyes. This opulent sanctuary was exclusively reserved for the privileged aristocrats who frequented the Opera. According to Dougier, the saloon had been meticulously crafted by the current management, a testament to their astute understanding of the power of social allure. Observing the interplay between the nobles during performances, they had discerned an untapped opportunity to extend a graceful courtesy.

Right after Dougier opened the door, he announced the Prince’s arrival. “Look who’s here.” 

The Prince's gaze swept across the room, acknowledging each person in turn with a nod or a smile. His eyes sparkled with a mixture of curiosity and kindness, making each individual feel seen and valued in that moment. A hush fell over the assembled crowd as they awaited his next move, their hearts pounding in unison with the weight of expectation.

“Your Highness! Welcome!” 

The saloon, a hidden gem beneath the grandeur above, exuded an air of exclusivity. Its lavish decor spoke volumes of the wealth and refinement that permeated this clandestine world. Intricately carved mahogany panels adorned the walls, their gleaming surfaces reflecting the soft glow of chandeliers suspended from above. Plush velvet drapes cascaded gracefully, framing large windows that offered a glimpse into a realm untouched by the trials of everyday life. Within the private enclave, sumptuous seating arrangements beckoned guests to relax and indulge in refined conversation and delectable refreshments. Luxurious couches, upholstered in rich brocade, cradled weary bodies, while ornate coffee tables showcased delicate porcelain cups and saucers, awaiting their turn to be filled with aromatic brews.

“Pardon my intrusion. I didn’t mean to drop by uninvited.” 

“You’re welcome here any time, Your Highness.” 

One particularly flamboyant nobleman approached Neuvillette with a deep bow. "Your Highness, what an honor it is to have you grace us with your presence," he exclaimed, his voice full of flattery.

Neuvillette smiled graciously, acknowledging the nobleman's words. "The pleasure is mine, good sir. I am delighted to make your acquaintance and share in the revelry of this splendid evening. You’re not here for the play?” 

“Not today, no.” 

For the next few minutes, Neuvillette, with Dougier leading him around, greeted each and every noble in the saloon and chatted with them. Neuvillette was ashamed that he didn’t recognize most of them, as the one frequently visited Palais Mermonia were only families and esteemed members of the Privy Council. Until they approached the lady at the end of the table row.

"Your Highness, it has been far too long," the noblewoman greeted with a hint of nostalgia in her voice. Her regal bearing unchanged over the years, stood before Neuvillette, a figure of elegance and grace. As their eyes met, memories flooded his minds, intertwining past and present.

Neuvillette acknowledged her with a respectful nod, his heart swelling with mixed emotions. She glanced at Dougier, who understood the unspoken cue and discreetly retreated, granting them a moment of privacy. She returned her attention to Neuvillette, her gaze filled with an unspoken understanding.

"It truly has been quite some time, Lady Guillotin." Neuvillette replied softly, his voice tinged with a touch of melancholy.

With a subtle nod, she acknowledged the unspoken reference to their last encounter. The memory lingered in his mind, an event that had altered the course of their lives forever. There was a fleeting sadness in her eyes as she spoke, her voice laced with a hint of regret.

"Yes," she murmured, her tone filled with empathy as she sensed the hesitation in Neuvillette's voice. "It is indeed a pity what transpired. Fate can be cruel at times." Her words carried a profound weight, as if acknowledging the pain they both endured.

This woman, standing before him, was none other than Marianne. She had once been his cousin's fiancé and eventually his wife, until their marriage crumbled five years ago. The suddenness of her request for a separation had sent shockwaves through their family, for it seemed to come out of nowhere. As he gazed at her, his mind raced with questions. What had been on her mind when she made the decision to ask for a divorce from a man she had been betrothed to since the tender age of ten?

“My apologies...” And that cousin of his, was one of the people that Wriothesley killed during the aftermath of the coup.Neuvillette's body trembled, a visceral reaction coursing through him as he delved into the depths of his memory, reliving the harrowing moments when his cousin trashed against and cursed the rebels who dragged him out of the prison cell.

His mind replayed the scene with agonizing clarity, each detail etched into his consciousness like a scar. He could almost taste the acrid bitterness that had tainted the air, mingling with desperate pleas and fervent curses.

Neuvillette vividly recalled the moment when his cousin, consumed by desperation, abruptly seized his wrist with a force that sent jolts of pain shooting through him. It was a desperate plea, an impassioned attempt to convince them to take Neuvillette instead. The memory was etched in Neuvillette's mind, forever haunting him. As his cousin was apprehended and forcibly taken away, disappearing into the darkness, Neuvillette knew deep down that he would never lay eyes on him again.

The aftermath of that fateful event was a bitter pill for Neuvillette to swallow. Like many unfortunate souls torn from the confines of the prison, they all pointed accusatory fingers at him, blaming him for Wriothesley's cruel and senseless act of betrayal. The weight of their accusations settled heavily upon Neuvillette's shoulders, an unbearable burden he was unjustly forced to bear.

In the hushed whispers and sidelong glances of his fellow prisoners, Neuvillette could sense their simmering resentment. Their anger was palpable, fuelled by grief and frustration over the loss of one of their own. They saw Neuvillette as the catalyst for this tragic turn of events, holding him responsible for Wriothesley's treachery. Yet, deep within himself, Neuvillette understood the profound injustice of their collective blame. He had been a mere pawn in Wriothesley’s sinister game, caught within the web of betrayal that had ensnared them all.

It was Marianne's gentle chuckles that reverberated through the saloon, their melodic tones gently tugging Neuvillette back from the depths of his tumultuous thoughts. He blinked, momentarily disoriented, before his gaze settled on the regal figure before him.

“What are you talking about, Your Highness? We’ve been divorced long before any of these. I no longer had ties to that man.” She looked away, smiling. The bitterness laced her words, leaving a bitter aftertaste on the tongue. “I’m quite surprised that nothing happened to me. I supposed His Majesty does not see the value in a divorced woman.” Marianne finally spoke, her voice carrying a trace of wistfulness. Her words were accompanied by a gentle sigh, as if she were contemplating the capricious whims of fate itself.

Neuvillette's brows furrowed, a knot of confusion forming between them. What on earth did she mean by that? Why would Wriothesley, of all people, have her in his crosshairs? Did she truly believe that he would go so far as to eliminate anyone who had ever been associated with the Royal Family? The questions swirled in Neuvillette's mind, each one more perplexing than the last.

Despite the whirlwind of uncertainty that engulfed him, Neuvillette managed to find his voice. "I am glad you are safe," he murmured, trying to convey a sense of reassurance. But deep down, he knew that this was neither the time nor the place to delve further into the matter. The very air around them seemed heavy with an unspoken danger, and Neuvillette couldn't help but feel that any further probing would only lead to more complications.

Moreover, he couldn't ignore the irony of it all. Here he was, married to Wriothesley, despite all the darkness that surrounded him. It would be hypocritical for Neuvillette to demand answers from her when he himself had willingly chosen this path. So, with a heavy sigh, he pushed aside his own doubts and fears, burying them deep within his heart for the time being.

Marianne's voice quivered with emotion as she clasped Neuvillette's hands, her eyes brimming with empathy. "I feel the same way about you, Your Highness," she whispered, her words carrying the weight of what seemed like genuine compassion. "It must be unbearably difficult, losing all of your loved ones like this," Marianne continued, her voice filled with tenderness. He could tell that her heart ached for Neuvillette, knowing that the burden of grief was not one easily borne. "But please know that you are not alone. You still have me," she said softly.

Marianne hesitated for a moment, her eyes searching Neuvillette's face for any sign of hesitation or rejection. "I don't mean to be presumptuous," she began humbly. "But during my engagement and subsequent marriage, I couldn't help but consider myself your cousin as well." She offered a shy smile, hoping that her words would bring some solace to Neuvillette amidst the storm of emotions.

Neuvillette's gaze met Marianne's, his eyes reflecting gratitude and a glimmer of hope. "The feeling is mutual," he replied softly, his voice resonating with sincerity. In that fleeting moment, it was as if their shared connection transcended the boundaries of bloodlines and titles.

Marianne's grip tightened on Neuvillette's hands, a silent promise passing between them. "Please don't hesitate to reach out to me," she implored, her voice filled with unwavering support. "I'm here for you, always. And remember, we are all here for you, too." Her words echoed with the collective support of the people in this saloon, a reminder that Neuvillette's pain would not be shouldered alone.

"Thank you," he whispered, his voice barely audible.

“I must say, the news about your wedding to His Majesty is a surprise.” 

Marianne exclaimed, her eyes seemingly leaving Neuvillette for a second before she nodded at Dougier’s direction again. Truly, the news had rippled through the court like a sudden gust of wind, leaving everyone in a state of bewilderment.

With an air of composed confidence, the regal figure before her nodded, his expression betraying the weight of responsibility he bore. "Indeed, we have reached an understanding that this union shall bestow great benefits upon our beloved country," Neuvillette replied, hoping his rehearsed voice resonated with a sense of duty and purpose.

Marianne's eyes sparkled with an understanding that went beyond mere gossip or political maneuvering. “Ah, but it means His Majesty is still reliant on your bloodline, Your Highness.” Marianne mused, her words imbued with a deep comprehension. “You’re more powerful than just a husband to him. You are the Crown Prince, after all.” 

"I see," Neuvillette murmured, his brow furrowing as he struggled to comprehend the weight of Marianne's words. It was a perplexing notion, one that left him feeling adrift amidst a sea of uncertainty. Rarely had anyone acknowledged the true extent of his power, even though they were well aware of his status as the Crown Prince. Ironic that people started to tell him he had power once his authority had been overshadowed by the mere role of a husband, reduced to a secondary figure in the grand tapestry of courtly affairs. The irony of it all struck him with a bitter pang, for it seemed that these remarks only surfaced after he had taken on the mantle of matrimony. It was a stark reminder of how easily society could overlook his position, relegating him to a mere cog in the machine of marital obligations. 

“I can return to my seat from here, thank you, Count.” Neuvillette politely declared, coming to a halt a few rows away from his designated seat. The intermission had come to an end, and as the last act of the play commenced, he didn't wish to disrupt the enjoyment of his fellow theatergoers. From his vantage point, he could observe Clorinde, her eyes alight with delight as she immersed herself in the unfolding drama. Occasionally, she would steal glances in the direction he had departed moments ago, eagerly anticipating his return. And when her gaze finally found him in the distance, a silent nod of recognition passed between them.

“I am overjoyed to meet you today, Your Highness. And everyone at the saloon, too. They are all major supporters of yours.” Dougier proclaimed, his tone infused with a reverent admiration.

“Thank you.”

The resounding echo of Demoiselle Furina's roaring shout reverberated through the stage. The climactic scene unfolded before the mesmerized audience, enraptured by the ethereal performance. In that pivotal moment, as the False Goddess cried out in anguish, her voice pierced the air like a dagger, intertwining with the haunting melody of the orchestra.

The stage was transformed into a battleground of mythical proportions, where the Dragon of Water thrashed against invisible restraints. Like a colossal force of nature, it fought against the shadowy hands that emerged from the depths of the water, their spectral fingers grasping at its serpentine form. These shadow hands, an embodiment of Remuria's darkest sins, clawed at the dragon's scales, threatening to drag it into an abyss of eternal darkness.

Amidst this tumultuous spectacle, Demoiselle Furina's voice soared above the chaos, resonating with raw determination. Her words carried a fervent plea, a desperate reminder to the dragon not to succumb to the alluring embrace of the encroaching darkness. Each syllable she uttered was infused with unwavering conviction, as if she were channeling the very essence of hope itself.

Dougier sighed, his voice tinged with regret. "It's truly a lamentable circumstance that His Majesty is not present with us today," he murmured, his eyes filled with a mix of longing and concern. "If you would be so kind, Your Highness, please convey my heartfelt wishes for his swift and complete recovery."

In the Dragon’s hands, he clutched a dagger, it was a relic, an artifact he had acquired from the Wolf of the underwater prison. With a swift and calculated motion, the Dragon brandished the dagger, its gleaming blade catching the spotlight's gentle glow. In a sudden burst of energy, the Dragon lunged forward, his movements fluid and precise. The dagger sliced through the air with a resolute purpose, as if guided by an unseen force. As the shadowy hand of his captors loomed menacingly over him, threatening to tighten their grip, he struck with unwavering resolve.

“Of course.” Neuvillette said. “I will tell him that.”

Neuvillette tossed and turned, his mind consumed with restlessness as he lay in bed, unable to find solace after his return from the Opera House. The events of that evening played on a loop in his thoughts, each fragment vying for attention and leaving him uncertain of where to begin unraveling the tangled web that had unfolded before him.

The image of Clorinde and Wriothesley, locked in an intimate embrace, haunted Neuvillette's mind. Neuvillette guessed the intensity of their relationship, left him feeling like an unwitting intruder into their supposed clandestine affair. Their connection, shrouded in secrecy, only served to deepen Neuvillette's unease.

But it was not only the lovers' tryst that troubled him; it was the unexpected encounter with Marianne and Dougier that added another layer of complexity to an already bewildering day. Their sudden appearance, their words heavy with unspoken implications, left Neuvillette with a gnawing sense of unease. What did they know? What did they suspect? Did they know that what Neuvillette had with Wriothesley was mere act? That this marriage was fraudulent?

As Neuvillette's thoughts unraveled further, he couldn't help but ponder what Marianne and Dougier had said, the implications of the discontent that seemed to simmer beneath the surface of the saloon's vibrant facade. Whispers that didn’t quite reached his ears, murmurs of dissatisfaction with the current reign, perhaps hinting at a desire for change.

Unable to find respite in sleep, Neuvillette grappled with these fragmented recollections, his mind a whirlwind of unanswered questions. In the darkness of his room, he yearned for clarity, for a glimmer of understanding amidst the chaos. But as the night wore on, the weight of uncertainty pressed upon him, leaving him adrift in a sea of uncharted emotions and shifting allegiances.

It made his throat dry.

In the hushed heart of night, where only whispers of moonlight dared to penetrate the labyrinthine halls of Palais Mermonia, Neuvillette slipped quietly into the kitchen to find a glass of water because he didn’t want to wake the maids. And to his surprise, faint glow emanated from it. The scent of baked pie, rich and tantalizing, twined with the crisp, musty aroma of old parchment and ink, a peculiar combination that hinted at an unfamiliar late-night ritual. As he stepped over the threshold, his eyes were greeted by the sight of Wriothesley - a man who was as much a conundrum as he was a companion - hunched over a cooking counter. The soft light cast long shadows on his face, transforming his familiar features into a study of contrasts as he devoured a pie with a fork in one hand and rifled through documents with the other. This strange tableau, both comforting in its domesticity and intriguing in its implications, held him captive as he cleared his throat to announce his presence.

With a smile, Wriothesley looked up from his plate and greeted Neuvillette. "Hello," he said warmly. "Can't sleep?"

Neuvillette, feeling restless, responded, "I suppose not." As he made his way around the counter, his intention was simply to fetch some water and retreat back to his chamber. However, when he noticed Wriothesley devouring the pie without a trace of caution, a flicker of concern ignited within him. Unable to resist, he found himself pulled towards the seat opposite Wriothesley, compelled to voice his worry.

"You ought to be more careful," Neuvillette advised, his voice laced with a touch of exasperation. "What if..." He paused, letting out a weary sigh before continuing, "Someone had recently attempted to poison you. It would be wise to exercise more caution in regards to what enters your body."

Neuvillette's words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken implications. The memory of the recent poisoning attempt still lingered in their minds, casting a shadow over their present conversation. It was a reminder of the ever-present danger that loomed within the walls of their world—a world where trust had become a scarce commodity and suspicion clung to every interaction.

Wriothesley, momentarily taken aback by Neuvillette's candid concern, paused mid-bite. He stared at his husband for a moment, his eyes reflecting a mixture of gratitude and weariness. "I appreciate your concern," Wriothesley finally replied. “But nobody knows I sneak in here and grab this specific pie.” Wriothesley shrugged. “If there is poison in this pie,” He pointed at the pie with his fork. “It means there is poison in everything else. Surprisingly, this is the safest way to eat for me. Unless you’re going to snitch on me, that is.”

Neuvillette sighed, “I do not partake in something unnecessary and childish like that.”

Wriothesley laughed, his eyes scanning the array of silverware within the cabinet, deftly plucking another fork from the drawer. Turning towards Neuvillette, he extended it with a graceful gesture, a glimmer of amusement dancing in his gaze. "And how did the play fare?" he asked, curiosity lacing his words.

Neuvillette, his thoughts still entangled in the intricacies of the performance, shifted uneasily. "It was an intriguing show, one that I intended to relay to you come morning," he replied, his voice carrying a hint of anticipation.

A soft chuckle escaped Wriothesley's lips, the sound resonating with a mixture of amusement and intrigue. "'Relay,' you say?" he mused, an arched eyebrow betraying his subtle amusement. "Pray tell, is there something else on your mind?"

Neuvillette's fingers fidgeting nervously but summoning his courage, he steadied himself and ventured forth. "Regarding your gracious invitation to attend the Parliament meeting," he began, his words hesitant yet resolute, "May I still partake?"

Wriothesley's response was immediate and affirmative, his assurance carrying a note of encouragement. "Of course," he declared, a genuine warmth seeping into his voice.

A flicker of uncertainty danced across Neuvillette's features as he sought guidance. "Is there aught that I should prepare for? Any particular task or duty that awaits me?" he asked earnestly.

A thoughtful pause lingered in the air before Wriothesley responded, his tone laced with wisdom and reassurance. "Should you harbor any proposals or ideas, this assembly shall prove an opportune moment to voice them."

Neuvillette's confidence wavered, a tinge of self-doubt coloring his voice. "I fear, Your Majesty, that I possess no grand discourse to offer before the esteemed nobility," he confessed, his admission tinged with a touch of disappointment.

"Well, by attending this meeting, you will still gain invaluable insight into the current state of Fontaine," he reminded him softly. "And in that knowledge lies its own worth."

Neuvillette pondered Wriothesley's words, his mind entangled in a web of contemplation. The weight of his presence at this important meeting tugged at him, a constant reminder that he had no real business being here. And yet, he couldn't help but feel compelled to attend. Wriothesley's mention of possibly capturing the perpetrator behind the assassination attempt lingered in Neuvillette's thoughts, but he couldn't help but wonder what purpose his own presence would serve once he arrived.

As the minutes ticked by, Neuvillette found himself questioning his own worthiness to sit among the esteemed members of Parliament. Aside from his privileged identity as a member of the royal family and the spouse of a king, what had he truly accomplished that warranted a seat at this crucial gathering? Doubt gnawed at him, threatening to unravel the carefully constructed facade he had built.

Well, there is that, isn't there? My one and only job is to make Wriothesley look better in front of these people.

A flicker of uncertainty danced in his eyes as he considered the weight of his own thoughts. Was it enough? Would they truly appreciate his presence? After all, this would be the first time they would appear in public together, and Neuvillette couldn't help but feel the weight of expectation settle upon his shoulders.

"I suppose I should come," he continued, determination creeping into his voice. "To support you from behind on our first public appearance together." The words hung in the air, a mix of reassurance and self-doubt. Neuvillette knew that his role was nothing more than mere appearances; he couldn't allow himself to be deluded into thinking that Wriothesley saw him as an equal, as a true partner.

Wriothesley only nodded, his stoic countenance revealing little of the thoughts that churned within him. Suddenly, without warning, he rose from his seat, the wooden chair scraping against the stone floor. “Go back to sleep, Neuvillette.” His departure was abrupt, leaving Neuvillette momentarily bewildered.

Neuvillette's fingers instinctively tightened around the smooth handle of the silver fork, its gleaming surface untouched by the pie that sat before him. A wave of unease washed over Neuvillette, his mind racing to comprehend the significance of Wriothesley's sudden departure. Was it a momentary lapse in composure or a harbinger of something more ominous? Did he really hate spending time with Neuvillette? The unanswered questions hung heavily in the air, casting a shadow over the room and dampening Neuvillette's spirits.

He glanced down at the pie, its golden crust delicately crimped along the edges. He really didn’t feel like eating it tonight.

Chapter Text

“Close the door.”

That was all he said. However, before Neuvillette could ask anything else, Wriothesley didn't wait for him and pushed the door closed.

“Wrio–” The weight of confusion settled upon Neuvillette, his mind racing to comprehend the sudden turn of events. With a sense of urgency, he called out Wriothesley's name, hoping for an explanation or a reprieve. Acting on instinct, he grasped the doorknob and turned it, only to be met with a disheartening realization – Wriothesley had locked him inside the chamber from the outside.

“Wriothesley!” Neuvillette's voice reverberated through the confined space, his plea tinged with disbelief and alarm. Panic surged within him, its gnarled grip tightening around his gut. He pounded on the unyielding door, his desperation echoing off the cold walls that enclosed him.

Neuvillette's heart pounded in his chest as yet another resounding cacophony reverberated from beyond the palace walls. The air was thick with the chaotic symphony of clashing metal, the sharp reports of gunshots, the shattering of precious objects, and the anguished cries of those caught in the midst of this merciless ambush. It was as if the very fabric of his world was unraveling before his eyes.

A surge of adrenaline coursed through Neuvillette's veins, propelling him towards the nearest window. Desperation clawed at his thoughts, tempting him to consider the unthinkable—leaping out to escape this nightmarish scene unfolding within the grandeur of the palace walls. But his trembling legs betrayed his fear, threatening to buckle beneath him with each faltering step.

Neuvillette clung desperately to the sturdy frame of his bed, his fingers tightly entwined around the wooden edges as if they were his lifeline. With a heart heavy with worry and fear, he sank onto the mattress, seeking solace in prayer. Each fervent plea that escaped his trembling lips was laden with desperate hope, a fragile thread connecting him to the possibility of a safer morning. His thoughts were consumed by the idea of Wriothesley's assistance—thankfully he came in time to help. Maybe he locked the door to keep Neuvillette safe--yes that was the only explanation, right? As he continued to pray, an overwhelming sense of vulnerability washed over him. The room, once a sanctuary, now seemed oppressive and suffocating. Shadows danced along the walls, the table lamp cast an ethereal glow upon his face, illuminating his furrowed brow and tear-stained cheeks. With each passing second, his prayers became more fervent, punctuated by deep breaths that quivered with anticipation. Neuvillette's heart beat in rhythm with the ticking of the nearby clock, its steady cadence providing a semblance of stability amidst the chaos that threatened to consume him.

And so he sat there, on the precipice between despair and hope, his fingers still tightly gripping the bed frame. The night stretched on, its dark tendrils entwining with his thoughts, but Neuvillette held on, his faith unyielding. For in the depths of his soul, he knew that Wriothesley would come back, and that the morning to come would hold the answers he so desperately sought.

Why? Why was it happening now? Who hated his family so much they attacked in the middle of dead night?

The hours ticked away, dragging on as the night slowly regained its calm after the ferocious attack. Within the confines of his chambers, there was an eerie stillness, a heavy silence that hung in the air like a shroud. The hallway outside remained untouched, devoid of any signs of life. No hurried footsteps, no hushed whispers. It was as if the world had paused, holding its breath, uncertain of what would come next.

Doubt crept into his thoughts, whispering its insidious questions. Would they come for him too? Were they preoccupied with rescuing other guests, ensuring the safety of his parents, the King and Queen? A sliver of hope clung to his heart, assuring him that they were being attended to, that their well-being took precedence over his own. Patience became his ally in this moment of uncertainty. He sat in solitude, his mind teeming with restless contemplation. He glanced at the clock on the wall, its hands moving with agonizing deliberation. Time seemed to stretch endlessly, elongating each passing second into a torturous eternity.

But still, he waited. Waited for Wriothesley. Every creak of the floorboards outside caused his heart to skip a beat, hoping it was Wriothesley's approach. Yet each time, disappointment settled in like a heavy fog. As he sat there, the weight of uncertainty pressing upon him, he couldn't help but wonder about the fate of those around him. Were they safe? Were they even alive? The air grew thick with unspoken fears and tears.

The night wore on, the darkness outside his window seemingly impenetrable. Time became a fluid concept, slipping through his fingers like sand. Yet, amidst the quietude, he would endure. He would wait. For Wriothesley—

“Prince Neuvillette, please come with us.” The stern voice pierced through the hazy fog of sleep deprivation, causing his eyes to blinked rapidly. Confusion etched across his face as he struggled to make sense of the urgent summons and door opened.

Battling grogginess, Neuvillette's mind raced to grasp the gravity of the situation. His heart quickened as he surveyed the men standing before him, their presence unfamiliar and foreboding. They were not the trusted Gardes he had grown accustomed to. A wave of apprehension washed over him, mingling with the remnants of sleep that clung to his senses.

"What is happening?" he managed to utter, his voice laced with a tinge of disbelief. "Are we being attacked?"

The men exchanged an unreadable glance, their expressions guarded as they hesitated before responding. Neuvillette's gaze darted between them, searching for answers that seemed to evade him. And then, like a distant memory resurfacing from the depths of his mind, a flicker of recognition ignited within him.

"Wait," he interjected. "Do you... do you know the Duke of Meropide? I believe I've seen him. Is he safe? Is he unharmed?"

Their silence hung heavily in the air, punctuating the gravity of the situation. Neuvillette's pulse quickened, his mind racing with possibilities and fears intertwining like a tangled web.

And then, cutting through the mounting tension, came their response. "His Majesty," one of the men finally spoke, his voice devoid of emotion, "has ordered us to take you downstairs."

"My father?" Neuvillette's voice wavered, With hesitant steps, he approached the unfamiliar men, uncertainty etched across his face.

But as he drew closer, something shifted in the air. The atmosphere grew heavy with an unspoken tension, and Neuvillette's instincts screamed warning bells deep within him. And then, in a swift and unexpected motion, the men grabbed hold of his upper body, their grip firm and unyielding. Startled, Neuvillette struggled against their iron grasp, his mind racing to comprehend the sudden betrayal that unfolded before him.

“No,” One of them said, his voice laced with a chilling certainty, as he tightened the cold, unyielding grip of metal handcuffs around Neuvillette's delicate wrists. “Your father had met his untimely demise at the hands of our new king, the former Duke of Meropide, Wriothesley.”

Neuvillette's stomach churned, threatening to expel its contents. It felt as if his entire world had been upended, shattered into a thousand irreparable pieces. The revelation hit him with the force of a thunderbolt—Wriothesley had been the mastermind behind this treacherous coup d'état. The weight of this ultimate betrayal bore down on Neuvillette, leaving him struggling to comprehend the depths of Wriothesley's deception. Questions swirled in Neuvillette's mind, each one more piercing than the last. Had Wriothesley harbored this insidious ambition from the very beginning? How had Neuvillette failed to discern the seeds of treachery that lay hidden beneath their friendship? It was a bitter pill to swallow, the bitterest of all. The realization gnawed at him, clawing at his soul, as he grappled with the magnitude of his naivety.

Images flashed before Neuvillette's eyes, memories tainted by this newfound knowledge. Every laugh shared, every secret whispered—it all took on a sinister hue, staining their past camaraderie with an air of malevolence. How could he have been so blind? How could he have missed the signs that now seemed glaringly obvious?

Neuvillette's thoughts spiraled, his mind a tumultuous battleground between disbelief and fury. The pain of his father's untimely demise mingled with the searing rage pulsating through his veins. Wriothesley's betrayal cut deep, slicing through the very fabric of Neuvillette's trust and leaving behind a jagged wound that refused to heal.

He found himself being dragged mercilessly by the rebels that he realized now were Wriothesley’s men, his senses dulled as he mechanically trudged forward. The rebel's vice-like grip on Neuvillette's restrained hands tightened with each step, their path leading them deeper and deeper below the opulent halls of Palais Mermonia. A sinking feeling settled in Neuvillette's stomach, a grim realization dawning upon him: they were headed towards the prison concealed beneath his very own palace, a place where he would be confined, stripped of his princely status.

Neuvillette's heart pounded as they approached the imposing iron doors that stood as a formidable barrier between the prison and the rest of the palace. His eyes widened, brimming with a mix of fear and desperation, as he mustered the courage to voice the question that had been gnawing at his soul. "Where is the qu—where is my mother?" Neuvillette's voice quivered. Every fiber of his being yearned for an answer, his gaze darted from one rebel to another, searching for even the smallest hint of compassion or understanding.

"Please," Neuvillette implored, his voice trembling with a mixture of desperation and pleading. He could hardly bear the weight of not knowing anymore, the torment of imagining his mother's fate... Did Wriothesley kill her, too? Or would that be too much even for the usurper? If there was anyone Wriothesley would spare, Neuvillette knew it certainly would be his mother. "At least tell me... is she..."

His voice trailed off, swallowed by a sea of unspoken emotions. The iron doors seemed to taunt him, its impassive facade offering no clues or comfort. Neuvillette's heart sank, his shoulders slumping under the weight of his fears.

With a voice devoid of sympathy, they delivered the crushing blow. "The ladies of the court are banished from Fontaine, effective immediately." The words hung in the air like an icy fog, freezing Neuvillette's hope in its tracks.

For the first time since their encounter began, Neuvillette felt a surge of resistance welling up within him. Though he knew it was futile, he couldn't bear to stand idly by as they whisked him away to the confines of the prison. He mustered all his strength and stepped back, attempting to halt their relentless pace. "Can you take me to my mother?" he asked, his voice laced with desperation and a flicker of defiance. But the rebels remained unmoved, their resolve unyielding as they propelled him forward, their steps hastening towards his uncertain fate.

His voice quivered with an anguished plea, resonating with raw emotion. "Please, I beg you, sir," he pleaded with all the sincerity he could muster. "If she is leaving, let me see her one last time. She is..." Neuvillette's voice trailed off, choked by tears that threatened to spill forth uncontrollably.

She was all Neuvillette had left.

As they continued their relentless march towards the prison, Neuvillette's heart weighed heavily with the knowledge that time was slipping away, like sand through the narrow neck of an hourglass. The world around him blurred, his thoughts consumed by memories of his mother's warm embrace, the sound of her laughter, and the unwavering support she had always provided. He yearned to see her one last time, to etch her face into his memory before the darkness of separation descended upon them.

But alas, fate seemed indifferent to his pleas, and the rebels remained resolute in their mission. Neuvillette's heart sank as he realized that the iron grip of circumstance held him captive, separating him from the one person who had been his beacon of hope in a world teetering on the edge of chaos.

The prison area, hidden within the depths of the castle, was scarcely more than a forgotten corner of history. Its sole occupant, a solitary jail cell, stood as a somber reminder of past transgressions. Once, long ago, this desolate place had been reserved exclusively for those of the highest order - members of the royal family or the esteemed council who had committed sins too grave to be held in ordinary confinement. To lock them away in the confines of a common jail would be to risk the unraveling of the delicate tapestry that held their world together.

But time had cast its heavy veil over these stone walls, rendering them obsolete and untouched for decades, if not centuries. The passage of years had stripped away the whispers of anguish and despair that once echoed through these halls. The prison's iron bars, once polished and gleaming with authority, now rusted and weakened by disuse.

So, of course, it was not until Wriothesley ascended to the throne, his grip tightening on power, that this forsaken prison was thrust back into the realm of the living. With a cruel twist of fate, it was he who would resurrect this chamber of torment, breathing life into its cold embrace once more, now harbored souls whose sins deemed so egregious were their own existence.

“Unhand me right now! Do you know who I am?!”

Neuvillette heard voice echoed through the corridor. Before him stood a disheveled member of the council, his restraints barely containing his rage as he barked futilely at the rebels who had seized him. But in the face of these men who had helped orchestrating the tumult that had turned Palais Mermonia into chaos, his protests were feeble and inconsequential. With forceful shoves, they thrust him into the gloomy depths of the jail, where darkness and despair reigned supreme.

Within moments, Neuvillette found himself being compelled to enter the same cramped jail cell. It came as no surprise to anyone that he was the final prisoner to be apprehended in the aftermath of this audacious coup.

"You are to remain here," one of the rebels declared, his voice dripping with cold detachment, "until His Majesty deems it fit to summon you for interrogation." As he spoke, the other rebel unlocked Neuvillette's handcuffs, only to replace them with manacles, mirroring the fate of the other prisoners, but at least he was able to use his hands in front of him again. With a gentle push, Neuvillette found himself retreating to the corner of the cell, seeking solace in the farthest reaches away from his fellow captives.

Voices of defiance echoed through the cramped space, their anger and frustration palpable. "We will not accept that mere child as our king," one person spat vehemently, the venom in their words striking the ground below. Yet, no response came from the rebels, their impassive faces betraying nothing.

As if sealing their destiny within this dismal enclosure, the heavy iron door groaned ominously as it swung shut behind Neuvillette.

“Hey, come back here!” Another person shouted.

Darkness descended upon them all, casting long shadows that danced across the damp stone walls. The air grew heavy with despair, mingling with the scent of mildew and decay that permeated every corner of their prison.

There was silence, and then there was footsteps approaching Neuvillette. And then, like a tempest unleashed, a voice erupted in fury. "You!" The words dripped with venom, each syllable laced with seething anger. The man's face contorted with rage as he confronted Neuvillette, his eyes burning with an intensity that sent shivers down the young man's spine. “You cur!”

“Your Grace–”

Neuvillette, his heart pounding in his chest, attempted to speak, to quell the storm brewing before him. But his words were cut short, swallowed by an involuntary whimper as the man forcefully pushed him against the cold stone wall. Gripping his hair tightly, the man yanked Neuvillette's head up, forcing him to meet his gaze, no longer able to hide behind the protective veil of downward glances.

Accusations spilled forth like fiery daggers from the man's lips. "You helped him, didn't you?" His voice crackled with accusation. “That lowly duke is as good as the criminals he brought here.”

Panic welled up inside Neuvillette, his voice trembled as he desperately pleaded for understanding. "Your Grace–" he began, but his words were drowned out by the torrent of fury that engulfed him.

The man's grip tightened, his fingers digging into Neuvillette's scalp. The pain served as a cruel reminder of his vulnerability in this moment of reckoning. Tears welled up in Neuvillette's eyes as he struggled to make himself heard. "I did not know anything," he cried out, his voice raw with desperation. "I swear, I am sorry. I cannot fathom why he would do such a thing. Please, believe me."

The silence that followed was suffocating, as if the very air held its breath, awaiting judgment. Neuvillette's heart raced, his mind filled with a maelstrom of fear and uncertainty. How would this unfold? Would his pleas be enough to assuage their anger, or would he be condemned alongside Wriothesley? Did they think Neuvillette would have someone assassinate his own father?

“Where did you take Wriothesley all these time? How did he know all the entrances?”

came another sharp demand.

“Just the garden.” Neuvillette managed to answer, his voice strained. But his response seemed to only further incense the man towering over him, for now he was being yanked upward, his hair tugged mercilessly as if this nobleman sought to tear it from his very scalp. His heart pounded in his chest, each thud echoing in his ears. Perspiration trickled down the nape of his neck, mingling with the sharp sting of pain radiating from his scalp.

Desperation infused Neuvillette's words as he pleaded, “I am telling the truth, His Majesty forbade him to step inside, I could not disobey his order.”

“You’re wasting your time,” The Grand duke scoffed, his voice dripping with disdain towards Neuvillette. “Do you think he’s capable of helping to orchestrate this?”

“Tch, this maggot.” The man sneered and callously released his grip on Neuvillette's hair, causing him to stumble backward. A resounding slap echoed through the room, the force of it propelling Neuvillette's face into the unforgiving corner wall with a sickening thud. In that moment of brutal impact, pain exploded through Neuvillette's skull, his senses momentarily overwhelmed. Falling to his knees, he instinctively huddled, his chained hands desperately attempting to shield his vulnerable head from further harm. At least he was left in the corner alone now.

“I knew that Meropide kid is up to no good! That audacity–”

“How did he even pull this off? Who wanted to support Meropide ?”

“Either way, we should give Neuvillette to him. I don’t care what he’ll do to him, but maybe he has something to gain further from this.”

“Ha! I doubt he cares. It makes no difference if Neuvillette is dead or alive.”

“We know, but if give him to–”

Neuvillette wished he could stop listening to the incessant stream of conversations that seemed to permeate every corner of his existence. He had grown accustomed to being treated as an invisible specter, their words floating around him, barely acknowledging his presence. But as the discussions veered towards the mention of Wriothesley, a sharp pang gripped his chest, intensifying with each passing reference. The ache puzzled him, for he could not fathom why it gnawed at his core so painfully, when logic dictated that anger should have been its sole residue. It was as if the mere utterance of Wriothesley's name summoned forth a whirlwind of conflicting emotions within Neuvillette. Memories of their shared past intertwined with regrets and unanswered questions, forming a tangled tapestry of longing and regret. The weight of their unfinished story bore heavily upon him, like an ancient curse that refused to be lifted.

Each time Wriothesley's name danced upon their lips, Neuvillette found himself transported back to a time when their connection burned bright with promise. They had been kindred spirits, souls entwined in empathy, their friendship a fragile flame flickering against the relentless winds of societal expectations. But fate had cruelly intervened, tearing them apart and leaving Neuvillette adrift in a sea of unanswered yearnings. Now, as he listened to others dissect Wriothesley's reasons and goals behind this coup, and what more could he gain other than the throne, he couldn't help but wonder what could have been. What secrets had remained untold? The pain in his chest grew heavier with the weight of these unspoken words, as if it were a physical manifestation of the void that Wriothesley's absence had carved into his heart.

And beyond everything, Neuvillette still could not find it in him to hate Wriothesley.

Neuvillette had gleaned a few crucial things during their confinement.

Firstly, anyone who left the cell never returned. Whether swallowed by the abyss of the unknown or met with a more sinister fate, Neuvillette couldn't fathom, but the message was stark and unforgiving.

Secondly, the fragile equilibrium of the prisoners' frustrations often found an unwelcome outlet in Neuvillette's direction. The weight of their anger and despair would invariably be channeled towards the vulnerable figure huddled in the corner. Harsh words, like venomous darts, pierced the air, their intended target always Neuvillette. Yet, when the abuse turned physical, the rebels who guarded their jail cell would reluctantly intervene, perhaps driven by a flicker of dormant humanity or simply duty-bound to quell the escalating violence.

And so, Neuvillette had learned to feign slumber, seeking solace in the pretense of unconsciousness. With face pressed against the cold, unforgiving wall, he carefully orchestrated an illusion of sleep. For when the other noblemen caught sight of Neuvillette's eyes flickering open, the verbal torment intensified then, a crescendo of cruelty that Neuvillette could no longer bear.

“He’s dead isn’t he?” He heard his cousin’s agitated voice. The sound of his rapid footsteps echoed down the dimly lit corridor, each step a testament to his mounting agitation. Neuvillette could almost feel the tremor in his cousin's hands, the frantic beat of his heart reverberating through the hollow space.

“Or maybe he sold us out.”

"I swear, when I finally see Wriothesley myself, I will take his life with my bare hands," His cousin seethed, voice dripping with venomous determination. The very thought of death threat against Wriothesley, thought he was responsible for countless atrocities and betrayals, sent chills down Neuvillette’s spine.

A skeptical voice interjected, its tone laced with caution, "That boy's master was a Champion Duelist. Do you truly believe you stand even the slightest chance against him?"

Fury bristled within his cousin as he retort sharply, "Are you insinuating that you condone Wriothesley's heinous deeds? Are you on his side?" His words dripped with disbelief, unable to fathom anyone aligning themselves with such wickedness.

The response came swiftly, a vehement rejection echoing through the air, "Hell no! I am far from supporting that vile man. I am merely being reasonable, trying to make you comprehend the perilous predicament you find yourself in. You must not underestimate the power and skill possessed by the very person who callously murdered the king."

Murdered the king. Neuvillette’s father. They talked of him like he was a figure, a mascot, and not a whole person who was once someone’s father. It made him sick.

The cell door suddenly opened followed by the sound of trolley being pushed, which meant that they weren’t about to take one of them but to bring meal to the prisoners. Yet, it was a luxury they did not relish, for the food that graced their trays was hardly worthy of their noble status. The prisoners felt it as an affront, a mocking reminder that even in their captivity, King Wriothesley saw fit to keep them alive, albeit with sustenance that barely appeased their hunger, and he most likely had no intention to keep them alive for too long.

Neuvillette could hear the muffled sounds of trays being taken, one after another, indicating that the rebels were still lingering outside the door. The absence of a closing click meant that the door had not been secured, leaving the prisoners vulnerable and exposed. Anxiety gnawed at Neuvillette's core as he braced himself for whatever would come next.

"What?" Neuvillette's cousin asked with a tinge of annoyance, his voice laced with irritation at the disruption to their routine.

"All prisoners have to eat,"

"Yeah, yeah, I'll get to it," his cousin retorted dismissively. As the rebels finally locked the jail cell door, sealing their fate for the time being, Neuvillette's senses sharpened, his heart pounding in his chest. Every fiber of his being screamed at him to rise from his fake slumber, but before he could even react, his cousin forcefully kicked him in the back.

"Wake up!" his cousin bellowed.

A searing jolt of pain surged through Neuvillette's battered frame, momentarily eclipsing his thoughts and stealing his breath. His teeth clenched, determined not to let a sound escape his lips, although the agony rippling through his body threatened to betray his stoicism. It was a struggle, every movement an arduous battle against the soreness that permeated his limbs, rendering his legs unsteady and unreliable. Crawling with painstaking effort, he traversed the cold expanse of the jail cell, inching closer to the meager sustenance that awaited him.

Finally, with trembling hands and quivering muscles, Neuvillette managed to rise from his prone position, his weakened legs protesting the weight they were forced to bear. The tray before him offered a meager reprieve from the gnawing hunger that had become a constant companion during his confinement. Yet, as he reached out to retrieve the nourishment that would sustain him, a cruel hand snatched away the solitary loaf of bread, leaving behind only two slices of fruit and a bowl of tepid soup.

Neuvillette's heart sank, but he knew better than to protest the other nobles. To incite their wrath further would be folly, inviting even greater torment upon himself.

The fateful day had arrived when Neuvillette's cousin found himself at the mercy of Wriothesley's summons, and he was far from pleased about it. With a tumultuous flurry of emotions, he made a fuss, desperately attempting to resist the rebels who sought to restrain him once more.

"No, no," he pleaded, his voice tinged with desperation, "I have nothing of significance to share with him." His reasoning fell on deaf ears as the relentless pressure mounted. Frantically, his eyes darted around the room, searching for any sympathetic face that might aid him in escaping this dreaded predicament.

Nobody who left this prison ever returned.

Then, his eyes met Neuvillette’s and he shouted, “That’s his friend right there! Just take him instead!”

With a desperate stride, he closed the gap between them, his fingers closing tightly around Neuvillette's arm, yanking him upright. The force of his cousin's grip sent shockwaves through Neuvillette's body, making his heart race wildly within his chest. In that moment, words eluded him, for his mind was consumed by the intensity of this sudden and frenzied turn of events. All he could focus on was the urgent need to free himself from that unyielding hold.

“Neuvillette, you’ll reason with him, right? He’s your best friend, right?”

Neuvillette stood frozen, his cousin's wild, frenzied movements leaving him speechless. His heart thudded against his chest, rendering him incapable of forming a coherent response. In that moment, all he could focus on was the vice-like grip that clung to his arm, its relentless hold constricting his every movement. Desperation welled within him as he struggled to free himself from the suffocating grasp, yearning for release.

“I’m just a distant family, if anything, he should’ve dealt with the crown prince first.”

“Unhand him.” The rebel commanded. “His Majesty asked for you and we don’t want to waste any more time. Cooperate with us or we will have to force you.”

“Just fucking take him—”

Two more figures materialized within the dimly lit cell, their presence foreboding as they swiftly extracted Neuvillette's cousin from the premises. Throughout the ordeal, his cousin's anguished cries, profanities, and desperate pleas echoed relentlessly until they faded into an indistinguishable whisper.

Neuvillette sank onto his knees, cradling his injured arm and feeling the weight of helplessness settle upon him. The weight of his cousin's absence pressed heavily upon him, the unanswered questions swirling in his mind like a tempestuous storm. Why? Why had he not been the one to go instead? Why had he not seized the opportunity to confront Wriothesley, to reason with the usurper king?

What if he had taken on the role of envoy? What if he had mustered the courage to face Wriothesley head-on, armed with persuasive arguments and fervent pleas for justice? Could he have made a difference, swayed the tyrant's heart? What then?

But deep within, Neuvillette knew the truth. He was shackled by fear, his spirit weighed down by doubt and uncertainty. The very idea of standing up to Wriothesley, of challenging his authority, seemed an insurmountable task. A coward's choice, perhaps, but one that he could not shake off.

Yet, amidst the crushing weight of his own insecurities, Neuvillette couldn't help but feel a pang of guilt. After all, he was the only one among them with a personal history intertwined with Wriothesley's past. The thought that perhaps he should have been the one to make an effort gnawed at him, a persistent voice reminding him of his unique connection to the man who now held their fate in his hands.

So? So, why didn’t he go, then?

Oh, wasn’t it obvious to you, dear Neuvillette? Wriothesley frightened you.

Chapter Text

Restless and full of impatience, the young Duke fidgeted in the dimly lit interrogation room. His hands, tightly bound by cold, unforgiving cuffs, tapped incessantly on the worn wooden table. His eyes darted anxiously towards the middle-aged man stationed near the door, a formidable figure who stood as an impenetrable barrier, effectively quashing any fleeting thoughts of escape. The Duke's agitation simmered, his frustration mounting with each passing moment, exacerbated by the knowledge that someone as inconsequential as Wriothesley had the audacity to subject him to this senseless questioning.

Finally, after an interminable wait, the deafening silence of anticipation was shattered by three resounding knocks on the heavy door. The middle-aged man swung it open, revealing the usurper king standing on the other side. He bowed low as Wriothesley stepped into the room. He appeared untouched by the chaos that raged outside the confines of this enclosed space.

With a wry smile playing at the corners of his lips, he spoke to the Duke, "Did I make you wait? It's rather chaotic out there," he explained with a sigh. "A myriad of pressing matters vying for my attention."

"Let us dispense with pleasantries, Wriothesley. The council will not hesitate to take legal action against you for the crime of regicide."

Wriothesley didn’t answer immediately, instead he casually pulled a chair across his political hostage before he responded. "Well, I'm already doing some damage control and replacing those old geezers on the council. The new ones are not really keen on chasing me down with allegations."

The Duke scoffed. "Your legitimacy is at stake! As long as a member of the royal family remains alive, you cannot rightfully claim the title of king, unless..." The young Duke leaned in closer, his voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper. "Look, I understand Neuvillette was your dear friend, yes? Perhaps guilt weighs on your conscience. I would willingly undertake that task for you, for a mutually beneficial arrangement, naturally."

Wriothesley fell into a profound silence, stretching out suspiciously longer than before. The weight of his unspoken thoughts seemed to hang heavy in the air, as if he was deliberately withholding a torrent of emotions behind a cool facade. With painstaking slowness, as if every word carried immense significance, he finally voice his question.

"Why," he began, his voice infused with a strange mix of carefully concealed anger and disbelief, "would I harbor any desire to see Neuvillette dead?"

"Because he is the Crown Prince–"

"But he is not the true heir. That distinction belongs to you, does it not?"

As the words reached the Duke's ears, a swift transformation swept across his countenance, erasing the mask of overconfidence and replacing it with a profound sense of bewilderment. His brows furrowed, his eyes widened, and his lips parted in disbelief. "Don't be ridiculous—" he scoffed, his voice tinged with an awkwardness that barely able to disguise his shaken composure. "Me? The heir to the throne?"

Undeterred by the Duke's uneasy body language, Wriothesley responded with an air of nonchalance, as if he were discussing the most mundane of matters. His tone carried a subtle hint of amusement, as if he were privy to a secret long concealed. "Yes," he stated matter-of-factly, allowing each word to hang in the air for a moment. "You have always been next in line. Neuvillette was merely a distraction—a pawn cleverly maneuvered onto the board by your uncle and his council."

As the Duke remained silent, Wriothesley pressed on, his voice filled with curiosity and a hint of impatience. "Pray tell, Your Grace, why did Lady Guillotin choose to divorce you?"

Frustration etched deep lines on the Duke's face as he finally found his voice. "How the fuck should I know?" he exclaimed, his tone tinged with exasperation. "Marianne, bless her soul, is a woman consumed by madness. Her actions were as unpredictable as the wind itself."

Wriothesley's eyebrows shot up in mocked surprise, his curiosity piqued even further. "Insanity, you say? Pray, elaborate on this matter, Your Grace. How did her deranged state affect your marriage?"

A heavy sigh escaped the Duke's lips as he delved into the depths of his memories, his eyes gazing into the distance as if searching for answers. "My marriage, however tumultuous it may have been, has no bearing on the line of succession." In the end, he chose not to answer. Mostly because he saw no relation to Wriothesley’s accussation that he was actually the next in line to the throne.

“You are the former king’s oldest nephew. Your mother was his older sister.” Wriothesley changed the subject. “Wasn’t she also the one who put your uncle on the throne?”

“So?”

Wriothesley smiled, and then, he said something else that seemed completely unrelated. Yet, it is within this seemingly unrelated tangent that Wriothesley's intentions remained concealed. The Duke found himself perturbed by the ever-shifting nature of their discourse, as Wriothesley weaved effortlessly between subjects as he pleased, an artful dance that danced upon the Duke's patience. “The Queen is a pacifist, but the King needed to acquire Elynas. Do you think your uncle would want to give the throne to a son of someone who would never pick a side? He needed the land, but he didn’t want an heir from her. In his pursuit of power and control, the King needed to ensure that his lineage remained unblemished by any hint of weakness.”

“Then, how do you explain Neuvillette?” The Duke decided to play dumb.

“Your uncle tried to discourage the Queen and forced her to abort her first pregnancy and he justified this heartless act by declaring that he would never accept his firstborn if it were to be a daughter, deeming such an heir unfit to inherit the throne. He did that in hope that the Queen would be discouraged and use birth control because, well, she still needed to warm his bed, he just didn’t want the inconvenience that follows. She persisted and hid her second pregnancy until she was sure of the gender of her baby. Unable to find a solid argument for rejecting the child, he allowed Neuvillette, their son, to live. It was a begrudging concession on his part, born out of a lack of viable reasons to deny his own blood.”

“How would you know that?”

Wriothesley smiled again. “Ah, so you believe that you have successfully eliminated any potential sources of information who might have been privy to your clandestine agreement with your uncle and his council, don't you?”

With a sly grin, Wriothesley leaned back in his chair, his eyes glinting with amusement and his words dripped with a subtle taunt, revealing a deep understanding of the delicate nature of the royal family's secrets. For within the impenetrable walls of Palais Mermonia, there existed an elite group of individuals like this man in front of him, whose sole purpose was to safeguard those secrets from prying eyes. “And I suppose you take credit for orchestrating Baron Caspar's demise as well?”

The Duke's eyes widened, seemingly recognizing the name of the former leader of Spina di Rosula, a flicker of surprise and curiosity passing over his features. In that moment, the weight of realization seemed to settle upon him, prompting a flurry of questions. Why would a man who had previously shown no interest in the affairs of Palais Mermonia suddenly be delving into the secret recesses of the royal family? And more intriguingly, how could he have formed an unlikely alliance with the enigmatic Duke of Meropide, a man known for his indifference towards the crown, save for his friendship with Neuvillette?

“Is it truly you, out of all individuals, who dares to cast aspersions of murder upon me?”

“Why, yes.” Wriothesley answered the threat with no hesitation. “The power imbalance you’ve taken advantage of all these years… isn’t it funny when you’re on the opposite end of it?” His voice carried a subtle undertone of triumph, each word was laced with a calculated precision, cutting through the tension-filled air like a sharpened blade. With a confident gaze, he locked eyes with the Duke, now absolutely at loss for words, unyielding in his quest for… whatever it is that he planned. “So, I ask again, are you the real heir?”

“Yeah, fine! I am!” The Duke's voice boomed like thunder as he finally snapped. His cuffed hands clenched into fists, his knuckles turning white with rage. “And even if it weren't me, my uncle would've found another heir nonetheless. But mark my words, Fontaine will be a mockery in Teyvat if we let Neuvillette take the throne.”

“But regardless of what your scheming uncle says, no one can override the line of succession. Neuvillette will still be king, and you know it.” It was a sight to behold, truly uproarious, as Wriothesley, the usurper of all people, audaciously referred to the deceased king as a 'scheming uncle.' "What would you do to replace him? What twisted plot do you have up your sleeve now?"

As Wriothesley's words continued to pour forth, a dawning realization swept over him, settling in the depths of his consciousness like an unwelcome guest. It became clear, with each passing moment, that Wriothesley had not come here to seek knowledge or understanding. No, his true purpose was far more insidious, a calculated ploy to waste precious time and manipulate those held captive by his coup.

The weight of this revelation pressed heavily upon him, as he observed the man before him with a mixture of contempt and disbelief. How could one person be so brazenly audacious as to trespass upon Palais Mermonia, armed to the teeth, with the sole intention of confirming what he already knew? The Duke's lips curled into a sneer, a silent display of his disdain for Wriothesley's deceitful tactics.

"You truly are a pitiful creature," he spat out, his voice laced with both anger and pity. "A sad, pathetic dog, desperate for validation from the very person who took you in after the untimely demise of your parents that you became his hound."

The Duke thought, he could see through this charade, recognizing the manipulative puppeteer pulling the strings. With a mix of contempt and pity, he realized that Wriothesley's presence here was not merely an inconvenience or annoyance. It was a calculated move to assert dominance and wield influence over all those present. But the Duke would not be swayed by such petty tactics. He would stand firm, resolute in his refusal to grant Wriothesley the satisfaction he so desperately craved.

Wriothesley did not want to be king, did he? He just wanted to enact this so called vegeance so his beloved, useless friend could become a king, even though he knew Neuvillette was unfit for it. “You know what? You guys are perfect for each other. Destroy Fontaine together, I don’t fucking care anymore. Neuvillette isn’t leaving this circus with dignity anyway.”

“I can tell. I’ve been dealing with your mess, you know.”

The Duke scoffed and shook his head in disbelief. As if it even mattered that Wriothesley had uncovered evidence of corruption. Did anyone really think he was the only wealthy aristocrat in Fontaine who gained their fortune through "ethical" means? The Duke's lip curled in disgust as he thought of Wriothesley's insatiable kind of greed, surpassing even the most corrupt members of the council.

"You and the council had orchestrated a plan to exploit him as a convenient scapegoat, didn't you? If I hadn't intervened and eliminated the king, he would have swiftly maneuvered to transfer the crown to Neuvillette, perhaps as early as the following year, I surmise. The crown’s desperation has driven the king to seek a fresh start, devoid of any remnants of is past misdeeds so you would have a clean slate. Neuvillette would have carried the burden of all the corruption and wrongdoing, effectively becoming the receptacle for all the filth that tarnishes his reign."

"You are truly mad," the Duke scoffed, his eyes rolling dismissively as Wriothesley circled around him. A sneer curled on his lips as he spoke, his voice dripping with disdain. "Did Neuvillette somehow persuade you into this foolishness?"

A glint of defiance flashed in Wriothesley's eyes as he countered, his voice laced with a dangerous edge. "Neuvillette may not possess your cunning, but he is no fool. Remember, he is his mother's son."

A wry smile played on Wriothesley's face as he moved with an almost ethereal swiftness. His footsteps made no sound, a silent predator stalking its prey. In one seamless motion, he withdrew a gleaming gun from its hidden holster, its weight comforting in his grasp. With steady hands, he aimed it toward the unsuspecting back of the Duke's head.

And then, as if propelled by an unseen force, Wriothesley deftly squeezed the trigger. The deafening echo of gunfire reverberated through the room, shattering the fragile calm that had enveloped them moments before.

In that split second, the Duke's towering figure crumpled like a marionette with severed strings, collapsing upon itself in a cruel twist of fate. A crimson tide spilled forth from his lifeless body, forming a macabre pool upon the cement floor beneath him.

Finally, the middle aged man who had been standing still the entire time, spoke for the first time. “Well, six more to go, Your Grace.” When Wriothesley groaned childishly, he continued. “Now, now, Your Grace, what did Matron Sigewinne say about that?” He meant the groaning, as thought it were a transgression that required reprimand.

“I know, Wolsey.” Wriothesley said. “I swear I’m not complaining about doing this six more times.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, that was a yawn. I’m tired.”

“Sure you are, Your Grace.” The older man said. Wriothesley only chuckled as approached the Duke, now dead, and slowly closed his lifeless eyes.

“You didn’t ask him about Lady Guillotin again.” Wolsey sighed.

“He doesn’t know anything.” With a nonchalant shrug, Wriothesley, his face etched with a stoic indifference, meticulously cleaned the bloody barrel of his trusty handgun. The metallic tang of gunpowder lingered in the air, a potent reminder of the violence that had just transpired.

“He does—didn’t know she only agreed to become his bride because she knew he had the most chance for the crown, and cut her ties with him once she knew that would likely not happen anymore.”

“And why is that?”

“Me, I think.” Wriothesley smirked, though he didn’t seem to be happy about it. “People discredit women too much when they’re the ones who can read the tides better than us.”

“Your Grace may be right about that,” Wolsey mused, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “But still, divorcing a member of royal family is not easy, but she seems to be living quite well for herself.”

Wriothesley paused, his gaze distant as if searching for an answer in the smoke-filled room. “I can’t say for certain,” he replied slowly. “But if I were to hazard a guess, I’d say she’s in league with someone who has offered her a way out.”

"So, Your Majesty are the next one in her sights?" he asked, his voice tinged with concern.

A wry smile tugged at Wriothesley’s lips as he leaned back in his chair, his eyes locked to another corpse in front of him, another life that he took with his own two hands. "Even if she's desperate enough to make an attempt, she wouldn't be able to reach me," Wriothesley replied confidently.

Wolsey raised an eyebrow, curiosity flickering in his gaze. "But if she can't get to you, then who will she target next?"

Wriothesley’s eyes narrowed as he considered the question. "Neuvillette," he said finally. "That's where her desperation will lead her. And once she sets her sights on him, others will surely follow."

Wolsey let out a frustrated sigh, running a hand through his hair. "And that is bad, isn't it? Your Grace do realize that is bad, don’t you?"

The usurper’s smile faded, replaced by a somber expression. "Yes," he replied. "I'm well aware of the consequences. Neuvillette is not prepared for what's coming. He will face more betrayal than he could count in his lifetime."

“He will never forgive you for that.”

Wriothesley didn’t answer.

"Well, let's see what she'll do," Wolsey mused. His eyes narrowed as he contemplated the potential outcome, wondering if this lady would indeed prove to be the catalyst for chaos. "If Your Grace are right," he continued, his tone tinged with a hint of doubt, "we shall see which pest she will bring with her."

Wriothesley sat straight in his chair, his fingers drumming thoughtfully on the table. "She's hardly the biggest issue now," he added dismissively, a flicker of amusement dancing in his eyes. "And I'm sure they'll do anything to overthrow me."

"But that is exactly what you're hoping to happen, isn't it, Your Majesty?" Wolsey challenged. His gaze met his master’s unwaveringly, unafraid to confront him head-on. "For the Prince himself to end your bloody reign?"

Chapter Text

Neuvillette stood nervously in front of the ornate vanity table, looking down as if scared to look at his own reflection. The scent of lavender and beeswax hung heavy in the air, a feeble attempt at comfort in the intimidating presence of the looming agenda ahead. The silken finery draped over his body felt like a betrayal against his skin. He knew he had to pull himself together and fulfil his duty as a consort. Especially a consort that everyone knew came from a fallen, disgraced clan. Who stood by the side of a king who found him worthy enough to be plucked from disgrace and yet unworthy enough to hold too closely; an alliance born out of necessity and sealed by the king himself.

Well. Not really, wasn’t it?

As Neuvillette's fingers grazed the vacant stretch of his neck, he could almost feel the ghostlike weight of a collar that was not there — an invisible yoke sealing his destiny. He wasn't more than a puppet to be sashayed around in the fancy courtrooms of Fontaine, a pawn to be paraded before the noblemen of Fontaine, an emblem of Wriothesley’s triumph and dominance.

He longed desperately to conceal himself, consumed by a profound sense of shame. Yet today held significance far beyond a mere meeting, didn't it, Neuvillette?

He looked up, wondering how the man in the reflection was also the same person thrown to jail just a mere weeks ago? His jacket, tailored to perfection, was made of a shimmering, midnight-blue satin that caught the light with every movement. The shoulders were adorned with intricate gold embroidery, depicting delicate floral patterns that cascaded down the sleeves. Underneath, he wore a flowing blouse, its ruffled neckline and billowy sleeves adding a touch of romanticism to his look. The blouse was tucked into high-waisted trousers, which flared slightly at the bottom, reminiscent of a bygone era's regal fashion. Around his waist, a wide, embroidered sash in deep burgundy cinched his silhouette, its ends trailing gracefully behind him as he walked. Hands gloved in white leather, his finger was adorned with his wedding ring. On his feet, he wore elegant, heeled boots made of supple leather. His hair, styled in loose waves, framed his face softly, complementing the delicate touches of makeup that highlighted his features—a touch of eyeliner to define his eyes and a hint of color on his lips. 

Neuvillette… had never seen himself dolled up like this. Perhaps the closest was during his wedding day but to be perfectly honest, he didn’t remember much of it anyway. Did Wriothesley order Neuvillette’s maids to add dramatic flair into his look today? Neuvillette didn’t know any other reason why they would be so excited to help him get ready earlier. He hoped this would suffice Wriothesley’s need for a… pretty ornament by his side. 

“Your Highness, it’s time.” Neuvillette heard Sedene knock on the door.

“I will be ready in a moment.”

“I understand. Also, His Majesty brought something for you, Your Highness.”

Neuvillette blinked, before he hurriedly opened the door himself instead of instructing the maid to enter. “Really?”

Sedene stood outside the door, her lips curled into a bright smile. In her hands, she held a small box with a delicate glass lid. Inside rested a beautiful headpiece, adorned with two shimmering blue gems on each side. The intricate details and craftsmanship were truly remarkable. When did Wriothesley find time to prepare this? Was it part of a matching accessory set?

“Shall I help you put this on?”

“Yes, thank you.” However quiet, Neuvillette was strangely quite happy. Or maybe relieved? Gifting him a necklace would’ve been rather too on the nose, wouldn’t it?

In the golden glow of the sun, Wriothesley stood poised outside, lines of waiting carriages a grand backdrop to his regal presence. His dark, slicked back hair gleamed like spun silk, framing a countenance that exuded timeless elegance. The aristocratic air surrounding him was palpable, his posture to his demeanour spoke of tremendous power and influence he commanded.

As opposed to Neuvillette, he was clad in attire of understated opulence, yet every detail seemed to converge upon the one regalia he wore: the sword at his side, its tassel was too familiar to Neuvillette.

Neuvillette could hardly keep his gaze steady, all too aware of Wriothesley’s firm hand encasing his.

“You look great,” Wriothesley commented, voice smooth as aged whiskey. Faking an impressed look as if he wasn’t the one who curated Neuvillette’s whole look.

“Thank you.” Plastering a smile onto his face that scarcely reached his eyes, Neuvillette was carrying the weight of unspoken words in the cavity where his heart used to reside. Smile, Neuvillette. Faked it with your bleeding heart.

Yet, one question clawed at the back of his mind: Is this showy splendour a symbol of a husband’s assertive command over their spouse? A constant reminded that they dressed not for themselves but for another’s satisfaction? The weight of the glittering jewels adorning his attire felt suffocating, as if they were not just ornaments but shackles chaining him to a role he had never truly chosen

Feigning sincerity, Neuvillette nodded, “So do you.” But how could he not be? Adorned with the very sword that caused Neuvillette’s world to crumble into pieces - the hallowed instrument that slayed Neuvillette’s father.

As Wriothesley and Neuvillette hopped into the carriage and the door was closed, a thick unease crowded the cozy interior, now caught in a lingering silence that seemed to swallow their words before they could speak them. Twirling strands of his outfit nervously between his fingers, Neuvillette cast timid glances at Wriothesley who sat like a boulder, defensive with arms crossed protectively over his chest. The cold steel of his sword chuckled menacingly behind him propped against the carriage seat – a silent threat. Neuvillette, grateful for small mercies, was glad he didn't have to face its wicked gleam throughout their journey.

With a jolt, the carriage sprang to life and gave a little hop in excitement as its wheels tumbled over the aged cobblestones beneath. An uncomfortable silence stretched out between them, the unsaid words hanging heavy in the air since they peeled out from their starting point.

Hoping for an escape route from this chilliness settling within the carriage, Neuvillette allowed his eyes to wander towards the window, slowly pulling the curtain to take a peek outside. What he found was an immediate solace as if each view had been designed with care to steal one's breath away. The road they were now on twisted and turned quite unlike any other he'd seen before. Though, he realised that his heart caught mid-beat as it sank in: this was just his third outing beyond walls of Palais Mermonia. Practically every road in this nation was something he’d never seen before..

The rough kiss of cobblestones underfoot could be felt even through the floor of the carriage. The rhythmic crunch-click soundtrack served as an underscore to their silent ride- punctuating the odd grunt from their steeds and eerie swoosh when swaying branches brushed past them all too close for comfort. A mixed palette of distinctive flavours seeped into carriage—earth fresh after rain probably hours ago kissed by hints of blooming jasmine nearby with an undertone distinctly metallic tang faintly reminding him back at palace kitchens.

Underneath it all stirred a strange underlying taste of adventure tingling on his tongue -sweet with promise yet tart with apprehensions—an elusive flavour infused strangely addictive notwithstanding its disconcerting effect on stomach knots.

Later when they reached a denser area, Neuvillette soaked in the sights and sounds of the busy marketplace. Vendors called out from their stalls, advertising fresh fruits, warm breads, and fine silks. The air was filled with mouthwatering aromas drifting from the bakeries and cafe. The sun glittered brightly off the wide, sparkling fountain in the centre of the square. Children laughed as they chased each other around its rim. Other people sat on the fountaine’s edge, listening to the soothing splash of water.

Court of Fontaine was so pretty in the bustling daylight, and looking around, Neuvillette assumed there must be dozens of narrow side streets and alleys branching off from the main square, each begging to be explored. Neuvillette wondered how long it would take for him to explore all the roads in this area alone.

"Neuvillette," the rich timbre of Wriothesley's voice boomed in his ears, igniting a raw surge of shame within him. Reflexively, he yanked the curtain shut, concealing the picturesque view outside once again. The heavy weight of embarrassment settled over him like a dense fog, reiterating harshly - this was no carefree day off; this was serious business.

The spice of anxiety lingered in the air, leaving a bitter aftertaste on his tongue. His fingertips brushed against the fabric of the curtain as it slid into place. He looked at Wriothesley, finding him sighing while pointing at his own head, signalling something. “It’s tilted.” He said again.

Was it the headpiece? Fumbling around with the ornament atop him, Neuvillette fiddled but couldn't tell if it did any good or not.

“May I?” Wriothesley asked and for just an instant Neuvillette didn't catch his drift until the other guy's slow movement dawned on him – come closer to let him make things right.

With trepidation, Neuvillette obeyed and leaned in, feeling the weight of Wriothesley's gaze upon him. He bowed his head as instructed, feeling vulnerable and exposed. The king's hands reached out like a touch of a feather, adjusting Neuvillette's headpiece with laser precision.

And just as quickly as they had touched him, they were gone, leaving behind a lingering sense of power and control. Neuvillette stood straight once more. “Sorry.” He muttered, and Wriothesley nodded.

“Vasari Passage–” Wriothesley suddenly said, pointing at the window. “There's a street market on the weekend there. Twice a month. The second one is this Saturday.” He explained. “Do you want to go there?”

“I’m not sure.” Neuvillette admitted hesitantly, a faint glimmer of excitement stirred within him despite his lingering uncertainties.

Wriothesley observed his hesitation and added, "It could be a nice change of pace, a chance to breathe fresh air and immerse yourself in the sights and sounds of the city. You might find something intriguing or delightful at the market. You can take your staff or maids; I'm certain they’d cherish the outing.”

Neuvillette weighed the idea carefully, but couldn't shake off the nagging feeling that there was more to Wriothesley's suggestion than just a simple outing.

"Why do you want me to go?" He couldn't help but ask.

Wriothesley shrugged nonchalantly. "Just for some harmless relaxation. Isn't that reason enough?"

But Neuvillette couldn't shake off the bitterness that gnawed at him. Did Wriothesley have ulterior motives for wanting him to leave the safety of the palace? He wasn’t allowed to leave Palais Mermonia before and his mother explained that it was risky for a sole heir of the throne to leave the palace.

Oh, but that was it, wasn’t it? Neuvillette was no longer the heir.

“I suppose I can go with them if possible,” Neuvillette mused softly, weighing the idea carefully. “But I’m uncertain about what’s the occasion for that.”

“Just to unwind, shop, have fun. People hang out on the weekend all the time.” Wriothesley shrugged. What a non-specific answer, but Neuvillette couldn’t help but wonder why Wriothesley knew that since he wasn’t even from Court of Fontaine. Did he go with someone? The thought of him visiting the city with someone else, possibly a lover, filled Neuvillette with bitterness and jealousy.

“Can we leave Palais Mermonia even without any event to attend?” Neuvillette questioned, hoping to catch Wriothesley off guard.

But instead of faltering, Wriothesley simply chuckled coldly. “Palais Mermonia is your home, not your prison. You don’t need permission to step outside every time.”

“Sorry.”

This time, Wriothesley didn’t acknowledge Neuvillette’s apology.

Chapter Text

Whatever it was in Neuvillette’s mind, it was certainly not this.

As they entered, all present sprang from their chairs to stand. Every single lord of the houses in Fontaine were present. Wriothesley strode regally ahead, every inch the monarch, while Neuvillette felt that he was scrambling to keep up, a mere accessory trailing in his wake. Though Wriothesley exuded authority with his measured gait, Neuvillette betrayed his nerves with uneven footsteps, woefully outmatched by his confident…companion. Where Wriothesley commanded the room with his imposing presence, Neuvillette faded into the background, a timid shadow eclipsed by radiant royalty.

This place was foreign to Neuvillette but as the room settled ack into their seats, Neuvillette couldn’t help but feel a pang of inadequacy, and more importantly, heartache. Yes, he was an insignificant speck in a grand tapestry that Wriothesley created, but it stung to see Wriothesley enthroned in his father's seat. Commanding his father's subjects. Uttering a speech that should have spilled from his father's lips.

The room was silent as Wriothesley made his first official speech as the new monarch, and Neuvillette didn’t know if the hush was because everyone was as terrified of the usurper as he was, or because they so effortlessly accepted this shift in power—that it hardly mattered who sat on the throne—and Neuvillette didn’t know which thought hurt more.

In the middle of Wriothesley’s speech, Neuvillette was startled when someone handed the documents detailing the agenda for today's parliament meeting into his hands. Perplexed, he pondered why he, a fallen consort, was privy to such privileged information about his husband's business. Yet refusing the documents might arouse greater suspicion. Better to accept this, he reasoned, rather than allow his bewilderment to betray any inkling that he was ignorant of what was going on in his own nation.

The rest of the meeting came and went like flashes, leaving Neuvillette with a whirlwind of sounds and snippets of conversations. He heard noblemen passionately taking a stand and speaking in front of the king, their voices echoing throughout the grand chamber. He heard more noblemen debating and proposing different ideas to the king. Amidst the cacophony of voices, Neuvillette observed the hall's occupants, their expressions reflecting a mix of determination and uncertainty. Some noblemen exchanged heated glances, while others engaged in hushed conversations.

Nonetheless, Neuvillette wasn't sure if he caught every word Wriothesley spoke, as he felt as though he'd know when Wriothesley was speaking due to the subtle yet noticeable tension that would fill Neuvillette's body.

And before he knew it, Wriothesley ended the meeting and he left his throne sooner than Neuvillette could’ve gotten up from his seat. He didn’t go down and greeted the noblemen who attended the parliament conclave, and it was probably how it was supposed to be.

Yet, to leave these vassals be after summoning them hither… That also seemed rather discourteous. Perhaps it should fall to Neuvillette to exchange pleasantries with them in the name of the crown? Wriothesley offered no guidance, but perhaps it was a task Neuvillette should have intuited alone.

However, after a few conversations, Neuvillette began to learn that these noblemen were...surprisingly convivial and amenable. Neuvillette, of course, tried his utmost to etch their names into memory, but even when he mistakenly addressed them by the wrong name, they remained unperturbed and content to converse with Neuvillette. Perchance it was because he was the prince consort, but Neuvillette was uncertain what personal gains these men could reap from an unassuming consort such as himself.

“--Your Highness,” Someone asked, their voice slicing through the din. Neuvillette had lost count of how many men and women he’d talk to at this point. “Is everything okay?”

“Yes, of course.” Neuvillette answered evenly, masking his absent mind.

“The king's new tax proposal has stirred much discussion, huh?” Another voice interjected knowingly.

“Yet he knows how to benefit everyone regardless.” A noblewoman opined, before turning to Neuvillette. “What say you on the matter, Your Highness?”

“I, for one, support His Majesty's wisdom. The levy on imported goods is a necessary step to strengthen our finances. This is a prudent measure.”

The answer came off so instantly like a carefully rehearsed script. To ponder anything else would've been a grave sin against his king and his husband, so Neuvillette focused on just agreeing to anything. These people could've extolled Wriothesley for pillaging a village and Neuvillette still had to demonstrate his agreement.

“Furthermore, this tax could incentivize local production, reducing our dependence on foreign goods and strengthening our internal market.”

“An excellent point. In the long run, such measures will foster economic resilience and self-sufficiency.”

“And the additional funds could also be used for public works and infrastructure, further enhancing the well-being of our people.”

“Speaking of that, I believe if we add aquabus line from Court of Fontaine to–”

The noblemen continued their boisterous chatter, no longer paying attention to Neuvillette's compliance. As he took his leave to greet another group of nobles, a figure caught his eye from a distance: the same man from the Opera house.

Neuvillette's gaze swept the room, his eyes flicking to every shadowed corner, ears straining for any hint of Wriothesley's return. After making sure that Wriothesley wasn’t present, he spotted one of the staff from Palais Mermonia who came to assist Wriothesley so Neuvillette approached her first instead.

Neuvillette gingerly approached and tapped her rigid shoulder. "Pardon me," he murmured, noticing her harried expression. Best not to impose too long, he thought. "I'm going to converse with someone. Might you inform the Gardes to keep watch on him?" He subtly gestured toward Count Dougier, lingering not far away. The woman eyed Neuvillette's request warily, but he could only assure her there was no cause for concern. Or so he hoped. "It's fine, we only wish to talk."

The woman hesitated but then nodded, her footsteps echoing softly as she moved to inform the Gardes. Neuvillette inhaled deeply, the cool air filling his lungs, and turned to face Count Dougier. A smile stretched across his lips, concealing the tremor in his hands and the quickening beat of his heart.

The noble man was the first who greeted, per the commond courtesy, bowing every so slightly. “Your Highness, happy to see you here.” He said, before adding under his breath. “This is unusual.”

“How come?”

“It’s nothing.” Count Dougier chuckled lightly and dismissed the thought with a wave. “His Majesty must hold you in high regard.”

“His Majesty values diverse perspectives. I hope my presence is not an intrusion.”

“On the contrary, Your Highness, your presence is most welcome.” Count Dougier replied. Then, suddenly lost in thought, he glanced around furtively before leaning in to whisper, “Though, he’s really keen on moulding the nation into his own ideal. His decisions alone today… may be unpopular among some.”

Neuvillette’s heart throbbed anxiously. He had suspected, but didn’t think the Count would be so forthright with the king’s consort. What was his aim? Did he think Neuvillette would side with him? “A gradual change could ease the burden and allow people time to adapt.”

“Perhaps Your Highness could advocate for such a measured transition.”

Neuvillette was at a loss for words when another's unmistakable low, baritone voice unexpectedly joined their conversation. “Do you have any proposals, then?”

“Your Majesty!” Count Dougier exclaimed when Wriothesley suddenly appeared behind Neuvillette, pulling his slender consort closer with a firm hand on his waist.

“I’m open to practical solutions. If you have one.”

The Count’s mouth was agaped, but he quickly composed himself, nodded, yet changed the subject entirely without missing a beat. “You look well, Your Majesty.”

“You seem surprised.”

“Not at all. Just stating the obvious.”

Neuvillette saw the chance and without thinking further, he interjected, “The Count wished you to get better soon, Your Majesty.”

“Yes, I–” Count Dougier looked at Neuvillette, before turning back to Wriothesley with a confident nod. Oh, how he was so good at hiding his emotions. He must’ve seen right through Neuvillette earlier. “Yes.”

“Thank you for your kind wish. I must thank you because I feel so much better now.” Wriothesley said with a small, grateful smile. Though, the way he held Neuvillette made the consort feared that the king did not mean it at all.

“Good to hear.” replied the count.

“I apoligize for the interruption but I need to speak to my consort.”

“Of course, Your Majesty.”

“Your Ma–” Neuvillette’s word was cut off when Wriothesley moved his hand from Neuvillette’s waist, to grabbing Neuvillette’s wrist.

“Come with me.” Wriothesley commanded as he turned his body, and the last thing Neuvillette saw before he was dragged away was Wriothesley’s cold, angry eyes.

Chapter Text

Wriothesley's grip on Neuvillette's wrist was firm, guiding them away from the crowd's murmur. They left behind the bustling life and stepped into a deserted hall where soft lights cast gentle shadows on the empty floor. The sound of their footsteps echoed in the stillness, and the scent of polished wood lingered in the air.

Not a word passed between them with Wriothesley maintaining this terrifying silence while Neuvillette didn't dare break it. All he did was lower his gaze, focusing on matching his steps with his husband’s brisk pace, acutely aware of how essential it was not to trip over and make himself look foolish once again. He was aware of his husband’s unspoken disappointment, of couse, the fear gnawed at Neuvillette’s insides and threatening to consume him whole.

Neuvillette couldn't help but ponder - Wriothesley must be fuming, right? He must've messed up something that annoyed his otherwise calm husband. Now, all he could do was brace for whatever repercussions were coming his way. Wriothesley at least had shown some mercy by sparing him from public humiliation or what if there was more to it? What if Wriothesley thought Neuvillette crossed a line talking to Count Dougier? Would that count as rebellion?

His heart pounded in sync with his racing thoughts, memories of the cold stone dungeon beneath Palais Mermonia where he'd once been held captive returned to him. A chilling suspicion made him sick; would history repeat itself because of his blunder?

Wriothesley cracked open the door with a sharp echo that rang through the otherwise silent corridor. He released Neuvillette from his firm grip, but his waving motion made it clear - Neuvillette was to step through first. The unspoken condition woven in between Wriothesley's tightly knitted brows seemed to say there was no shot at darting away anymore.

"Bit weird, don't you think?" Said the rustle of Wriothesley's voice, blending seamlessly with the soft click of the locking door. His words hung like stale air in the room. "Word about my health never slipped out of Palais Mermonia."

The sticky sweet smell of confessed guilt clung to every syllable as Neuvillette stuttered frantically, “Your Majesty, let me explain–I was approached by Count Dougier at the Opera, and he–we went to greet other nobles at the Opera’s saloon, and then he said that. But I never mentioned that Your Majesty was sick, I–”

“Who were the people at that saloon, do you remember?” Wriothesley interjected, his voice as cool and steady as twilight's shadow. He raised a hand to punctuate his words, the diffused light flickering off the worn gold of his original signet ring.

Neuvillette stupefied for a split second, lost in the flood of faces and clangor of half-empty wine glasses clinking together echoing from the memory. Trying hard to recall each person he met that day until it felt like pins and needles were dancing on his forehead, he attempted to put names to strangers' faces.

It looked as if Wriothesley had retreated into silence first. Then with an affirming nod motion rippling through his muscular neck, he stated inquisitively yet assertively, “Did you suspect that he was behind the poisoning accident?”

“I–I’m not entirely sure,” hesitated Neuvillette trying somehow not to reveal too much emotion either way amid sounds of their mantles rustling against the cold stone floor.“There was something about him just felt off; I had wanted to dig deeper before slinging mud on someone’s name.”

“Why didn’t you tell me earlier?” The question hung there like smoke escaping from an extinguished candle leaving behind an unique tart smell that wafted between them adding another layer to their unease.

“If he was the person who tried to assassinate Your Majesty, how can I let him near you again?”

“If he was the person who is capable of murder, why are you getting close to him?” Wriothesley asked back, disbelief etched into the creases of his forehead. “Or do you honestly believe that he's only got it in for me?" His ability to pose such simplistic questions with an air of almost aloof brilliance had Neuvillette mentally kicking himself.

“I am sorry.”

“Unfortunately you might be right.” Wriothesley sighed. “We interrogated the staff who put the poison in my food and he told us Count Dougier ordered him.”

“So, what are you–”

"The appropriate department will handle the further investigation," Wriothesley interjected swiftly.

Neuvillette murmured, "I see." A subtle wave of relief washed over him, imagining the fiery wrath of an usurper king seething behind closed door that the count just barely escaped from.

“Do yourself a favour and stay away from the people you met at the saloon. They’re most likely plotting more ways to get rid of me.” Wriothesley said.

“What?” Shock flashed over Neuvillette’s face.

“Yes, there is a threat of rebellion coming from dissatisfied third party and–”

“You know they are rebels?”

“Yes.” Wriothesley said, and yet his silence lingered in the air as his brow furrowed in thought. He seemed surprised by Neuvillette’s uncharacteristic interruption. “And yes, that is including Count Dougier. I just didn’t know their means of communication. Apparently they used the Opera House under the disguise of gathering in a saloon as their secret rendezvous.”

“You knew all of these but didn’t warn me before I went to the Opera House.”

The coner of Wriothesley’s mouth twiched as remarked flatly. “I didn’t warn you because I thought you would’ve known already to stay vigilant.”

It was then something stirred sharply inside Neuvillette - a hurt too deep to voice.

Unfazed by Neuvillette's silence, Wriothesley continued without missing a beat. “Remember what I told you? Some people are unhappy with me. And I married you, so they bet on the chance that you might be forced to do it. Can’t you guess what’s next on their agenda?”

They intended to persuade Neuvillette to betray Wriothesley.

How disgraceful that he forgot the most critical facet of this contractual marriage. He was so preoccupied with his trivial role at Palais Mermonia, he lost sight that he was nothing more than an extension of Wriothesley’s contentious reign.

Then, Wriothesley approached and his heart galloped in trepidation. Neuvillette instinctively raised his hands to shield himself, “I apologize.” He said, bowing his head low. “I did not consider—I am trying my best to heed your instructions, Your Majesty. I sincerely am.”

Neuvillette was trembling, his eyes clamped shut as if they were locking out the world and the impending terror. What did Wriothesley have in store for him? Would he be hauled away once more? Or maybe Wriothesley had some nastier fate for Neuvillette on his mind.

But the anticipated blow never came; instead, silence yawned wide and gaping, amplifying his own ragged breathing to an orchestral crescendo. While Neuvillette braced himself for a blistering reprimand or a physical blow, all he got was Wriothesley’s voice drifting through the stilness, “I know you are.”

With great emotional effort, Neuvillette lifted his head to see Wriothesley. There stood the man with an unreadable smile playing on his lips and hands leisurely clasped behind him. After what seemed like forever, he spoke again. “You underestimate yourself, Neuvillette. Give a bit more credit for yourself. Your little detour leading Count Dougier my way proved rather useful.”

“And these… ongoing threats against you?”

“If it troubles you that much,” With this, all remnants of Wriothesley’s smile evaporated into thin air and he pivoted on his heel to leave the room. “Simply refrain from joining me at supper. Certainly seems like a logical cautionary step to take. I’m sure that everyone back at Palais Mermonia would concur.”

Chapter Text

"Done!" Isadora exclaimed, her arms shooting skyward. The rustle of her sleeves whispered through the room as Jacquetta's eyes narrowed, a silent reprimand hanging in the air, unnoticed by Isadora in the prince's presence.

Neuvillette's eyes softened as he looked up, a warm smile spreading across his face. "Thank you for your hard work," he said, his voice carrying a sincerity that resonated in the room. He added, "Sorry for keeping you all on the weekend."

Weeks had passed since Neuvillette had trailed behind Wriothesley to the parliament meeting, and the king had vanished from his sight ever since. In place of the monarch's presence, a mountain of paperwork from the King's office had arrived days ago, spilling across Neuvillette's desk like an uninvited guest. His diligent staff, bless them, graciously agreed to work late into the night.

Neuvillette puzzled over why Wriothesley had given him tasks beyond his role as a mere consort, and yet he knew better than to question the whims of a king; authority carried its own inscrutable logic.

As everyone packed their belongings, preparing to leave, a knock echoed through the room. The door swung open to reveal a group of animated maids, dressed in casual attire. Kiara, her eyes sparkling with excitement, waved her purse in the air. “Your Highness, we’re ready!” she announced with a grin.

Jacquetta looked up, curiosity piqued. “Oh, are you heading out somewhere?”

Kiara’s nod was enthusiastic. “Yes! We’re going shopping with Prince Neuvillette!”

Neuvillette and his maids ventured out that night to the bustling street market at Vasari Passage. They had devised an elaborate plan to ensure Neuvillette could blend in without drawing the inevitable attention his royal status commanded. The plan, however, amounted to little more than a hooded coat that shrouded his regal demeanor and a pair of glasses that masked his distinguished features.

That being said, the market exceeded Neuvillette's expectations, vibrant with life even under the cover of night. Lanterns flickered, casting warm glows on the cobblestone streets. Aromas of spiced meats and sweet pastries mingled in the cool evening air. Merchants called out their wares, their voices blending into a melodic hum, while colorful stalls displayed an array of trinkets and treasures. The sounds of laughter and haggling filled the atmosphere, creating a tapestry of sensory delight that enveloped Neuvillette completely.

The women huddled together, their animated whispers blending with the market's hum. Neuvillette scanned the bustling scene but stayed close, knowing he'd lose his way in an instant. His gaze caught a little girl perched on her father's shoulder, her laughter ringing out as she blew iridescent bubbles that shimmered in the light.

Seeing that, for a moment, Neuvillette’s world turned into void.

The moment passed quickly, mercifully. Kiara's gentle touch on his arm drew Neuvillette back to the present. "Your Highness, are you alright?" she asked, her voice a soft melody of concern.

Neuvillette offered a warm smile, his eyes reflecting calm reassurance. "Yes, I am fine," he replied with a nod. "What shall we do next?"

Sedene stepped forward, her gaze steady and inviting. "Anything you wish, Your Highness. Would you like to explore the stalls?"

"Yes," he said, his curiosity piqued. "Please, lead the way."

As they strolled through the bustling streets, the ladies chatted again, weaving plans with each step.

"We should head out now if we want Crepes Suzette before the lines get long," one suggested, her eyes gleaming with anticipation.

"Hm... But I'm parched. I need a drink first," another replied, licking her lips at the thought of something refreshing.

"Let's split up and reconvene by the station fountain," a third proposed, pointing towards the distant landmark where water sparkled in the sunlight.

"Your Highness, where would you like to go?" someone asked, her tone respectful yet curious.

"Oh, I..." The royal hesitated, his gaze drifting around, unsure of what he wanted to do first. And then to add more to his confusion, he heard someone calling his name.

“Eh? Prince Neuvillette?” Did he just blow his cover that easily?

Heads swiveled toward the voice. Neuvillette's eyes widened in surprise, “Demoiselle Furina?” the actress appeared beside him, her presence unexpected. Moments ago, she had been gliding from the opposite direction, her steps halting abruptly upon recognizing Neuvillette.

"Ah, just call me Furina," she chuckled, a playful wave of her hand dismissing any formalities. Her eyes sparkled as she glanced at the maids surrounding Neuvillette, their faces a mix of awe and barely contained excitement. "Hello there," she said warmly, her voice like a cheerful melody. "It's lovely to meet you all."

Neuvillette raised an eyebrow, his gaze lingering on Furina's attire. "You're dressed like a man."

Furina twirled, her coat flaring out as she executed a flawless but imaginary hair flip, because her hair was tucked under her hat after all. The scent of her floral perfume wafted through the air. "But I look good, don’t I?" she declared, her voice brimming with confidence. Her eyes sparkled under the lamplight, and the fabric of her tailored androgynous outfit rustled softly with each movement. "I’m a celebrity, you know. If I didn’t put in some effort, I wouldn’t be able to go anywhere. Not that I'm as popular as Your Highness, of course."

Neuvillette met Furina's gaze, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "You overestimate me, Miss Furina."

Furina's eyes sparkled with a playful glint. "Oh, but it's the truth," she replied, her voice as light as the autumn breeze rustling through the golden leaves around them. Neuvillette suspected she was merely being courteous.

After a moment of comfortable silence, Furina glanced around, her attention caught by something Neuvillette didn’t see. "Shall we take a stroll?"

As the ladies scattered to their chosen diversions, Furina guided Neuvillette, with Sedene shadowing the prince, toward a lively game stall. The air thrummed with laughter and the rhythmic clink of toy guns hitting targets. Rows of colorful bullseyes glowed under vibrant lights. Furina handed Neuvillette a toy gun, its cool metal weight settling into his palm. "Give it a shot!" she urged, her eyes dancing with excitement.

“I don’t think I can–”

“Just try. The point is to enjoy it, not to win.”

Neuvillette hesitated before taking aim, his breath shallow and fingers trembling slightly. He loaded the first of three toy bullets, each missing its mark with a soft thud against the backdrop. Yet, Furina and Sedene clapped enthusiastically after every attempt, making him feel less bad about his lack of skill. When it was Furina's turn, she steadied herself, her eyes narrowing in concentration. On her second try, the bullet hit its target with a satisfying click. She smiled, her posture confident and poised, attributing her success to past training in mock marksmanship for a role she once played. The faint scent of candies from a stall nearby lingered in the air as she explained how it had taught her the perfect stance.

Buoyed by her luck, Furina lingered for another round as Neuvillette wandered to a nearby stall. The vendor's table was cluttered with an array of cheap yet surprisingly attractive accessories.

"See anything you like?" the vendor asked, oblivious to Neuvillette's identity. "We have a special offer—buy ten and get fifty percent off."

Neuvillette blinked, the deal sounding suspiciously generous. But why question it? He scanned the spread of bracelets, each one glinting under the warm light, their colors and textures inviting him to touch and choose. And he began picking them. Well, he was actually looking at something else on the table earlier but before he could pick it, the vendor already offered him deal for another productsso he decided to just get these bracelets instead.

"Uh... Your Highness, isn't it a little too..." Sedene's voice trailed off into a whisper.

"I think I can give these to the maids," Neuvillette responded, examining the bracelets.

Sedene's hesitation vanished. "Can I have the red one?" she asked eagerly.

Neuvillette smiled and nodded. Sedene's eyes sparkled as she selected the crimson bracelet.

The vendor calculated the price. As Neuvillette handed over the mora, the vendor grinned. "Tell you what, take this lovely hairpin too, no extra charge."

"Ah, I—" Neuvillette hesitated, but accepted the hairpin with a nod of gratitude. "Maybe Matron Sigewinne will like this."

"It's practical for her too; I'm sure she'll love it," Sedene said, her gaze shifting to Furina approaching them. She turned back to Neuvillette. "But maybe we should explore other stalls."

Sedene hurried away from the stall, her pace brisk as she darted through the bustling street market. Neuvillette watched her, understanding her eagerness; the market teemed with vibrant colors and enticing aromas that beckoned further exploration.

“You shop a lot, Your Highness,” Furina remarked, her tone playful as she whistled softly.

“It’s buy ten, get half price,” Neuvillette replied, holding up his purchases. “I’m surprised they can still turn a profit.”

Furina chuckled, a knowing glint in her eye as she glanced at Sedene behind Neuvillette. “Trust me, they will,” she said, concealing the truth of the scam. “Let's continue, shall we?”

The next few stalls brimmed with street food and sugary desserts, all at Furina's enthusiastic urging. The air was thick with the scent of caramel and fried dough, making Neuvillette's stomach churn just a bit. Furina, however, seemed to revel in the sweetness, her eyes lighting up with each new confection. She sampled everything—glossy candied apples, powdered sugar-dusted beignets, and syrup-soaked waffles. Her laughter was as light as spun sugar, unfazed by the indulgence. Neuvillette, feeling a wave of queasiness from merely watching her feast, hurriedly bought the first bottle of water he could find.

The final stall they visited before regrouping near the station fountain offered trinkets instead of food. Furina lifted a stone paperweight, its surface carved with intricate scales and painted a shimmering blue. She glanced at the price tag and gasped theatrically. "Four hundred mora? It's only three hundred over there," she scoffed, waving dismissively to her left. Neuvillette, puzzled since they hadn't seen a similar stall earlier, chose to observe silently.

"Ah, lad, it's–"

"Three hundred and ten," Furina interrupted.

"I can only give you twenty mora off."

"Three hundred fifty or I walk back—it's just two blocks," she countered.

The vendor sighed in resignation and nodded. Furina's grin widened as she handed the paperweight back to be wrapped, fishing out the mora from her coat pocket with a triumphant flourish.

"Do you need that paperweight for your script?" Neuvillette asked as they strolled away from the stall, heading toward the fountain.

"It's for my mother. Don't you think the color matches her eyes?" Furina replied, holding up the delicate trinket.

Neuvillette nodded. "Very much." He thought of how Furina and her mother were nearly identical. Anything that suited the Pastoress would undoubtedly suit Furina too, though he felt darker colors complemented Furina better.

"I always buy her something when I go out," Furina continued. "She never has time to shop, but I know she loves pretty trinkets."

"Miss Furina, you're really close with the Pastoress, aren't you?"

"Hm... It can't be helped; she's my maman, right?" Furina shrugged and giggled. "We were too close before. This distance is healthier."

"Oh," Neuvillette's expression softened with concern. "I apologize, I didn't know—"

"No, no, no! It's not a bad relationship at all!" Furina interjected, her laughter ringing with genuine warmth. "In my family, every firstborn daughter is destined to be a nun. My mother almost followed that path, but then she had a change of heart and decided to become a priest instead. Then I came along. Despite her shift in plans, the family still hoped I would continue the tradition."

"Really?"

"Yes! I didn't exactly despise the idea. It's the role our family plays to maintain the stability of this nation." As they reached the station fountain, where the others already awaited, Furina's eyes sparkled with fervor. "But I have dreams too—dreams of singing and dancing, of becoming anything I can imagine on stage, transforming into any shape and form I wish."

"And you are excellent at it."

“Thank you.” Furina nodded, a soft smile playing on her lips. “Anyway, maman is a pastoress and she just… let me do what I want. Can’t really join the Church if the Pastoress doesn’t want me there, right?” She giggled, her laughter light and carefree. The warmth in her voice made it clear she held no ill feelings toward her mother.

“At first, I was confused. Did I fail to meet expectations? Did I truly waver? But soon, I realized she just wanted me to live as myself, and for that, I am forever grateful.”

"She sounds like an excellent parent," Neuvillette muttered, sincerity laced with a subtle ache. The conversation stirred memories of his own mother, the exiled Queen, whose fate remained a mystery. He recalled the warmth of her embrace, the sense of protection so profound he never wished to part from her. Without her, could he have ever risen to ascension?

What if his mother had let him go as the Pastoress did for her daughter? That would mean admitting he never wanted to be king, right? The thought lingered, unspoken and unexplored. No one had ever asked if he desired the throne—it was simply expected, a family tradition beyond question. Yet, perhaps not every family bore such silent burdens.

“Did I say something wrong?” Furina asked, her voice tinged with concern as she noticed the shift in Neuvillette’s expression.

“Not at all,” he replied, shaking his head. “Thank you for sharing your story, Miss Furina.”

There was no use dwelling on what might have been. His mother was gone, and he was no longer an heir. Survival without her was now a necessity, not a choice.

The other ladies approached them, their faces alight with excitement as they chatted about their purchases and, more importantly, who they were for.

A persistent thought resurfaced in Neuvillette’s mind. “Do you mind if we visit one more stall?”

Upon returning to Palais Mermonia, Neuvillette bypassed his chambers and headed straight for the King’s office. The lateness of the hour suggested Wriothesley had already retired for the night; only a solitary guard stood watch at the door. Recognizing Neuvillette, the guard wordlessly allowed him entry into the dimly lit, vacant office.

Neuvillette moved deliberately toward the cluttered, imposing desk at the room's center. From his pocket, he withdrew a modest box adorned with red and gray stripes. Inside lay a fountain pen, its weight lighter than those he typically used. Though inexpensive, it bore an intriguing wolf-shaped engraving that had captivated his thoughts ever since the vendor had diverted his attention to bracelets.

Neuvillette gingerly placed the box on the desk. Suddenly, the door creaked open. At first, he assumed it was the guard, but then he realized the sound emanated from the bathroom door to his right.

“Is everything okay?” Wriothesley's distinctive voice cut through the silence.

Neuvillette jolted, stepping back from the desk. "Yes," he replied, his voice steady but his heart racing. "I thought you'd returned to your chambers."

Wriothesley emerged from the shadows, his presence filling the room with an air of indifference. Neuvillette instinctively retreated further.

"I still have work to do," Wriothesley stated flatly, his eyes betraying no emotion as he approached the desk.

Without hesitation, Wriothesley grabbed the box from his desk. “Ah, that’s–” Neuvillette started, but stopped as Wriothesley, without even glancing at it, shoved it into his desk drawer. “I bought it. For you.”

Neuvillette's heart sank, a wave of shame washing over him. But he did it to hiself so he forced himself to continue. “I think it woud’ve looked suspicious if I don’t get you anything. Everyone else bought something for–” The words caught in his throat, refusing to come out. “You don’t have to keep it if you don’t like it.”

Wriothesley settled into his chair, casting a brief glance at the prince. "Good night, Neuvillette," he murmured, his voice low and final.

Neuvillette felt the weight of his own foolishness pressing down on him. He bowed his head, the taste of regret sharp on his tongue. "Good night, Your Majesty," he replied, the words hanging in the cool, dimly lit room as he turned to leave.

After their afternoon tea, Wriothesley extended his hand to the prince, guiding him out of the gazebo. They stopped just a few feet away, where the tree's shade provided a cool respite.

“There’s something I’d like to show you, Your Highness,” Wriothesley said, retrieving a small transparent tube from his pocket. The cap was attached to a plastic wand with a ring at its tip.

“Oh, what is it?” Neuvillette asked, his eyes wide with curiosity. Wriothesley opened the tube and handed it to Neuvillette, who sniffed it cautiously. “It smells quite nice.”

“The secret is hand soap,” Wriothesley explained. “Would you like to try?” He offered Neuvillette the wand attached to the cap. Pointing at the ring, he instructed, “Blow gently.”

Neuvillette followed his guidance, and slowly a soap bubble formed, shimmering in the light before floating away on the breeze.

"Look, Wriothesley! It’s so big!" Neuvillette's eyes sparkled with delight. He bounced on his toes, reaching up to graze the iridescent surface. As his fingertip made contact, the bubble burst with a soft pop, releasing a sweet, fruity aroma that lingered in the air.

The two alternated, each taking a turn to blow bubbles. Neuvillette's eyes sparkled with childlike delight as he released a flurry of tiny bubbles in one breath, his giggles filling the air like tinkling bells. When Wriothesley carefully blew a second bubble into the first, creating a larger, shimmering orb, Neuvillette clapped enthusiastically, his hands making soft, rhythmic sounds. The sweet scent of soap mingled with the crisp outdoor air as they continued until the tube was empty and their laughter lingered like an echo.

"I'm glad you're having fun," Wriothesley remarked, watching Neuvillette's eyes light up with joy.

"Thank you for letting me play with it," Neuvillette said, nodding in gratitude as he extended the toy back to Wriothesley.

To his surprise, Wriothesley placed his hands over Neuvillette's, gently pushing the toy back toward him. "Your Highness, it's yours. I brought it just for you."

"For me?" Neuvillette's voice wavered with astonishment.

Wriothesley nodded. "Yes."

"But I never asked you to find it for me." Not that Neuvillette even knew what it was had Wriothesley didn’t show it first. His Majesty said toys were beneath a crown prince and he shouldn’t waste his time playing with meaningless objects so he never had a toy before.

“You don’t need to, when I saw it, I thought you’d like it.” Wriothesley said. “That’s what people do. Even when you don’t actively search, when you care about someone, you just know something will make them happy when you see it.”

Neuvillette gazed at the small toy cradled in his hands, its cool surface smooth against his fingertips. He brought it close to his chest, feeling a warmth spread through him. "I am very happy indeed," he murmured, his voice almost a whisper. "I will treasure this gift, Wriothesley. Thank you."

Chapter Text

Neuvillette left the King’s office, shoulders slumped and a frown etched deep on his face, showing his disappointment. Wriothesley waited patiently, the lines of concern evident on his brow, until the door had clicked shut behind the Prince Consort. With a sigh, he reached for a box of tissues, their crisp sound filling the room as he began dabbing at the tea spill that stained his desk. Did Neuvillette not even notice when he put the box on the desk?

Once the desk was tidied up, Wriothesley slid open a drawer, the smooth wood cool to his touch, and retrieved the gift Neuvillette had presented him with earlier. Holding it delicately in his hands, he inspected it closely, noting every detail with a slight furrow of his brow. The box appeared dry on the outside, a relief washing over him - whatever was inside seemed to have been spared from the tea mishap.

His eyes flickered back to the closed door through which Neuvillette had departed moments ago. Then, carefully setting the gift aside, Wriothesley's gaze softened as he pondered over what had transpired. The mix of emotions swirling within him mirrored in his expression - a blend of confusion, concern, and a tinge of empathy for Neuvillette's obvious distress. The kind of distress that Wriothesley, of all people, deliberately caused.

He pushed the box across the table until it was right in front of him again, his hand hovering over it, as if unsure whether to open it. Receiving a gift from Neuvillette like this stirred conflicting emotions in Wriothesley. On one hand, it was superficial - a mere gesture to maintain their facade of a marriage, one that Neuvillette shouldn’t have bothered to do because there was no one present to fool but himself. On the other hand, he couldn't shake the sense that he didn't deserve such kindness from him.

With a hesitant tug, Wriothesley finally revealed its contents: a solitary fountain pen adorned with a striking wolf engraving. A fleeting smile crossed his lips at the sight, quickly overshadowed by his self-doubt; he had to remind himself that there was nothing significant about this gift. No hidden meaning. He turned it in his hand, feeling the cool metal against his skin, and as he twirled the pen absently, a mix of emotions played across Wriothesley's face - gratitude tinged with guilt, curiosity laced with skepticism. His eyes betrayed a hint of vulnerability, unsure how to reconcile his conflicting feelings towards Neuvillette's gift.

Deep down, he probably knew there was more to the prince’s gesture than met the eye, but he couldn't bring himself to believe he deserved it.

But still, he decided to use the pen, telling himself that regardless the meaning behind it, it was stilll a functional item that would’ve wasted away if not used for its intended purpose.

Lost in his work, Wriothesley toiled on into the late hours of the night, oblivious to the rhythmic ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner. It wasn't until an unexpected knock disrupted the silence, coinciding with the faint glow of dawn on the horizon, that he paused in his efforts. The interruption brought an involuntary twitch to his brow and a subtle tension to his shoulders, but he allowed the person to enter his office regardless.

Chevreuse was very early, which definitely meant she also had spent the entire night working. Her report consisted on two completely different major points: one, she was objectively positive that the most dangerous thing Prince Neuvillette could’ve faced outside of Palais Mermonia was falling for marketing scam; and two, they had identified several people who were allegedly planning to get rid of Wriothesley, though their activity immediately ceased after they saw him talking to Dougier.

Wriothesley’s theory was confirmed. Though he couldn't pinpoint exactly who was involved, one fact stood clear: the previous monarchs and their privy council evaded justice by using their vassal houses, ensuring their crimes left no lawful trace. The unease among these vassals was palpable; spared from execution, they lived under the constant shadow of potential arrest and trial. The air around them crackled with tension, every whisper a reminder of their precarious position. To dethrone Wriothesley and install an ignorant puppet would prolong their freedom, allowing them to escape the looming consequences of their connivance for as long as possible.

“Thank you.” Wriothesley said. “You don’t have to deal with these people.”

“Yet.” Chevreuse added, and Wriothesley only responded with a brief smile. She continued. “By the way, that journalist from The Steambird is still asking for you.”

“Oh? Quite a fierce one, isn’t she?”

“Why won’t you give her the interview? Is it because you don’t want to talk about your marriage or something?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

Chevreuse shrugged, “If one didn’t want to talk about themselves, it usually had something to do with their personal relationship.” She said, though, she added, tilting her head, “Unless I was mistaken and Your Majesty have something more complicated that cannot be talked about.”

The king's chuckle rippled through the room, a dangerous edge to his amusement. He reached into the chaotic stacks on his desk, extracting a thin file emblazoned with The Steambird logo, and handed it to Chevreuse.

Chevreuse scanned the document, eyes narrowing at the letter from Charlotte, the journalist. Her list of questions for Wriothesley danced across the page, none touching on his marriage. Yet, a deeper concern etched itself into Chevreuse’s furrowed brow. "Is she courting death?" she muttered, voice tinged with incredulity.

“If her editor finds out, maybe. But it won’t be because of me.” Wriothesley shrugged. “And I’ll give her the interview. These are good questions. Assuming she can find me, that is.”

“So we’re circling back into me pulling her as far away as possible from you, who never leave Palais Mermonia.” If it was offensive to roll her eyes in front of the king, the least she could do was responding with sarcasm. Which, apparently, the king did not take personally.

“You’re not one to joke around with, huh?”

“I’m on the clock.”

“Then why do you keep humouring me?”

Chevreuse was silent. The ‘you’ in this question, she presumed, was not just her.

Before Wriothesley handed her an entirely new unit to manage under his rule, Chevreuse was stationed on the wing where the previous Queen resided. She was a woman, who was short and honestly looking quite frail, and with questionable past that wasn’t even her fault but her father’s series of bad choices in life. It was impossible to thrive in an environment where your legacy was the most, and only interesting thing about you, and her father had destroyed every bit of reputation he could’ve held on to. No one expected anything from her which gave her plenty of time to survey the life within Palais Mermonia.

But also, she could see that neither the Queen and by proxy, the Prince were expected to do anything. Everyone who served them knew, but no one could’ve done anything about it except to make their masters’ lives slightly more bearable. Until—

“Your Majesty do realize that nobody in this palace believes in your marriage with the Prince, right?” Chevreuse finally said. “And the only reason we play along and act like we are swayed by your facade is because Prince Neuvillette thinks as long as he can fool everyone, you won’t harm him.”

“Well, I’m not blind to the fact that I’m not exactly everyone’s cup of tea,” Wriothesley replied coolly. “Everyone hates me.”

“Well, not everyone, ironically.” Chevreuse muttered, avoiding eye contact. But before Wriothesley could ask her anything about it, she added, “If I may explain myself; I am a big fan of detective novels, Your Majesty.”

“Oh? And?”

“And I am able… to suspend my disbelief. If fiction makes a good story. Does that answer satisfy you?” Chevreuse’s voice held a steady calm, but within her, a tempest brewed.

“Very much, yes.” Wriothesley nodded. “Thank you.”

Wriothesley sounded so genuine that it made Chevreuse wanted nothing but to leave this office immediately. But of course, not fast enough before Wriothesley could tease her one last time.

“You’re actually a romantic person, aren’t you, captain?”

“If there’s nothing else you need from me, I shall return to my duty, Your Majesty.”

It was fully morning when Chevreuse exited the office and Wriothesley reclined into his chair, shutting his weary eyes and exhaling his remaining years away in a long, drawn-out sigh.

Fiction, huh? He contemplated what Chevreuse declared. So, even they didn’t believe Wriothesley fit in the opulent Palais Mermonia and hoped this was merely a fleeting predicament they had to endure.

But that was fortuitous, Wriothesley mulled. At least their mindset was righteous, knowing who truly belonged here. Who should have wielded the power, their rightful master, Neuvillette.

Wriothesley supposed he ought to thank them for complying, but he also knew the charade had an expiration, so he had to hasten his mission and return the crown to Neuvillette.

And for his own departure... Wriothesley eyed the pen he had been scribbling with all night and despite his smile, he appeared pitiably melancholy, if only someone could see his anguish in this moment. Leaving Neuvillette was something he was helpless to do alone. Couldn't pretend even at gunpoint.

How he’d leave Palais Mermonia would be up to Neuvillette’s mercy. But in order to do that, Wriothesley had to continue handing the power back to Neuvillette, little by little, until Neuvillette held everything in his grasp and Wriothesley was left with nothing.

Chapter Text

Neuvillette sat at the desk that dominated the center of his office, the soft glow of morning light filtering through the tall, stained-glass windows behind him. The room exuded peace and order; shelves lined with meticulously arranged legal tomes hugged the walls, while a polished brass clock ticked away in the background, marking each passing second with unyielding precision. His pen rested in its holder, poised for use, though his thoughts were far from the documents sprawled before him. He adjusted the cuffs of his tailored coat—a habit that betrayed his anticipation—before glancing at the empty chair nearest to the door. One staff member was missing.

The faint echo of hurried footsteps reverberated down the marble corridor outside, growing louder with each passing moment until, with a sharp creak, the heavy oak door swung open. Jacquetta stumbled in, her usually composed demeanor shattered. Her hair was slightly askew, a few auburn strands escaping her neat braid, and her chest heaved as though she’d sprinted the entire length of the palace. She clutched a crumpled note tightly in her hand, its once-pristine parchment now wrinkled and smudged from her grip. Her cheeks were pale, yet her eyes burned with urgency.

“Jacquetta,” Neuvillette began, his voice calm but laced with curiosity as he rose slightly from his chair. “What is the matter?”

Jacquetta closed the door with her free hand, leaning against it for a brief moment to catch her breath. "Your Highness," she began, her voice uneven and strained. “This just arrived…from the King’s office.” She stepped forward quickly and extended the note toward him.

Neuvillette’s expression shifted almost imperceptibly—a flicker of unease washing over his otherwise stoic features. He accepted the note without a word, his gaze immediately drawn to the unmistakable handwriting. As expected, the words on the page were brief yet demanding, leaving no room for interpretation. It seemed that just when Neuvillette thought he understood what Wriothesley's office demanded of him, His Majesty had thrown another unexpected curveball their way.

Jacquetta clasped her hands together tightly in front of her, her knuckles whitening under the pressure. “Your Highness’s presence is requested for the council meeting,” she said quietly, though there was a tremor in her voice. Her lips pressed into a thin line before she continued hesitantly. “It is…well…right now.”

The words hung in the air like a thundercloud about to break. Neuvillette lowered the note slowly, the faint crease of concern deepening between his brows. He inhaled deeply through his nose, forcing himself to remain composed as his mind raced to interpret this unexpected summons. Some unpleasant memories of similar event flashed through his mind though he tried not to pay attention to it. He didn’t think he’d done anything that would’ve upset Wriothesley yet, so maybe His Majesty simply wanted him to come to the council meeting this time. Maybe it was as simple as that.

Well, even if Neuvillette were wrong… he’d be able to take it again.

“I see,” Neuvillette said finally, his tone measured but carrying a subtle edge of gravity that did not escape Jacquetta’s notice. He folded the note crisply and placed it on the desk beside him. Though his movements were deliberate, there was an underlying swiftness to them—a sense of urgency he could not entirely mask.

“And yet no explanation was offered?” His voice was calm still, but there was an unmistakable sharpness beneath it now.

Jacquetta shook her head again, biting her lower lip nervously before speaking. “No explanation…only this note.” Her gaze dropped momentarily to where it rested on his desk before flickering back up to meet his piercing eyes. “Do you think something has happened?”

Neuvillette exhaled slowly as he turned his gaze toward one of the tall windows overlooking the palace gardens below. The sunlight glinted off his white hair, casting soft shadows across his face as he pondered her question. “It is difficult to say,” he admitted after a long pause, his tone contemplative but resolute. “But I must accept it, nonetheless.”

He turned back toward Jacquetta and allowed a small, reassuring smile to touch his lips—though it did little to soften the intensity in his eyes. “Thank you for bringing this to me so promptly,” he said sincerely.

“Of course, Your Highness.” Jacquetta straightened at his words, some of the tension easing from her shoulders as she nodded firmly. “And again, I apologize…”

Neuvillette looked down at the note again and then back up at Jacquetta and the other staff. He sighed and shook his head. "It is not your fault," he said reassuringly. "Please inform the other council members that I will be there momentarily."

Gathering his composure, Neuvillette grabbed a pen and notebook from his desk. He didn't exactly know what he needed to bring to the meeting, but it couldn't hurt to be prepared. As he left the room, he heard Jacquetta apologizing profusely for not being aware of his summons earlier, but someone else said, “You don’t have to hurry, Your Highness. They have to wait for you anyway.” Isadora chimed in as Neuvillette headed towards the door, Roialte followed right behind him, heels clicking against the marble floor in perfect rhythm with his steps.

“Yes, but I cannot come later than His Majesty, can I?”

Neuvillette thought he was fine—calm, composed—until his boots carried him to the grand double doors of the meeting hall. The sight of them alone, massive and imposing, carved from dark oak and inlaid with silver filigree that shimmered faintly, sent an involuntary shiver up his spine. He froze mid-step, his breath catching in his throat as a chill swept over him. His hand gripped the edge of his vest, knuckles whitening, and cold sweat began to bead along his temple. It wasn’t fear—not fear of the council members or even the King himself, no. It was something deeper, more insidious. A memory, sharp and unbidden, clawed its way to the surface—a younger version of himself standing in this very spot, trembling not from the cold but from helplessness.

The air around him seemed heavier now, pressing on his chest as if the weight of those past moments lingered still, ghostly and unwelcome. His fingers twitched slightly before he raised one hand, motioning for the aides trailing behind him to pause. “Just… give me a moment,” he murmured, voice softer than usual, almost too soft for anyone to catch over the distant murmurs drifting from inside the hall.

He clenched his jaw tightly, forcing himself to draw a deep breath. You’ll be fine, he told himself firmly.

You’ve faced worse than this.

And yet, the pit in his stomach refused to ease. He straightened his back with an almost defiant rigidity and adjusted his collar as though tightening it could somehow fortify his resolve.

You can take it, he repeated silently. You’ve always taken it.

The guards stationed at the door glanced at him briefly before exchanging a knowing look. They said nothing as they stepped forward in unison, their polished armor clinking faintly with every movement. “His Excellency, Neuvillette,” one of them announced loudly as they pushed open the heavy doors with a slow creak that reverberated like thunder in Neuvillette’s ears.

As soon as the hall came into view, every head turned toward him. The councilmen and women seated at the long table rose almost simultaneously, their chairs scraping softly against the marble floor as they bowed deeply in respect. The air buzzed with formality—too stiff, too perfect—and for a moment, Neuvillette felt oddly out of place amidst it all. He stood framed by the doorway, blinking at the sea of expectant faces before him. The juxtaposition was striking: their deference now versus the harshness he remembered from years past when the people occupying their seats barely spared him a glance beyond cold scrutiny.

“Please,” Neuvillette said after a beat of silence, his voice steady but laced with a faint awkwardness he couldn’t quite mask. “Make yourselves comfortable.” He gestured lightly with his gloved hand as they moved to retake their seats. The words echoed strangely in his own mind—foreign and unfamiliar—as if they didn’t quite belong to him.

Did that sound odd? he wondered fleetingly. Do they think I’m being insincere?

He crossed the room with measured steps, his boots clicking softly against the gleaming marble floor until he reached his designated seat at the far edge of the right side of the table. His place was marked by an elegantly carved chair upholstered in deep navy velvet—a seat reserved for someone who would sit closest to the King upon his arrival. Neuvillette lowered himself slowly onto it, careful not to meet anyone’s gaze for too long lest they catch even a flicker of unease in his expression.

His eyes drifted toward the ornate throne-like chair at the head of the table—the King’s seat—still empty but looming large nonetheless. He forced himself to look away quickly before any unwanted thoughts could take root.

“Your Highness,” a voice to his left interrupted his spiraling thoughts gently but firmly. He turned to find himself face-to-face with an old Duke whose kind eyes crinkled at the corners as he offered a small smile. His hair was silvered with age, but there was a warmth about him that seemed untouched by time.

“Ah,” Neuvillette managed after a brief pause, inclining his head politely. “Your Grace.”

The Duke chuckled lightly as though finding humor in Neuvillette’s formality. “No need for such stiffness between us,” he said amiably. “We’ll be spending quite some time together in this room—I imagine we’d both prefer to make it bearable.”

Neuvillette allowed himself a faint smile—more out of courtesy than genuine amusement—he knew Wriothesley wouldn’t want him here too often but he appreciated the words nonetheless.

“You seem tense,” the Duke observed mildly after a moment’s pause.

Neuvillette hesitated before replying carefully, “It is… difficult not to be in this setting.”

“Ah,” the Duke said again, nodding knowingly as though he’d heard this sentiment countless times before. “Yes, well… that man has that effect on people.” He leaned back slightly in his chair and folded his hands over his cane. “But let me assure you—no one here wishes you ill.”

Neuvillette tilted his head slightly at that, unsure whether to believe him or not.

“Oh, don’t misunderstand me,” the Duke continued with a wry grin. “It’s not that they’re paragons of virtue or anything so noble—they’re simply far too preoccupied with not saying something foolish in front of His Majesty.”

At that, Neuvillette blinked in surprise. “Do you mean… they fear being reprimanded?”

“Reprimanded?” The Duke laughed softly under his breath and shook his head. “No, no—it’s not quite so dramatic as all that.” He leaned in conspiratorially and added with a mischievous glint in his eye.

Neuvillette frowned slightly at first but found himself relaxing despite himself as the Duke’s easy humor began to chip away at his tension. “And you don’t mind?” Neuvillette asked curiously after a moment.

“Mind?” The Duke raised an eyebrow before breaking into another chuckle. “My dear—I’ve been a Duke longer than most here have been alive! If I worried about every little thing His Majesty might say…” He trailed off with an exaggerated shrug that prompted Neuvillette’s lips to twitch upward involuntarily.

Before their conversation could continue further, however, the Duke reached into his pocket and pulled out something small—a glasses case worn smooth from years of use. He opened it carefully and turned it toward Neuvillette. Inside was a tiny photograph tucked neatly beneath the rim—a black-and-white portrait of a young girl with wide eyes and an impish grin.

“My granddaughter,” he explained proudly without waiting for Neuvillette to ask. “Brightest star in my sky.”

Neuvillette studied the picture for a moment before nodding quietly—though he said nothing aloud; inwardly he marveled at how such simple gestures could carry so much meaning.

The sound of armored footsteps approaching broke through their exchange then; both turned toward the door just as one of the guards announced loudly:

“His Majesty approaches!”

Wriothesley entered the meeting hall with the kind of energy that suggested he’d rather be anywhere else. His long strides echoed sharply against the polished marble floors, his boots clicking with a steady rhythm that demanded attention but also hinted at impatience. The council members seated around the grand oak table exchanged glances, their movement hesitant as they began to rise in deference. His tie hung slightly askew, the knot loose as though hastily thrown together moments before entering; his shirt collar was wrinkled, betraying little care for appearances this morning. As he ran a hand through his dark hair—seemingly an attempt to tame it—it only added to the disheveled aura he carried.

“Sit down,” he ordered sharply, his voice cutting through the air like a blade before anyone had fully stood. The room froze for a beat before everyone sank back into their chairs, murmurs of greeting dying on their lips. Courtesy was clearly not a priority for Wriothesley today. He didn’t spare anyone a glance, his sharp eyes fixed on the stack of documents laid out before him. Even from across the room, Neuvillette could see the slight crease between his brows and the faint shadow under his eyes—a telltale sign of someone who had either skipped sleep altogether or barely managed an hour or two. There was an edge to him this morning, a restless tension that suggested he’d been dragged from more pressing concerns—or perhaps even from a rare moment of rest.

The King wasted no time with pleasantries or small talk. “Let’s get started,” he said in a clipped tone, flipping open one of the documents in front of him. His voice was low and steady, commanding without effort, yet there was an unmistakable hint of irritation beneath it. One by one, he began calling names, each council member rising in turn to present issues or proposals that had made their way to the King’s desk. His focus was razor-sharp as he listened, his piercing gaze scanning each speaker with an intensity that left no room for embellishment or unnecessary detail.

Neuvillette settled quietly into his seat, his pen poised over an open notebook. At first, he felt out of place among Wriothesley’s trusted inner council—a circle that seemed accustomed to the King’s brusque demeanor and unrelenting pace. Yet as the meeting progressed, he found himself oddly fascinated by the dynamic in the room.

Wriothesley’s relationship with these men and women was unorthodox at best—cold and distant yet undeniably professional. He didn’t coddle them with kind words or gestures of camaraderie; he pushed them forward with sheer force of will—and they responded in kind, presenting their reports with precision and efficiency. For all his gruffness, Wriothesley commanded respect effortlessly. It was clear that every person in this room trusted him—not because he was warm or personable but because he got things done.

Hours passed in what felt like minutes as Neuvillette scribbled notes furiously, trying to keep up with the rapid pace of discussion. He barely noticed when Wriothesley gestured toward a nobleman seated closest to the door—a subtle signal that nevertheless carried weight.

“Summon Earl Vassegnes now,” Wriothesley instructed curtly.

The nobleman nodded immediately and exited the room without hesitation. Moments later, another figure entered—a man in his mid-thirties dressed in a simple yet well-worn suit. His briefcase appeared battered from years of use, its leather edges frayed and faded. The Earl bowed deeply first to Neuvillette and then to Wriothesley, his movements stiff with nervous energy.

“Thank you for this opportunity, Your Majesty,” Earl Vassegnes began earnestly. “It has been very difficult for us to gain an audience on this matter.”

Wriothesley leaned back slightly in his chair, his eyes narrowing as if assessing both the man and his words in equal measure. “Enough preamble,” he said bluntly. “Explain the situation in Petrichor.”

The Earl hesitated for only a fraction of a second before launching into his report. As he spoke, his voice wavered slightly—not out of incompetence but from sheer exhaustion and frustration. “Petrichor has suffered greatly,” he began, clutching the worn handle of his briefcase as though it were a lifeline. “Two unidentified ships passed near our waters recently—both carrying oil shipments. One of them appeared to have been abandoned altogether after sustaining damage. The crew escaped aboard the second ship before we could intercept them.”

Wriothesley’s fingers drummed lightly against the armrest of his chair as he listened, his expression unreadable but undeniably sharp.

“The spill has devastated our coastline,” Vassegnes continued, his voice growing more strained. “Our fishing industry is at a standstill; our waters are polluted beyond recognition; many buildings were destroyed. What little resources we have are stretched thin just trying to contain it—but without proper vessels or manpower…”

“And what about identifying these ships?” one council member interjected impatiently—a wiry man with spectacles perched low on his nose.

Vassegnes shook his head apologetically. “We’ve tried; believe me—but they could not help us narrowing down to anything.” He sighed heavily, shoulders slumping under some invisible weight.

Neuvillette watched as Wriothesley’s jaw tightened ever so slightly—a subtle but telling sign that this news did not sit well with him.

“It’s already been passed to Marachausée Phantom for further investigation,” Wriothesley stated firmly after a moment’s pause. His voice carried no doubt or hesitation—it was less an assurance and more an unspoken command that this matter would be resolved swiftly. Turning back to Vassegnes, he added, “They may require your cooperation moving forward—any witnesses you can provide will need to be made available.”

The Earl nodded quickly—perhaps too quickly—as though terrified of appearing anything less than compliant. “Of course, Your Majesty,” he stammered.

The discussion continued on the ongoing investigations into the spill. One of the council members added that the reason it was difficult to identify the ship was because there were some errors with the identifications, and it brought up even bigger issue because apparently several vassals were registered under multiple names, making it difficult to cross checking between offices to figure out who was the real owner. Neuvillette now understood why Earl Vassegnes were here today—for him it was a matter of what would happen to Petrichor, but for everyone in this room, it was a major lead for something more dire.

But then again, how was that even allowed to begin with? From the look of it, it wasn’t a once or twice errors but an occurrence.

“About Petrichor itself,” a voice broke through the low hum of the council chamber. It belonged to a woman seated midway on the left side of the table—a figure of undeniable sophistication. “You have been importing building materials from Liyue, correct?” Her sharp eyes scanned the Earl of Petrichor. “Wouldn’t that be… quite expensive?”

A hint of unease flickered across the Earl’s face. He hesitated before replying, his words careful and measured. “We cannot source materials from the mainland, my Lady. The conditions there—” He paused, his brow furrowing as though searching for a way to phrase it delicately. “—are less than ideal.”

Another council member chimed in, this time a weary-looking man with streaks of gray in his otherwise dark hair. He sighed audibly, his expression that of someone burdened by too many sleepless nights. “Logistically speaking,” he began, drawing out each syllable with a kind of resigned frustration, “it’s impossible to maintain the budget by ordering from Fontaine either. The terrain alone would delay deliveries by weeks, if not months before the materials are ready at the harbor.”

The woman who had spoken first leaned back in her chair, her expression unreadable as she processed the information. It was then that the Duke seated beside Neuvillette cleared his throat—a rich, gravelly sound that commanded attention without effort. “You know,” he began, his voice steady but laced with intent, “Viscount Rocherel has an established branch of his trade in Liyue. He could prove… useful.”

For a moment, the room descended into an uneasy silence. Neuvillette observed how every pair of eyes flicked toward Wriothesley, who remained uncharacteristically quiet, his fingers tapping idly against the polished wood of the table.

Finally breaking the quiet tension, Wriothesley leaned forward slightly in his seat. His icy-blue gaze locked onto the Earl like a predator sizing up its prey; not with malice but rather an unyielding determination. “How many able-bodied men do you have in Petrichor?” he asked abruptly.

The Earl blinked at the sudden question but straightened himself before answering. “Roughly three hundred, Your Majesty.”

Wriothesley nodded once, as though confirming something to himself. “Then here’s what you’ll do.” His voice was calm but carried an underlying authority that brooked no argument. “You’ll return to Petrichor immediately and arrange a meeting with Viscount Rocherel. I trust you’ll be able to negotiate terms that work for both parties.”

The Earl’s hands fidgeted slightly on the table’s edge before he mustered enough courage to reply. “Is that so?” he said cautiously. “But I do not know the man personally, Your Majesty.”

Wriothesley dismissed his concern with a casual wave of his hand—not out of disrespect but rather confidence in his own judgment. “Don’t worry about that,” he said firmly. “I’m sure he’ll be inclined to help if you approach him properly.” His voice softened just slightly as he added, “And besides, I’ll ensure that Fontaine Research Center sends their best people to Petrichor to investigate this oil spill. They’ll handle the damage accordingly.”

A murmur rippled through the room—a blend of curiosity and approval. Though no one openly objected to Wriothesley’s decision, Neuvillette could sense an undercurrent of skepticism among some council members. Still, their expressions remained carefully neutral as they exchanged brief glances.

“What do you think?” Wriothesley’s question cut through Neuvillette’s observations like a blade through water.

For a heartbeat too long, Neuvillette heard nothing but the deafening rush of blood in his ears. Panic clawed at his chest as he realized that every gaze in the room was now fixed squarely on him. He turned toward Wriothesley instinctively and found the King watching him—not impatiently or dismissively but with an intensity that demanded clarity.

“I…” Neuvillette began softly before clearing his throat and shaking his head slightly to refocus himself. This meeting had gone so well thus far, he could not afford to falter now. “I have no objections, Your Majesty,” he managed at last, bowing his head slightly in deference.

But as he lowered his gaze again to his open notebook—a pristine page marred only by a few scattered notes—an idea began to take root in his mind. The longer he stared at it, the more it grew until it became impossible to ignore.

Perhaps… he thought hesitantly, perhaps I should speak up for once. If only so that when people left this room later today, they wouldn’t dismiss him as some passive observer—a mere ornament at these proceedings.

Swallowing hard against the lump forming in his throat, Neuvillette raised his head once more and spoke again—this time louder than before: “But—”

The single word was enough to draw every eye back to him like moths drawn to flame. Were they this attentive of his presence?

“…Since this incident has not been formally investigated until now,” Neuvillette continued haltingly but gaining momentum with each passing second, “would it not be prudent to send someone from Palais Mermonia to Petrichor as well? Not because I doubt Earl Vassegnes’ integrity,” he added quickly, glancing nervously at the Earl seated across from him, “but because having additional oversight may ensure greater efficiency in addressing such a widespread issue.”

His words hung in the air like fragile crystal—delicate yet undeniably resonant. Then, the old Duke clapped one large hand against the table with surprising enthusiasm and chuckled warmly. “An excellent suggestion!” he declared, turning toward Neuvillette with an approving grin that crinkled the corners of his eyes. “Having someone from Palais Mermonia involved will certainly ‘boost things up,’ especially since we’ll already have external parties coming into play.” He inclined his head slightly toward Neuvillette and added with genuine warmth: “Isn’t that correct… Your Highness?”

Neuvillette couldn’t help but smile faintly at the Duke’s words—a small yet genuine tug at the corners of his lips. He nodded once in agreement. Meanwhile Wriothesley leaned back in his chair then, arms crossed loosely over his chest as he regarded Neuvillette thoughtfully for a moment before speaking again.

“That works,” Wriothesley said at last. “If there are any urgent matters requiring my attention,” he added lightly but purposefully, “I trust they’ll find their way to my desk without delay.”

The murmurs that followed this exchange were different now—less skeptical and more approving in tone—though still subdued enough not to disrupt decorum.

As Neuvillette sat back quietly once more amidst this newly energized atmosphere within the hall walls… he allowed himself one small moment of satisfaction: Perhaps he wasn’t entirely useless after all.

“You should go to Petrichor,” Wriothesley said, his voice firm but not unkind. The weight of authority carried naturally in his tone, even when softened by the casual way he leaned back in his chair. He gestured vaguely with one hand, as though the issue were already settled. “That was your idea anyway.”

Papers were scattered haphazardly across the desk as usual, his ice-blue eyes, sharp and discerning, flicked up from the document he’d been reading to fix on Neuvillette with an expression that hovered somewhere between exasperation and expectation.

Neuvillette stood stiffly just inside the King’s office, his posture ramrod straight as though every muscle in his body had been locked into place by unseen chains. He didn’t move, didn’t dare to shift even an inch, as though any sign of restlessness might betray his unease even further. His hands, clasped tightly behind his back, betrayed a tension he was trying—and failing—to suppress. The leather of his gloves creaked faintly under the pressure of his grip, and he focused on that sound, willing himself to find some semblance of calm. His face remained carefully neutral—or at least he hoped it did—though the faint downturn of his lips and the slight furrow between his brows hinted at the storm roiling beneath the surface.

He replayed the events of the meeting in his mind like a reel stuck on loop, searching for the precise moment where things had gone awry. He had felt good about himself when it ended—a rare occurrence. For once, he had spoken with confidence, his words flowing with a certainty that surprised even him. Several council members had approached him afterward, their faces alight with approval.

“You made today’s meeting better,” one of them had said, clasping his shoulder warmly.

At the time, their words had bolstered him, filling him with a cautious optimism he hadn’t felt in months. But now… now that optimism felt misplaced. What had they meant by “better”? And why did it now sound like a veiled warning rather than genuine praise? He shifted his weight ever so slightly, shoulders tightening as doubt crept in like an unwelcome guest.

What did I say? Neuvillette thought desperately, raking through every word he’d uttered during the meeting. He had tried to stay measured, careful not to overstep, but there was always that chance—always—that he had let something slip, something too bold or too unguarded. Now he stood here, awaiting judgment like a schoolboy called to account before a strict headmaster.

“I understand,” Neuvillette said finally, though his words carried little conviction. His voice was quiet, measured, but there was a tightness to it that hinted at the reluctance he wasn’t quite able to hide.

Wriothesley sighed heavily, leaning forward to rest his forearms on the desk. The chair creaked slightly under his weight as he gave Neuvillette a long, appraising look. “Don’t look like I just forced you to go somewhere horrible,” he said, his tone laced with mild irritation but lacking real bite. “Petrichor is quite nice. There are some good places there.”

He paused for a moment, as though giving Neuvillette time to process this. When no response came, Wriothesley pressed on, more insistent now. “You know,” he added, gesturing vaguely again with one hand as if trying to conjure up an image of the place for him, “little cafes tucked into cobblestone streets, shops with those ridiculous handmade trinkets you seem to like. You’d probably enjoy them more than you’re letting on.”

Neuvillette’s lips twitched faintly at that, though whether it was the beginnings of a smile or simply a reflexive reaction remained unclear. He lowered his gaze to the floor, studying the intricate patterns of the rug beneath his feet as if they held some great secret.

“It’s still not a holiday,” Wriothesley continued after another beat of silence, leaning back in his chair once more. He stretched out his legs, crossing them casually at the ankles as he regarded Neuvillette with what might have been amusement if he weren’t so tired. “Public engagements are technically still your job.”

“I’m aware,” Neuvillette replied, finally lifting his gaze to meet Wriothesley’s. His pale violet eyes were steady now, though there was a flicker of something unreadable in their depths—resignation? Frustration? Perhaps even gratitude? It was hard to say.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The quiet hum of the city outside filled the space between them, muffled by thick stone walls and heavy curtains. Somewhere in the distance, a clock chimed softly, marking the passage of another hour.

Wriothesley broke the silence first, his voice softer this time but no less firm.

"Look," Wriothesley began. His tone was calm, almost conversational, but there was an unmistakable undertone of command beneath it. "I’m not sending you there just for the sake of it." His words hung in the air for a moment, deliberate and sharp as a blade being drawn from its sheath. "Someone needs to handle things with diplomacy."

There was no mistaking the subtle shift in his demeanor then; his shoulders straightened, and his gaze sharpened like a hawk sighting its prey. The casual air he had tried to maintain gave way to something more pointed, more exacting. His brow furrowed ever so slightly as he added with a dry, almost biting note of humor, "And someone who won’t put their foot in their mouth like certain other nobles I could name."

The corner of his mouth twitched upward, a flicker of wry amusement breaking through his otherwise composed expression. It was the kind of smile that revealed more than it concealed—a private jest that carried more weight than the words themselves. There was no need to name names; Neuvillette didn’t need to know which nobles he referred to.

Someone who could handle things with diplomacy, Wriothesley had said. The phrase lingered in Neuvillette’s thoughts like an echo in a cavern, reverberating with unspoken implications.

If there was one thing Neuvillette had gleaned from today’s meeting—a long affair with thinly disguised ambitions—it was this: no one fit that description better than Wriothesley himself. The king’s presence dominated every room he entered, not through force or bluster but through an unshakable confidence and an innate ability to read people like open books. He had personally delegated tasks to each individual with precision, addressing their strengths and weaknesses without ever making it seem like criticism. Even now, hours after the meeting had concluded, he remained at work, ensuring that none of his orders were misunderstood or misinterpreted.

Neuvillette’s gaze drifted momentarily toward the stacks of parchment scattered across the desk—letters sealed with wax bearing various crests, maps marked with careful notations in ink, and reports written in a dozen different hands. Each document represented another thread in the intricate web Wriothesley was weaving to keep Fontaine running smoothly amidst growing tensions. And yet…

“And yet,” Neuvillette finally spoke, his voice soft but steady as he met Wriothesley’s gaze directly. “Your Majesty did everything.”

The words were simple, almost understated, but they carried a quiet conviction that could not be ignored. There was no trace of flattery in his tone—only a matter-of-fact acknowledgment of what was plain to see. It wasn’t just that Wriothesley had taken charge; it was that he had done so with a grace and efficiency that left little room for error.

Wriothesley let out a short laugh—not mocking or dismissive, but tinged with something closer to exasperation. He leaned back in his chair then, resting his elbows on the armrests as he regarded Neuvillette with an expression caught somewhere between amusement and resignation.

“Exactly,” he replied after a beat, his voice carrying a weary sort of candor that only someone in his position could fully understand. “So I don’t have time to do it myself.”

The journey from the Court of Fontaine to Petrichor was not a long one, but for Neuvillette, it felt like the beginning of an entirely new chapter in his life. The air was charged with a strange, electric anticipation, a buzz that seemed to hum through his very bones as he stood on the tarmac, staring up at the sleek silhouette of the Antoine Roger Aircraft. Its polished metal gleamed under the morning sun, reflecting streaks of gold and silver like ripples on a calm sea. Though he’d read about flying countless times in books—each account painting it as either a marvel of human ingenuity or an act of reckless defiance against gravity—this was his first time experiencing it firsthand. And now, standing here, he couldn’t suppress the grin that tugged at his lips.

“First time flying, Your Highness?” the pilot, a middle-aged man with a weathered face and kind eyes, asked as he adjusted his cap.

Neuvillette turned to him, his expression betraying both excitement and nervousness. “Yes,” he admitted, his voice carrying just a hint of awe. “I’ve always wondered what it would feel like to soar above the world.”

“Well,” the pilot chuckled, clapping him on the shoulder, “you’re in for quite the treat. But don’t worry—it’s like riding a ship, only in the sky. You’ll see.” With that, he gestured towards the narrow staircase leading into the aircraft. “Ready when you are, Your Highness.”

Once inside, the low hum of the engines vibrated through his seat as he adjusted himself in place. Moments later, the aircraft roared to life, surging forward with controlled power before lifting off effortlessly into the open sky. The sensation was unlike anything he had ever known—a mix of weightlessness and exhilaration that left him breathless.

As they climbed higher and higher, Neuvillette dared to look down, his white hair catching the sunlight streaming in. Below him stretched the deep blue sea: endless, vast, and impossibly alive. Its surface sparkled like shattered glass scattered across an infinite canvas, each wave folding into another with rhythmic precision. It was mesmerizing, hypnotic even—a reminder of how small humans were in comparison to nature’s grandeur.

“It’s beautiful,” he whispered to himself, though the words felt inadequate for what lay before him.

The co-pilot overheard him and smiled knowingly. “It always is,” she said from her seat at the controls. “No matter how many times I see it... it never loses its magic.”

Neuvillette nodded silently, unable to tear his gaze away from the expanse below. His mind drifted back to his childhood—long afternoons spent in dusty corner of his chamber, flipping through pages of adventure novels and travelogues. He remembered tracing maps with his fingers and imagining what it would be like to witness such sights with his own eyes. Back then, he’d thought of the sky and the sea as something eternal and untouchable—a thing of pure fantasy. Yet here it was now: real and more magnificent than even his wildest dreams.

A small smile played on his lips as he murmured under his breath, “Better than I ever imagined.”

But as they flew closer to Petrichor, that radiant blue began to shift. The once-pristine waters grew darker and murkier until they resembled thick ink rather than crystal-clear waves. At first, Neuvillette thought it might simply be a trick of the light or perhaps shadows cast by passing clouds. But then he spotted it—slick ribbons of oil floating on the surface like scars marring an otherwise perfect complexion.

He inhaled sharply as reality came crashing down around him. The beauty he had been so enamored with moments ago now seemed fragile—vulnerable to human carelessness and greed. When they finally began their descent towards Petrichor’s shorelines, Neuvillette felt an unshakable heaviness settle over him. From above, he could see patches of land stained black from spills that had seeped into them—a stark contrast to the vibrant greens and blues depicted in books he’d read as a child.

As they touched down and disembarked onto solid ground, memories of Wriothesley surfaced unbidden in Neuvillette’s mind. He recalled their last conversation vividly—the way Wriothesley’s blue eyes had fixed on him with quiet intensity. Neuvillette hadn’t pressed further at the time—he knew better than to pry when Wriothesley shut himself off like that—but now he understood what those words had truly meant. For Wriothesley, the sea wasn’t a thing of beauty; it was a cruel thief that had stolen everything from him in one fateful moment years ago.

Standing there now amidst Petrichor’s tainted shores, Neuvillette couldn’t help but wonder: Would Wriothesley have come here if asked? Or would he have turned away from this place entirely?

.

Neuvillette was only here for a day—if everything went according to plan, of course. The journey itself was not too tedious and he’d made it in good time, arriving just in time after others had arrived. His arrival had been met with polite bows and murmured greetings from the locals, their eyes wide with a mix of awe and apprehension at hosting such a distinguished guest. But there was no time for pleasantries or even a moment to savor the serene beauty of the countryside. His schedule was relentlessly packed, each hour accounted for with military precision, he owed his king that.

The first appointment on his agenda was to meet with the Earl again. Their meeting took place in the grand study of the manor, where shelves of dusty tomes stretched up to the high-vaulted ceiling. The Earl stood stiffly by the window, his hands clasped behind his back as though bracing himself for an interrogation.

“Your Highness,” the Earl said finally, his voice smooth but brittle at the edges, “I trust your journey was uneventful?”

Neuvillette inclined his head, his expression unreadable. “Uneventful, no. Though I would prefer to focus on why I am here.”

The Earl’s lips twitched into what might have been an attempt at a smile, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Of course. The affected area… it’s worse than we initially reported.”

“I will see it for myself,” Neuvillette replied simply. From there, he moved on to inspect the affected area—a long stretch of land near the coast where blackened soil met charred remains of once-thriving villages. The air was thick with the acrid stench of burnt wood and oil, a suffocating reminder of the devastation that had unfolded here. As Neuvillette walked through the wreckage, his boots crunching against brittle embers, a group of villagers approached him hesitantly.

One woman stepped forward, her hands clasped tightly together as though holding herself together by sheer force of will. Her face was streaked with soot, but her eyes burned with quiet determination. “Your Highness,” she began, her voice trembling slightly before she steadied it. “We’ve lost everything. Our homes… our livelihoods…”

Neuvillette turned to face her fully, his expression softening ever so slightly. “I understand your pain,” he said gently. “Rebuilding will take time, but I assure you that every effort is being made to restore what has been lost.”

The woman nodded, tears shining in her eyes as she bowed deeply. “Thank you… thank you for coming.”

From there, he was supposed to supervise the teams Wriothesley had sent to assist—the Marachausée Phantom conducting investigations into the ships that caused this incident, scientists from the Research Center analyzing samples from the contaminated soil and water, and contractors coordinating efforts to rebuild what had been destroyed. They were all gathered at a makeshift command center: a large tent erected amidst the ruins, bustling with activity.

He absorbed every information silently, but even as he processed everything, knowing that these people knew what they were doing, he couldn’t shake a growing sense of unease; a nagging feeling that everything was running almost too smoothly.

The teams worked like well-oiled machines, each member executing their tasks with precision and diligence. Investigators from the Marachausée Phantom combed through the wreckage of the ship that were pulled from the sea, their sharp eyes scanning for clues amidst the chaos. Scientists huddled over microscopes and test tubes, their hushed discussions punctuated by bursts of realization or frustration. Contractors barked orders to their crews as they erected scaffolding and cleared debris with mechanical precision.

As Neuvillette observed all this from a distance, arms folded across his chest, he couldn’t help but wonder: what did they even need him for? These people were competent—more than competent—and they certainly wouldn’t slack off simply because their Prince Consort wasn’t breathing down their necks.

He decided then and there to step back and let them do their jobs without his interference. Perhaps his presence only added unnecessary pressure to an already tense situation.

“Let them handle it,” he murmured to himself as he turned away from the bustling tent. And as he walked away from the command center towards a nearby beach, he felt an unfamiliar sense of peace settle over him.

The waves crashed against jagged rocks, sending up sprays of white foam that sparkled in the fading sunlight. He closed his eyes briefly and took a deep breath, letting the salty air fill his lungs.

The knock on the door was so soft, so faint, and so fleeting that for a moment, the Queen wondered if she had imagined it. The sound barely registered over the crackle of the hearth’s fire and the gentle rustling of the evening breeze through the lace curtains. She paused, setting down her pen mid-sentence, her brow furrowing in faint curiosity. It wasn’t like her attendants to approach her chambers without proper announcement, let alone with such hesitance. For a second, silence enveloped the room again, leaving her with only the rhythmic ticking of the ornate clock hanging above the mantelpiece.

But something about that delicate knock stirred her instincts. Rising from her chair with regal grace, she moved toward the heavy oak doors. Her silk gown whispered softly against the polished marble floor as she pulled open one of the doors just enough to peer into the dimly lit corridor beyond.

No one stood there—at least, not where she expected them to be. Her gaze swept left and right, finding nothing but empty hallways bathed in golden lamplight. She almost dismissed it as a trick of her imagination when a faint sound caught her attention—a muffled sob, barely audible but unmistakably real. The sound tugged at her heartstrings, and she stepped fully into the corridor.

Her eyes narrowed slightly as they scanned her surroundings more carefully. Then she saw it: a small figure crouched low behind one of the tall decorative vases flanking her chamber doors. The boy’s trembling shoulders gave him away even as he tried to stifle his cries. Her expression softened instantly.

“Neuvillette, dear?” Her voice was gentle yet firm, carrying that maternal warmth that always seemed to soothe any storm.

From behind the vase emerged a small boy, no older than ten, his white hair disheveled and his cheeks streaked with tears. He looked up at his mother with wide, watery eyes that shimmered like rain-soaked gemstones in the candlelight. His steps were hesitant as he shuffled forward, cradling his left hand close to his chest.

The Queen’s breath hitched ever so slightly as she noticed the angry red gash cutting across his delicate skin. Blood had dried around its edges, but fresh droplets still welled up from the deeper parts of the wound. Her heart clenched at the sight—it was not just the injury itself but also the sheer vulnerability etched into every line of his face.

“I am sorry, maman,” Neuvillette whispered between quiet sobs. His voice wavered as though he were trying desperately to hold himself together but failing miserably.

“Oh, my sweet boy,” she murmured, crouching down gracefully until they were eye-level. She extended her hands palm-up toward him in a silent offer of comfort and care. “May I take a look?”

Neuvillette hesitated for only a moment before placing his trembling hand onto hers. His small fingers twitched slightly at her touch, but there was trust in his gaze despite the pain clouding it.

The Queen examined his palm with practiced diligence. Although she wasn’t a healer by trade, she knew enough to recognize when something required immediate attention. “Oh, it looks quite bad,” she said softly, glancing up to gauge his reaction. “Would you like me to call Matron Sigewinne here to tend to it?”

Neuvillette shook his head slowly, his lower lip quivering as he avoided her eyes.

“No?” she pressed gently, brushing a stray lock of hair from his tear-streaked face. “Then… do you want maman to take care of it for you?”

This time, he nodded—a small but resolute movement that made her chest ache with affection and pride for his bravery despite his obvious fear.

“Very well,” she said with a reassuring smile as she rose to her feet. “Come along then.”

Taking him by his uninjured hand, she led him into her chamber with deliberate care, making sure to move at a pace that wouldn’t overwhelm him further. The room was warm and inviting, its opulent furnishings softened by touches of personal charm—a vase filled with freshly cut flowers sat atop her writing desk, their pale petals mirroring Neuvillette’s eyes in color; an embroidered blanket draped over an armchair near the hearth exuded comfort rather than grandeur.

She guided him to sit on the edge of her bed—a grand canopy bed adorned with velvet drapes—and fetched a basin of warm water along with clean bandages from a nearby cabinet. As she worked to clean the wound with gentle dabs of a damp cloth, Neuvillette flinched occasionally but did not pull away. His eyes remained fixed on her movements, as though watching her perform this simple act of care brought him some measure of solace.

“You’re such a brave boy,” she murmured as she carefully wrapped his injured hand in soft linen bandages. Her voice was soothing yet firm enough to convey how proud she was of him. Once finished, she pressed a tender kiss to his temple—a gesture so full of love that it seemed to momentarily banish all traces of fear from his features.

But as Neuvillette sat there quietly beside her, his small frame still trembling slightly despite her reassurances, she could tell that something more weighed heavily on his mind.

“Did your tutors hit you again?” she asked softly but directly, knowing better than to beat around the bush when it came to such matters.

His reaction was immediate—his body stiffened ever so slightly before he answered with a timid nod.

Her lips pressed into a thin line as anger flared briefly in her chest—not at him but at those who dared to lay a hand on her child in discipline beyond what was reasonable or justifiable. Yet she kept her composure for Neuvillette’s sake.

“Are you angry at them?” she asked after a moment’s pause.

He shook his head quickly, almost defensively.

“No?” she prompted gently.

“They are just doing their job,” he replied in a small voice filled with earnestness beyond his years. “I promise I will do better… I will get smarter so they won’t have to…”

Her heart broke anew at those words—the sheer weight he placed upon himself far exceeded what any child should bear. She cupped his cheek tenderly and looked into his eyes with unwavering love.

“You are already so diligent,” she said softly but firmly, her voice carrying the warmth of reassurance but with an undertone of quiet insistence that invited trust. She reached out, brushing a stray curl away from Neuvillette’s forehead with maternal tenderness. Her fingers lingered for a moment, a silent gesture of comfort. “And so kind-hearted too,” she continued, her eyes searching his face as though trying to coax out whatever weight he was holding back. “If there is anything else you want to talk about, maman won’t be upset.”

Neuvillette’s gaze wavered. His hands fidgeted with the hem of his tunic, twisting the fabric into small knots. His lips parted as though he might speak, but hesitation stilled him. Finally, he looked up at her, his eyes reflecting both vulnerability and resolve. “I… I asked to seek an audience with His Majesty,” he confessed, his voice barely louder than a whisper.

Her expression softened further, concern flickering in her gaze like the gentle glow of a candle. Yet she maintained an air of calm curiosity, careful not to overwhelm him. “Oh?” she prompted gently, tilting her head ever so slightly. There was no judgment in her tone—only an invitation for him to continue. “And did your father grant your request?”

“Yes…” Neuvillette’s voice faltered as he spoke, his words halting like uneven steps on a rocky path. He bit his lip and glanced down at his hands again before pressing on. “But… he got mad at me.” The admission seemed to weigh heavily on him, and his shoulders slumped under its invisible burden. “I asked if I could visit Wriothesley.”

“At Meropide?” she asked, her brows lifting in faint surprise. The name alone stirred vivid imagery in her mind: the somber cliffs of Meropide rising starkly against the restless sea, its reputation as a remote and mysterious duchy known to few beyond its borders. Even she had never been there, despite everything.

Neuvillette nodded hesitantly, still avoiding her gaze. “His Majesty rejected my request,” he explained, his voice growing quieter with each word, “and then he… said many things about Meropide, and they are not nice.” He paused, swallowing as though the memory left a bitter taste in his mouth. “The other lords were laughing too.” His small fists clenched tightly in his lap now, knuckles white against the pale fabric of his tunic. “I do not understand,” he murmured, frustration creeping into his tone. “Why did His Majesty dislike Wriothesley’s duchy?”

Her heart ached at the sight of him struggling to make sense of adult politics and prejudices that were far beyond his years. She placed a gentle hand on his shoulder, grounding him with her steady presence. “Oh, I don’t think he dislikes it,” she said carefully, choosing her words with precision as though navigating a delicate dance. “But you must understand that Meropide is quite a journey from Palais Mermonia.” Her voice carried the cadence of someone trying to explain a difficult truth without diminishing the feelings behind it. “He’s just worried that something will happen to you on your way there.”

She paused for a moment, letting her words settle before continuing. “And Meropide is rarely visited by other Fontainians,” she added thoughtfully, her tone tinged with subtle regret for the isolation such places endured. “So it is difficult to find a reliable guide had you visited that duchy.”

“But Wriothesley is from there,” Neuvillette countered earnestly, lifting his chin just slightly as if summoning courage from within.

“I know,” she replied with an encouraging smile. “And I’m sure he is reliable in many ways.” Her voice softened as she leaned closer to meet his gaze more directly. “But Wriothesley is also merely a child,” she reminded him gently. “Did you not like his visits to Palais Mermonia so far?”

“I do!” Neuvillette exclaimed quickly, leaning forward as if afraid she might misunderstand his feelings. His cheeks flushed faintly with emotion as he continued in a rush of words. “I… I want to see the sea first,” he admitted shyly, glancing away again as though embarrassed by the simplicity of his wish. “I cannot ask Wriothesley to come,” he added after a moment’s pause, his voice tinged with quiet resignation. “I think he would hate the sea.”

She nodded softly at that. She couldn’t say that she disagree with what her son said, knowing what happened to Wriothesley’s parents at sea. “I understand,” she said warmly, giving his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “Thank you for telling me this.” Her tone grew more serious then, though it lost none of its kindness. “However, you must not forget that everyone—including your father and I—only want to keep you safe.” She held his gaze firmly now, willing him to see the sincerity in her eyes. “And nowhere is safer than Palais Mermonia.”

For a moment, Neuvillette seemed poised to argue or protest further, but then he nodded slowly, accepting her words even if they didn’t fully satisfy him. “Yes, maman,” he murmured obediently.

She smiled again and brushed another curl from his face before adding conspiratorially, “I’ll tell you something.” Her voice dropped ever so slightly as if sharing a secret meant just for them. “Once you are older, you will be able to protect yourself more.” There was an unmistakable note of pride in her tone now—a belief in the strength and wisdom he would one day grow into. “And think about it,” she continued with a knowing smile. “Wriothesley too will become more reliable than ever.”

Neuvillette’s eyes lit up at that thought, and for the first time since their conversation began, a small smile tugged at the corners of his lips. “Then… will His Majesty trust him then?” he asked tentatively, hope coloring his voice like the first rays of dawn breaking through night’s darkness. “That he will never let anything bad happen to me?”

Her smile deepened as she cupped his cheek gently in her hand. “I am certain,” she said firmly, her voice imbued with unwavering conviction—the kind only a mother could muster when speaking of her child’s future happiness and safety.

For now, it was enough to soothe him—enough to keep that flicker of hope alive within him. Within her, too.

The sea was… so vast. It stretched endlessly before him, a shimmering expanse of sapphire and azure that seemed to meld seamlessly with the sky at the horizon. The waves rolled in gentle undulations, their crests catching the light of the midday sun and scattering it like shards of crystal. The salty breeze carried with it the faint cries of gulls, their calls echoing across the open water. And yet, standing at the edge of Petrichor’s sandy shores, Neuvillette could make out the faint silhouette of Sumeru in the distance. Its lush rainforests and towering spires were veiled in a haze of mist and heat, distant yet tantalizingly close, as if he could reach out and brush his fingertips against its verdant edges.

He stood motionless for a moment, lost in thought, his white hair catching the sunlight in a cascade of brilliance. If he turned his head slightly, just enough to break from Sumeru’s pull, he’d see Liyue as well. The jagged peaks of Chenyu Vale loomed behind a curtain of fog, their solemn grandeur hinting at mysteries untold. Each nation seemed to whisper its own secrets to him from across the water, as though calling out to him to step beyond his borders and uncover their truths.

The world was big—so much bigger than he had ever truly grasped. Neuvillette had always known it in theory, but now, standing here with these foreign lands laid out before him like treasures just waiting to be claimed, he felt the weight of that knowledge settle in his chest. A mixture of awe and longing stirred within him. How vast it truly was—and how little of it he had seen. He could explore it all if he wanted to... couldn’t he? The thought lingered in his mind like an unspoken promise.

His gaze fell to the shifting sands beneath his feet, where tiny rivulets of seawater snaked between his toes before retreating back into the ocean.

Would she have liked this view?

The question came unbidden, sharp enough to make his chest tighten. His mother… Where had Wriothesley sent her? Sumeru? Liyue? His jaw clenched as his mind raced through possibilities. Perhaps Wriothesley had made her journey longer on purpose, sending her farther afield—Mondstadt, with its rolling green hills and windswept plains? Or Natlan’s fiery landscapes that burned as hot as the sun itself?

He exhaled slowly through his nose, a trace of bitterness tainting the air around him. For all the power coursing through his veins, for all the influence he was supposed to wield as consort… he had not been able to stop it. He hadn’t even been able to ask where she'd gone.

His mind spun further into dangerous territory as another thought wormed its way into his consciousness: I could leave now. 

The realization struck him like a thunderbolt, electrifying and terrifying all at once. He glanced toward Sumeru again, the misty landmass seeming closer now than ever before. I could go there right now. 

No one would notice—not with everything happening here let alone back at the palace. The coup had thrown Fontaine into chaos; Wriothesley would be too preoccupied cementing his rule to care about Neuvillette’s sudden absence.

And what if she was there? What if she was waiting for him somewhere under those emerald canopies, her arms outstretched and her voice trembling with relief? He could find her—take her hand—and they could disappear together into obscurity. He wouldn’t be a burden anymore. Wriothesley wouldn’t have to deal with an unwanted consort dragging on his heels or complicating politics. There’d be no more whispered criticisms or hidden glances from courtiers wondering when their King would replace him with someone more suitable.

Some pretty and brilliant woman. Someone Wriothesley actually liked.

His throat tightened at the thought, but he forced himself to swallow it down. He took a step forward, the cool water lapping against his ankles now. His heart pounded as visions of escape unfolded in his mind—freedom so close he could almost taste it.

But then came an interruption—a gentle tug on his sleeve that shattered his reverie like glass hitting stone.

Startled, Neuvillette turned sharply, expecting perhaps one of Wriothesley’s guards come to drag him back before he could even try to leave—but there was no one behind him. Confused, he glanced down and found himself looking into wide, innocent eyes—a little girl no older than six or seven stood there clutching something tightly in her small hands.

“Um…” Her voice was barely above a whisper as she held up a bracelet made from tiny seashells strung together with thread that looked like it might snap at any moment. “Here.”

Neuvillette blinked in surprise, crouching slightly so he was closer to her level. “For me?” he asked softly, his voice careful not to startle her.

She nodded quickly but said nothing more, her cheeks flushing pink as she thrust the bracelet closer to him with both hands. Then, without waiting for a response, she turned on her heel and bolted back toward a cluster of children playing further down the beach.

“Wait!” Neuvillette called after her instinctively, but she didn’t stop—her friends were already calling out to her about hurrying up before all the food was gone.

He stared after her for a long moment before finally looking down at the bracelet still clutched in his hand. The shells were unevenly shaped and mismatched in size; some were chipped at the edges while others gleamed pearlescent under the sunlight. It was delicate—fragile even—but somehow perfect in its imperfection.

A faint smile tugged at the corners of his lips despite himself.

When he finally straightened up again and turned back toward the sea, something had changed within him. The longing still lingered—it always would—but it was tempered now by something else: a reminder of why he had stayed this long in the first place.

The children’s laughter echoed behind him like music carried on the wind as Neuvillette followed them back toward Petrichor's heart—even as distant lands disappeared from view across that endless expanse of blue. Perhaps one day he would go searching for answers beyond these shores—but not today. Not yet.

Neuvillette learned on his way to the community center that the volunteers, with tireless dedication and the quiet efficiency born of routine, had been preparing three-course meals every day for all the workers and victims affected by the recent incident. The operation was no small feat; they were aided by Spina de Rosula, who delivered fresh ingredients daily. Each meal was offered freely, a gesture of solidarity that seemed to stitch together the frayed edges of a community still reeling from calamity. As Neuvillette approached the center, he could already catch the mingling aromas of freshly baked bread, simmering broth, and roasted vegetables wafting through the open windows—warm and inviting, like an unspoken promise of comfort.

Outside the community center, small groups of people gathered with plates in hand, their faces lit with rare smiles as they shared meals and stories. Laughter bubbled up here and there, a sound that felt almost defiant against the backdrop of hardship. The scene struck Neuvillette deeply; it was not just sustenance being shared but hope itself. He paused for a moment to take it all in—the way sunlight filtered through the trees, dappling the worn wooden tables where strangers sat elbow to elbow as if they'd known each other forever.

When he stepped inside, someone—a harried-looking volunteer with flour-dusted hands and a quick smile—approached him hesitantly. “Your Highness,” she began, her tone carefully deferential, “your meal has been prepared specifically for you. If you wish, you may use the office upstairs to dine in privacy.”

Neuvillette blinked at her offer, his violet eyes softening with quiet gratitude but tinged with something else—hesitation. He glanced around at the bustling room, at the way people leaned into one another over steaming bowls of soup or tore into thick slices of bread with unrestrained hunger. He thought of the labor that had gone into preparing these meals and how strange it would feel to eat separately from these people who had endured so much together.

“That’s very kind,” he replied gently, his voice low enough not to disturb the hum of activity around them. “But I think I’d prefer to stay here… among everyone else.” A faint smile tugged at his lips as he added, almost sheepishly, “It wouldn’t feel right to eat apart or have something different.”

The volunteer looked momentarily stunned but quickly nodded her understanding. “Of course, Your Highness. As you wish.”

Neuvillette moved carefully through the room, his tall figure cutting an elegant silhouette against the flurry of activity. He approached the kitchen area slowly, mindful not to disrupt their rhythm. The volunteers were immersed in their tasks—chopping herbs with practiced precision, ladling soup into bowls without spilling a drop, arranging dishes on trays with an eye for balance and presentation. Despite their focus, one by one they noticed his presence and straightened up slightly.

“Your Highness,” someone greeted him respectfully, their voice tinged with both surprise and curiosity.

Another chimed in hesitantly while wiping their hands on an apron. “Is there something we can get for you? Perhaps something you’d like to try?”

Neuvillette shook his head lightly. “Do you need help?” he asked instead, his tone earnest.

The room seemed to still for a heartbeat as his words registered. A young man holding a tray nearly dropped it in shock. “Pardon?” one of them managed to ask after a beat.

“Can I… help?” Neuvillette repeated patiently.

The murmurs started almost instantly—a mixture of disbelief and amazement rippling through the kitchen staff. They exchanged glances as if silently confirming whether they’d all heard correctly.

“Y-yes,” someone finally stammered after an awkward pause. “Yes, of course! Please—just give us a moment.”

They scrambled hurriedly to make space for him, clearing a small corner of the counter and producing what was undoubtedly their cleanest apron—a simple white one with faint lavender embroidery at the edges. One volunteer fussed nervously over tying it properly around him while another stood nearby wringing their hands as if unsure whether they should be giving instructions or bowing.

Neuvillette accepted their efforts with quiet grace, though he couldn’t entirely ignore the weight of curious eyes following his every movement or the hushed whispers speculating about what he might do next. He focused instead on rolling up his sleeves neatly before turning back to face them.

“What shall I do?” he asked evenly.

A middle-aged woman who seemed to be in charge stepped forward briskly, her demeanor professional despite her obvious awe. “The soup is very hot,” she explained quickly, gesturing toward several steaming pots lined up on the stove. “But if Your Highness doesn’t mind assisting with garnish duty… just slide each bowl to the side once it’s ready, and someone will take it from there.”

“Understood,” Neuvillette replied with a small nod, moving toward the station she indicated.

As he took up his position beside a stack of empty bowls, adding sprigs of fresh parsley or delicate curls of lemon zest to each dish with surprising dexterity, the murmurs began to fade into an almost reverent silence. The volunteers watched him work for a while before returning to their own tasks, though every so often someone would glance back at him with a mixture of pride and disbelief—as if seeing their Prince not above them but among them was something they’d remember long after this day had passed.

And for the first time in the day, Neuvillette felt like he was finally being useful for these people.

As soon as Neuvillette returned to Palais Mermonia, weariness clung to him like a heavy cloak. Yet, he still made his way through the dimly lit corridors with purpose, his boots echoing softly against the polished stone floors. Neuvillette tightened his grip on the report in his hand, the edges crumpling slightly under his tense fingers. His heart thudded in his chest, each beat reverberating in his ears as he approached Wriothesley’s office. The sight of the heavy oak door looming before him made his breath hitch. Taking a moment to compose himself, he raised a trembling hand and knocked lightly. The sound was soft, almost hesitant, as though he feared disturbing the quiet sanctity of the night.

For an agonizing moment, there was no response. The silence stretched on, amplifying his nervous thoughts.

What if he’s already asleep and retreated to his chamber? What if I’ve overstepped by coming this late? 

But then, just as doubt threatened to consume him, the door creaked open.

Wriothesley stood there, framed by the faint glow of lamplight spilling from within. His dark hair was slightly tousled, and faint shadows under his eyes betrayed his exhaustion, yet he held himself with the composed authority that Neuvillette had come to admire—and fear. “Neuvillette,” Wriothesley said, his voice low and gravelly, tinged with surprise. “It’s quite late.”

“I—” Neuvillette swallowed hard, suddenly aware of how disheveled he must look after his journey. His coat was rumpled, and strands of hair clung stubbornly to his damp forehead. “I apologize for disturbing you at this hour, Your Majesty. But I thought it best to deliver my report immediately.” He held up the document as though it were a shield, hoping it would justify his intrusion.

Wriothesley’s sharp gaze softened slightly as he stepped aside to allow Neuvillette entry. “Come in,” he said simply.

“Sit,” Wriothesley instructed, gesturing to one of the chairs opposite his desk. He sank into his own seat with a tired sigh, rubbing a hand over his face before fixing his piercing gaze on Neuvillette once more. “Now, tell me.”

Neuvillette perched on the edge of the chair, clutching the report tightly as though it might slip from his grasp at any moment. His voice wavered slightly as he began recounting the details of his visit to Petrichor. As he spoke, Wriothesley leaned back in his chair, listening intently. His expression remained unreadable save for the occasional furrow of his brow or slight nod of acknowledgment. When Neuvillette finally finished, his words trailing off into an uncertain silence, Wriothesley reached for the report. He ran his fingers over its worn cover thoughtfully before flipping it open.

“You could’ve waited until tomorrow,” Wriothesley said after a moment, stifling a yawn behind one hand.

Neuvillette flushed with embarrassment, bowing his head slightly. “I thought it best to report back at once,” he murmured apologetically. “I didn’t want to delay.”

Wriothesley’s eyes skimmed over the first few pages of the report before glancing up at Neuvillette again. “This is thorough,” he remarked quietly. “You did a good job.”

The words were simple—unassuming—but they struck Neuvillette like a bolt of lightning. His breath caught in his throat as warmth spread across his cheeks, betraying the depth of emotion those few words had stirred within him. He fumbled for a response but found himself utterly tongue-tied.

Noticing Neuvillette’s discomfort, Wriothesley set down the report with a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “So,” he said casually, leaning forward slightly, “did you like it? Petrichor?”

Neuvillette blinked at the question, momentarily thrown off guard by its unexpectedness. “I… yes,” he replied haltingly.

Wriothesley nodded thoughtfully, tapping a finger against the desk as though considering something unspoken. After a moment’s pause, he straightened in his chair and fixed Neuvillette with a serious expression. “You’ll be expected to attend more engagements like this in the future,” he said firmly.

“I understand,” Neuvillette replied without hesitation. Rising from his seat, he offered a quick bow before adding hastily, “Good night, Your Majesty.” He turned to leave before Wriothesley could respond, acutely aware of how close he was to unraveling completely under that piercing gaze.

The door clicked shut behind him with a soft finality that seemed deafening in the quiet hallway beyond. Neuvillette barely made it a few steps before the weight of everything came crashing down on him like an avalanche. His knees buckled beneath him, sending him sprawling onto the cold stone floor.

He pressed a trembling hand to his chest as if trying to steady the frantic rhythm of his heart. Tears welled up in his eyes and spilled over unchecked, tracing hot paths down his flushed cheeks.

You did a good job.

The words echoed in his mind like a mantra—an affirmation that felt almost too good to be true. For so long, he had been plagued by doubts about his role within these walls—wondering if he was little more than a crown prince who was not ready for anything, then a figurehead or pawn in someone else’s game—but tonight… tonight had been different.

Perhaps—just perhaps—he could be more than what others saw him as. Perhaps he could prove himself worthy not only to Wriothesley but also to himself. And so Neuvillette knelt there in the darkened hallway with tears streaming down his face. Neuvillette didn't know if this newfound sense of hope was naive or foolish, but he couldn't help himself. He clung to it like a drowning man clutching at straws.

The prison cell was dead quiet, a suffocating silence that seemed to seep into the very walls. The only sound was the occasional rasp of chains dragging against the rough stone floor, their metallic whisper echoing faintly in the darkness. He knelt on the cold ground in the middle of the cell, his back facing the iron door. His head was tilted slightly forward, his dark eyes fixed on the wall across from him, though there was nothing to see within the oppressive blackness that enveloped him.

It wasn’t as though he expected to see anything. A man like him did not deserve his own light.

The air was heavy with dampness and decay, carrying the scent of mildew and rust. His breaths came slow and steady, each exhale forming faint clouds in the frigid air. Time had long since lost meaning in this void; minutes bled into hours, hours into days. He didn’t bother counting anymore. What would be the point?

Then it came—the sound he had been expecting but dreading nonetheless. The iron door behind him groaned as a key scraped into the lock. The clunk of tumblers falling into place shattered the stillness, followed by the agonizing creak of hinges that hadn’t been oiled in decades. Light spilled into the cell from a torch outside, weak and flickering, but blinding after so much time in darkness. He didn’t flinch or shield his eyes; he simply stared at the wall ahead as though nothing had changed.

Footsteps approached, deliberate and heavy on the uneven stone floor. Shadows stretched long and distorted before him as a figure entered his cell. A rough hand tangled itself in his hair, yanking his head back sharply. His neck strained against the force, but he made no sound, no protest. “On your feet,” barked a voice, low and gruff with authority.

He was hauled upright before he could comply on his own, dragged roughly to his feet by two more guards who seized his arms in an iron grip. Their gauntleted hands dug into his flesh through the thin fabric of his shirt, but still, he offered no resistance. They half-carried, half-shoved him out of the cell and into the corridor beyond.

Not that he made any attempt to fight them.

The hallway stretched out before them like a tunnel leading to some infernal abyss. It was dimly lit by torches mounted at irregular intervals along the walls, their flames casting flickering shadows that danced like specters on the damp stone. The air here was colder than in his cell—colder and heavier, as though weighed down by centuries of suffering and death.

The guards said nothing as they marched him forward, their boots striking a steady rhythm against the floor. He matched their pace without complaint or hesitation, his head bowed slightly as if already resigned to his fate. There was no need for words; they all knew where this path ended.

At last, they arrived at their destination—a small chamber beneath the grand Palais Mermonia. The room was stark and utilitarian, devoid of decoration or ceremony save for its centerpiece: a guillotine standing tall and menacing in the center of the room. Its blade gleamed dully in the torchlight, a cruel promise of finality.

As expected, there were no spectators here to bear witness to his end. No crowd gathered to jeer or mourn; no family wept for him; no clergy muttered prayers for his soul’s salvation. The King had ensured that this moment would be quiet and forgettable—a mere footnote in history destined to fade into obscurity.

Yet one detail caught him off guard: amidst the silence and indifference stood none other than King himself.

For a moment, his steps faltered ever so slightly as he took in the sight before him. Of all people, why would the King be here? He had assumed that the King would be too busy—or too disinterested—to concern himself with such matters personally. And yet here he stood, regal and composed as ever, his expression unreadable.

They forced him to kneel before the guillotine, shoving him down with enough force to bruise his knees against the unforgiving stone floor. One of the guards stepped forward then, addressing him with cold formality: “You are permitted final words.”

His lips curved into a faint smile—bitter and humorless—as he considered this hollow gesture of mercy. Final words? What could he possibly say that would make any difference now? And yet… there was one thing.

“I wish to speak in private with His Majesty.”

A murmur rippled through the guards at this audacious request. They exchanged uneasy glances, clearly uncertain whether such an indulgence should be granted—or even considered. But before they could voice their objections, the King raised a hand with calm authority.

The King approached slowly then, each step measured and deliberate until he stood directly before the sinner. For a moment neither man spoke; they simply regarded one another in silence—the condemned and his sovereign.

“Neuvillette--” Wriothesley began at last—but whatever words he had intended were cut short as Neuvillette’s hand lashed out with startling speed and struck him across the face.

The sharp crack echoed through the chamber like thunderclap breaking an otherwise still night. Without a word or backward glance, Neuvillette turned on his heel, the echo of his polished boots ringing sharply against the cold stone floor of the execution chamber.

Behind him, Wriothesley stared at the guillotine after Neuvillette’s retreating figure, his expression caught somewhere between disbelief and bitter amusement. His laugh—if it could even be called that—escaped in a sharp, dry exhalation, more a reflex than an act of mirth. It was the kind of sound one makes when there’s nothing left to say, no more cards to play.

The irony of it all wasn’t lost on him—how many times had he stood in judgment over others? How many lives had he weighed in the balance, deciding their fates with a calm detachment he now found almost laughable? And yet here he was, stripped of all power, awaiting his own end.

As the remaining guards approached him to make preparations for what came next, Wriothesley’s senses sharpened in defiance of what awaited. He felt the cold iron biting into his wrists, heard the faint creak of leather boots and whispered instructions exchanged among the guards, their touch impersonal and clinical. The room remained unnervingly quiet save for the steady drip-drip-drip of water leaking from somewhere unseen.

The moment still came quicker than he expected—too quick for any final thoughts or regrets to crystallize in his mind. The blade hovered above like a silent predator poised to strike.

And then it fell.

The sound was almost anticlimactic—a dull *thunk* as steel met wood—but in that instant, Wriothesley felt everything and nothing all at once. There was no searing pain as he might have expected; instead, there was only… quiet. A strange kind of quiet that seemed to stretch endlessly in both directions, enveloping him completely.

Before… after… it all felt the same.

The world didn’t fade away so much as it simply ceased to matter. No bright light appeared to guide him onward; no voices called out from beyond some ethereal veil. Just silence—profound and unbroken—as if even death itself had nothing left to say.

And yet somewhere deep within that silence lingered an ache—not physical but something far more elusive and enduring: regret woven with resolve unmet and words left unsaid amidst fleeting moments squandered altogether too fast.

Wriothesley was jolted awake so violently that his hand trembled, nearly toppling the tea cup balanced precariously on the edge of his desk. The amber liquid swirled dangerously close to spilling over, its faint warmth a stark contrast to the cold sweat slicking his skin. His breath came in shallow, uneven gasps as he sat upright, his heart pounding as though it sought to escape the confines of his chest. The lingering echoes of the dream clung to him like cobwebs, their weight intangible but suffocating. Instinctively, his fingers darted to the back of his neck, brushing against damp skin and trembling slightly as if betraying the turmoil simmering beneath his composed exterior.

“Damn it,” he muttered under his breath, his voice rough and low, more for himself than anyone else. He stared hard at the tea cup, as though it held answers, but it only reflected the dim glow of the desk lamp. Whatever peace he had hoped to find in sleep had been shattered by this unwelcome specter of his subconscious.

The dream was bothersome, yes, but it wasn’t simply the discomfort of it that gnawed at him. No, it was something far more insidious. It was a cruel tease—a mocking prelude to a fate he had already resigned himself to. The path ahead was clear, and he had no illusions about where it led. Yet in the dream, it wasn’t just clarity that haunted him—it was Neuvillette.

Wriothesley let out a bitter laugh, one devoid of humor but full of resignation. He ran a hand through his disheveled hair, pushing back loose strands that clung stubbornly to his damp forehead. The sensation grounded him, if only slightly.

In the dream, Neuvillette had been resolute and inscrutable, piercing through any facade Wriothesley might have tried to put up. There was no mercy in those eyes, no hint of sentimentality or wavering conviction. And why should there be? Wriothesley knew better than anyone that the execution would come swiftly, cleanly—devoid of ceremony or final words.

Still, there was something that Wriothesley needed to say—something that clung stubbornly to the edges of his thoughts, demanding to be spoken directly. It was something he had planned to save until the very end, a confession meant only for Neuvillette’s ears.

“Not that it matters,” Wriothesley said bitterly to himself, leaning back in his chair with a scowl. The leather creaked softly under his weight as he stared up at the ceiling, searching for answers—or perhaps absolution—in its blank expanse. “He wouldn’t give me the chance anyway… not even for final words.”

But even as he spoke the words aloud, something shifted within him—a flicker of determination sparking amidst the despair. If Neuvillette wouldn’t grant him the opportunity to speak, then Wriothesley would find another way. This was something that he owed Neuvillette, after all.

He pushed himself upright, reaching for the stack of parchment tucked neatly into one corner of his desk. “This is ridiculous,” he muttered under his breath, shaking his head at himself even as he continued to write. Yet there was an odd comfort in putting pen to paper—a sense of catharsis that eased the tightness in his chest ever so slightly.

The letter wasn’t long—he didn’t feel the need for verbosity—just a single line of sentence. It took practically no time to write it.

For a moment, he simply sat there in silence, letting the weight of what he had written settle over him like a shroud. Finally, he folded the letter carefully and slipped it into an envelope. The seal came next—a small but deliberate flourish that seemed fitting for what felt like both a confession and a farewell.

“This’ll do,” he said softly to himself as he tucked the envelope into the bottom drawer of his desk—the very bottom where no casual observer would think to look. It wasn’t hidden so much as preserved—left for someone who would understand its significance when the time came.

A faint smile tugged at the corners of his lips—wry and self-deprecating but genuine nonetheless. The next King would use this desk and find the letter and that’d be it.

And yet… there was an undeniable ache deep within him—a longing he couldn’t quite name but couldn’t entirely ignore either. Perhaps it was selfishness or perhaps something else entirely—but either way…

For now though… this would have to be enough.

Chapter Text

It was raining when they buried his body in his hometown of Poisson, the kind of rain that seemed to soak through not just clothes, but skin, seeping into the very bones of anyone standing beneath its unrelenting barrage. The skies hung low and bruised, the heavy clouds mirroring the weight pressed upon the hearts of those gathered—or, more accurately, the sparse few who had chosen to gather. A modest cluster of mourners stood by the yawning grave, their faces obscured by black umbrellas and solemn expressions. A rather underwhelming funeral for a man like him, Wriothesley thought grimly, though he knew why most people had opted to stay away.

The man in the casket below had been larger than life in so many ways—his ideals towering, his voice a rallying cry for those who dared dream of change in Fontaine. But such dreams came at a price, and it seemed that even in death, his principles cast long shadows. For some, their absence today wasn’t born from indifference or disrespect; it was survival instinct. To be seen mourning him was, perhaps, to risk being tied to his cause—a dangerous association in a world where dissent carried consequences far beyond mere whispers in the dark.

Wriothesley kept to the back of the small group, his collar turned up against the rain. He doubted anyone would notice him there; even if they did, they wouldn’t care. His presence was a ghost’s touch on the periphery—a man who lived in the margins of society and preferred it that way. Yet today, blending into the background felt more difficult than usual. The emptiness around the grave was palpable, an unspoken indictment of how fear could hollow out even the most fervent loyalties.

As the final clump of damp earth hit the freshly filled grave with a muted thud, breaking the silence save for the relentless patter of rain on umbrellas, something gave way. The dead man’s daughter crumpled to her knees beside her father’s resting place, her frail frame trembling as she leaned forward, clutching at the wet soil with hands that seemed too small to bear such grief.

“No,” she whispered at first, her voice barely audible over the rain. Then louder: “No, no, no!” Her cries rose into a crescendo that tore through Wriothesley like a blade. She pressed her forehead against the mound of earth as though she could somehow reach him through sheer force of will. “Why did you leave me? Why did you do this?!”

Her words were jagged and raw, cutting through the air like lightning cracking across a stormy sky. Each syllable carried the weight of a child’s broken heart—because that’s what she was now: not just a young woman mourning her father but a child lost in a world suddenly stripped bare of its anchors.

Wriothesley’s fingers curled into fists at his sides as he watched her unravel before them all. He wanted to look away—needed to—but couldn’t bring himself to do it. Her grief was too visceral, too real. It clawed at something deep inside him that he’d spent years burying beneath layers of detachment and stoicism.

What did the man get from this, Wriothesley thought. His gaze flicked toward the fresh grave as if expecting an answer from its silent occupant. What did he gain except leaving her like this? Broken.

He imagined what the man—so resolute in life—might have said if he could answer now. Perhaps something noble-sounding about sacrifices and progress, about how change demanded blood and pain and loss. “Sacrifices are necessary,” Wriothesley could almost hear him say in that steady, determined tone he’d used so often during their conversations. “If not me, it would’ve been someone else eventually.”

But then there was her—the daughter left behind in pieces—and Wriothesley knew she would never see it that way. For her, there was no solace in lofty ideals or grand victories yet to come. She would trade every inch of progress, every promise of a brighter future for Fontaine, just to have her father back—to see him standing beside her instead of lying cold beneath six feet of earth.

She lifted her face then, streaked with mud and tears and rainwater that blurred together until it was impossible to tell one from the other. Her eyes burned with an intensity that startled even Wriothesley.

“I hate you!” she screamed at the grave, her voice cracking under the weight of emotion too big for words alone. “I hate you for leaving me! I hate you for choosing them over us! Over me!”

Her words hung heavy in the air, unanswered and unanswerable. The other mourners shifted uncomfortably but said nothing; what could they say? Wriothesley doubted any of them had ever truly understood what it meant to lose everything; to stand at the edge of an abyss and realize you were utterly alone.

“These people,” Wriothesley thought bitterly as he glanced around at the scattered figures still lingering by the graveside. They lived with one foot in hope and one foot in fear, always half-prepared to abandon their convictions when push came to shove yet still clinging desperately to whatever scraps of security they could salvage.

Even those who claimed they were willing to die for change never really believed it would come to that—not until it did.

But not him.

Wriothesley’s jaw tightened as he turned away from the scene before him—the grieving daughter’s sobs fading into background noise drowned out by the rain pounding against his ears like a drumbeat. Wriothesley was different from them—always had been and always would be.

He had nothing left to lose.

Just mere weeks after his visit to Petrichor—a visit that had left Neuvillette haunted by the lingering unresolved emotions and the mountain of bureaucratic work that had awaited him upon his return—the quiet rhythm of his routine was interrupted once again. As he stepped into his chambers late that evening, Sedene approached him with an envelope in hand. The wax seal bore an intricate crest, its edges embossed with meticulous detail, catching the flickering light of the candelabra on the nearby table.

“A letter for you, Your Highness,” she said softly, bowing her head as she extended it to him.

He took the envelope with a nod of thanks, though his gaze lingered briefly on the seal. It was not a summons to Wriothesley’s office this time, where he might have expected yet another tedious request to attend some public engagement or oversee a minor legal dispute. No, this was something entirely different. The letter was a formal invitation—a request for his presence at an elaborate party being hosted by none other than Duke of Lothaire, one of Fontaine’s most influential nobles. His fingers hesitated against the fine parchment before breaking the seal, slipping the neatly folded letter out with a practiced ease. The scent of expensive ink and faint perfume wafted from the paper, a hallmark of the aristocracy’s penchant for unnecessary flourishes.

As he read through the letter’s contents, his expression remained stoic, though his mind churned with thoughts. The name stirred something in Neuvillette's memory—a fragment of history from years long past. He recalled how curren Duke of Lothaire’s predecessor had served as a council member during the early years of his father’s reign as king. That tenure had been shockingly brief—barely a few months—before the Duke had suddenly stepped down, citing reasons that were never fully disclosed to the public. It was a curious piece of Fontaine’s political history, one that had faded into obscurity over time but lingered in Neuvillette's mind like an unsolved riddle.

Still holding the letter, Neuvillette walked to the window, his footsteps muffled by the plush carpet beneath him. He gazed out at the city below, its streets bathed in the soft glow of gas lamps and moonlight. The air carried a faint chill, a reminder of the season’s slow shift toward winter. The thought crossed his mind: why now? Why would Duke of Lothaire extend such an invitation? Was it merely a gesture of goodwill? Or perhaps an attempt to re-establish old alliances now that Wriothesley ruled instead of Neuvillette’s father?

His lips pressed into a thin line as he folded the letter neatly and set it on his desk. “It does not matter,” he muttered under his breath, shaking his head slightly as if to dispel his musings. He was supposed to attend whatever public engagement Wriothesley asked of him and whatever political machinations lay beneath the surface, they were not his concern—at least not officially.

The day of the party arrived swiftly, and as Neuvillette prepared himself in front of the tall mirror in his quarters, he couldn’t suppress a faint sense of unease. His tailored suit fit perfectly—a deep navy ensemble accented with silver embroidery that mirrored Fontaine’s maritime heritage—but there was no denying that such finery felt hollow against the backdrop of recent events. Petrichor lingered in his thoughts like a shadow he couldn’t shake. The tragedy that had unfolded there—its people still struggling to rebuild their lives—was a stark contrast to what awaited him tonight: an evening filled with laughter, music, and indulgence among those who seemed untouched by hardship.

As he adjusted his cufflinks, he caught sight of himself in the mirror and frowned faintly. “How do they move forward so easily?” he murmured aloud, though there was no one else in the room to hear him. His reflection offered no answer, only staring back at him with eyes that carried too much weight for someone so young.

The newspapers had been relentless in their coverage when news of Petrichor first broke after Neuvillette’s visit—firstly they seemed to care more about the fact that Neuvillette was there, and then The Steambird took a harsher turn with pages filled with images of devastated homes and grieving families juxtaposed against headlines declaring “Aristocrats Rally for Aid.” For a brief moment, it seemed as though all of Fontaine cared deeply about what had happened; donations poured in from noble families eager to display their generosity, and their faces graced every front page alongside their contributions.

But like all things in Fontaine’s ever-turning wheel of society, interest waned quickly. Most of the headlines shifted back to gossip and frivolity within weeks, leaving Petrichor’s plight buried beneath layers of forgetfulness. Yet for Neuvillette, it was impossible to forget—not when he had stood amidst its ruins and seen firsthand what true suffering looked like.

A knock at his door pulled him from his reverie. “Prince Neuvillette,” came the soft voice of his maid from outside. “Your carriage is ready.”

He sighed softly before straightening himself one last time in the mirror. “Thank you,” he replied evenly as he turned toward the door.

At the corner of the hallway leading to the main staircase, the faint echo of footsteps reached Neuvillette’s ears. Perhaps it was one of the Gardes or a member of his staff—someone with an urgent message or a forgotten detail to relay. His mind began to sift through possibilities even as he turned his head slightly, waiting for the figure to emerge. And then, from around the corner, came not a uniformed Garde nor a hurried servant but something entirely unexpected—a bouquet of flowers appeared first, its vibrant petals like a burst of color amidst the muted tones of the corridor. The hand holding it was gloved in deep black leather, and trailing just behind it was Wriothesley himself. His presence commanded attention, dressed in ceremonial finery that seemed almost excessive for his daily routine of staying in his office. It had been quite some time since the last time Neuvillette saw him actually dressed like a king with all its borderline theatrics, the only thing missing was a crown that should’ve sat on top of his perfectly slicked back hair.

Neuvillette blinked, momentarily caught off guard. His steps faltered as he took in the sight before him. Wriothesley looked every inch a king—a vision so striking that it seemed almost misplaced in this quiet hallway. For a moment, Neuvillette’s thoughts scattered, disarrayed like leaves tossed by an autumn breeze. The bouquet stood out starkly in Wriothesley’s grip, incongruous yet oddly fitting, as if it were an extension of his bold personality.

“Are you ready?” Wriothesley’s voice rolled out smoothly, rich and resonant like velvet brushed over stone. He stopped just a few paces away, his gaze meeting Neuvillette’s with an intensity that always seemed to linger just beneath his otherwise composed demeanor.

“Yes,” Neuvillette replied automatically, though his tone betrayed none of the confusion that churned within him. His words felt detached from his thoughts—as if some polite autopilot had taken over while his mind scrambled to make sense of Wriothesley’s unexpected presence. Why was he here? Neuvillette had been certain he would attend this engagement alone. Wriothesley rarely had time—or inclination to entertain such events unless absolutely necessary.

But then Neuvillette’s eyes swept over Wriothesley’s attire again: the grandeur of it all, the deliberate precision with which everything had been chosen and arranged. This wasn’t merely an idle whim; Wriothesley wasn’t here by chance. This was intentional—he was going too.

The realization sat heavily with Neuvillette. Of course, Wriothesley would attend an aristocratic function, even if he hadn’t seen his people in weeks or bothered to make appearances elsewhere. The man had a knack for prioritizing appearances where it suited him best.

Wriothesley stepped closer, closing the small gap between them with an easy grace that belied his imposing stature. “Here,” he said simply, extending the bouquet toward Neuvillette with one hand while slipping the other casually into his coat pocket. “Consider this an apology.”

Neuvillette stared at the flowers as if they were some foreign artifact thrust into his hands rather than a thoughtful gesture. The arrangement was delicate yet bold—soft pastel roses mingled with sprigs of white lilies and hints of lavender, tied together with an elegant ribbon that matched Wriothesley’s coat perfectly. It smelled faintly of early morning dew.

“I do not understand,” Neuvillette said finally, his voice quieter now but no less steady. He accepted the bouquet tentatively, holding it as though it might unravel in his grip.

Wriothesley tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable save for a flicker of amusement in his eyes. “I’m making you put up with me for this,” he said simply, as though that explained everything. His lips curved into a faint smile—not mocking but knowing—as if he anticipated Neuvillette’s unspoken questions and chose not to answer them outright.

Before Neuvillette could process further or formulate a response beyond vague puzzlement, Wriothesley turned on his heel and began walking back down the corridor from which he’d come. The movement was fluid yet deliberate—a silent command for Neuvillette to follow without hesitation.

For a moment, Neuvillette merely stood there, rooted in place as if tethered by invisible strings to the spot where they’d exchanged words. His gaze followed Wriothesley’s retreating figure; the confident stride, the way his coat shifted slightly with each step—and then flicked briefly back down to the bouquet in his hands.

As expected, Wriothesley was the most anticipated guest of the evening. The king’s arrival was like a sudden shift in the atmosphere—an electric current that rippled through the grand hall and settled into an awed hush before swelling into murmurs of admiration. Heads turned almost in unison as his presence commanded immediate attention.

Neuvillette, standing at Wriothesley’s side, still couldn’t quite adjust to the way his husband seemed to shift the very air around him. It wasn’t just his title; it was the way he carried himself—a man who could silence a room with a single glance or ignite laughter with a well-timed quip. Neuvillette’s hands rested lightly on Wriothesley’s arm, fingers curling just enough to convey both intimacy and a sense of duty. They had perfected this tableau of unity—Prince Consort and King, a portrait of marital harmony—but tonight, as they stepped further into the sea of nobles and dignitaries, Neuvillette felt the weight of it more than usual.

The grandeur of the hall enveloped them both; a cavernous space adorned with gilded arches and frescoed ceilings depicting scenes from myth and legend. Crystal chandeliers hung like cascading stars, their light refracting off polished marble floors and casting delicate patterns that danced across the walls. The scent of roses and lilies mingled with the faint tang of champagne, carried on a current of murmured conversations and soft laughter.

For the first twenty minutes, Neuvillette followed Wriothesley as they navigated the crowd, exchanging pleasantries with practiced ease. The king’s voice was warm but measured as he greeted the host—who turned out to be a balding man whose nervous grin betrayed his awe—and then moved on to other guests. Neuvillette trailed slightly behind, offering polite nods and murmured greetings when addressed directly but otherwise allowing Wriothesley to take the lead. The words exchanged around him blurred into an indistinct hum; he had little interest in their discussions of trade agreements or court gossip.

Instead, he found himself studying Wriothesley—the way his lips curved into that effortlessly charming smile, the way his laughter rang out rich and genuine when someone managed to amuse him. There was something mesmerizing about watching him in his element, commanding attention without demanding it. It was almost like seeing his old friend again in the body of a usurper. And yet, for all his ease among these people, there were moments when Wriothesley’s gaze would flicker toward Neuvillette, a subtle check-in. Maybe to make sure he’d behave behind Wriothesley.

Eventually, Wriothesley leaned closer, his breath warm against Neuvillette’s ear as he whispered, “We should split up for a bit. It’ll be faster if we divide—greet as many people as we can. That way, we’re not keeping everyone waiting.”

Neuvillette hesitated for half a heartbeat before nodding. “Of course,” he replied softly, his voice steady despite the sudden pang of unease that came with being left to navigate these waters alone.

Wriothesley’s hand brushed briefly against Neuvillette’s before he stepped away, disappearing into the throng with that same unshakable confidence. Neuvillette straightened his posture and let out a slow breath, steeling himself for what was to come.

It didn’t take long for someone to approach him—a noblewoman in her late thirties or early forties, her gown an elaborate swirl of emerald silk and pearls. She curtsied gracefully before speaking, her tone effusive but edged with calculated flattery.

“Your Highness,” she began with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “I must say, I was deeply moved by what I read in the papers this morning. Your kindness toward those poor families—it is truly inspiring.”

Neuvillette inclined his head politely, though inwardly he bristled at the mention of the article—one of many that were somehow focused on him instead of Petrichor. He had only done what he believed was right; turning it into a spectacle felt distasteful. Still, he forced a faint smile as he replied, “Thank you. I only wish to serve in whatever capacity I can.”

“Oh, but it’s more than that,” she pressed on, her voice rising slightly as if to ensure others nearby could overhear her praise. “Your generosity is unmatched! Tell me—how do you manage to balance such compassion with your royal duties? It must be exhausting.”

Before Neuvillette could respond, another voice cut in—a younger man with sharp features and an eager expression. “Indeed,” he said, stepping closer and offering a shallow bow. “Your Highness, your dedication sets an example for all of us. If I may be so bold… how did you convince His Majesty to support such an endeavor? It must have taken considerable effort. I would imagine he would have been wary of his beloved venturing to an isolated land like that by himself.”

A small crowd began to gather around Neuvillette—faces alight with curiosity or thinly veiled opportunism as they vied for his attention. Questions flew at him from all directions: inquiries about his works, compliments on his attire, even thinly disguised attempts to probe for political insights.

Neuvillette answered each query with measured politeness, careful not to reveal too much or too little. But beneath his composed exterior, he felt a growing sense of discomfort—a gnawing awareness that these people didn’t see him so much as they saw an extension of Wriothesley’s power.

As another noblewoman gushed about how fortunate the kingdom was to have such a benevolent Prince Consort by its side, Neuvillette caught sight of Wriothesley across the room. Their eyes met briefly through the crowd—Wriothesley turned away.

He took a sip from the glass of champagne he’d been handed earlier—though he couldn’t recall by whom and allowed himself a small inward sigh before refocusing on the conversation at hand. Whatever unease lingered within him would have to wait; tonight wasn’t about him or his feelings. Tonight was about playing his role—and playing it well—for the sake of appearances… and for Wriothesley.

And so he smiled again—calm and composed—as another guest stepped forward. Neuvillette inclined his head ever so slightly, readying himself for yet another introduction or pleasantry, the kind that came in endless waves at gatherings like these. His serene demeanor never faltered, though inwardly, he braced for the monotony of yet another name to remember, another title to acknowledge.

But something shifted. A ripple of unease spread through the small cluster of guests surrounding him. It was subtle at first; a stiffening of shoulders, a glance exchanged between two nobles—but soon it became unmistakable. Conversations faltered mid-sentence, laughter died on lips, and one by one, they began to excuse themselves, retreating with murmured apologies that barely masked their haste. Neuvillette’s gaze followed them briefly, puzzled by the sudden exodus, before it returned to the approaching figure.

To his mild surprise, the guest who now stood before him was none other than Dame Clorinde. “Good evening, Dame Clorinde,” Neuvillette greeted warmly, though his voice carried a note of polite formality. Yet even as he spoke, he found himself momentarily distracted. Was this truly the same woman who had accompanied him to the Opera House? The same Clorinde who strode through Palais Mermonia with measured steps and a ready blade? The transformation was subtle yet profound, and for a fleeting moment, Neuvillette struggled to reconcile this vision of elegance with the image of a lady knight he held in his mind.

“Your Highness,” she replied with a slight bow, her tone measured and her words clipped with customary precision. Her voice carried an almost imperceptible edge of amusement, as though she were privy to some unspoken joke. “Did they bother you?”

Neuvillette blinked once, her question catching him off guard. “No,” he said after a beat, shaking his head gently. “Not at all.”

Her gaze lingered on him for a moment longer than necessary before she sighed softly and glanced over her shoulder, surveying the retreating nobles with a wry expression. “These people,” she muttered under her breath before adding more audibly, “sometimes there’s just that one social cue they choose to ignore.”

The remark was accompanied by a minute roll of her eyes—subtle enough to be missed by anyone not paying close attention but unmistakable to Neuvillette. He tilted his head slightly in response, his curiosity piqued. What could she mean by that? Was there something about his interaction with those guests that he had failed to notice? Before he could voice his question, however, Clorinde’s attention shifted.

“The first song is about to start,” she remarked casually, gesturing toward the musicians who had begun tuning their instruments moments earlier.

Ah, so that was it. Neuvillette’s ears caught the faint strains of melody drifting through the air—a prelude meant to signal the start of the evening’s dances. A realization dawned upon him then: this was not merely an observation on Clorinde’s part but rather a gentle nudge to remind him of his role in the evening’s proceedings. Still, he hesitated. Should he offer her a dance? It would be courteous given that they were already standing together, and finding another partner at this juncture might prove inconvenient for them both.

He turned back toward her just as the thought crossed his mind—only to find that she had already stepped aside. In one smooth motion, Clorinde moved out of his path, clearing the way for none other than Wriothesley to approach. Her timing was impeccable; it was as if she had been awaiting this exact moment.

Neuvillette’s gaze flickered briefly between them—between Clorinde’s retreating figure and Wriothesley’s advancing one—and understanding dawned upon him in gradual increments. She must have been sent by Wriothesley to deliver this reminder or perhaps merely to pave the way for his arrival. Either way, her task was complete; she melted into the crowd without so much as another word.

Wriothesley wasted no time closing the remaining distance between them. As he leaned forward slightly, his hand reached out—not quite touching Neuvillette but coming close enough to pluck at a loose strand of silver hair that had escaped its confines.

“Just one dance,” Wriothesley said in a low voice meant only for Neuvillette’s ears. His tone was light yet insistent, laced with just enough charm to soften what might otherwise have sounded like a command. His fingers toyed absently with the strand of hair as though admiring its texture or sheen—a gesture more intimate than formal courtesy would typically allow.

“They won’t start unless we do,” he continued with a faint smirk tugging at one corner of his mouth. “And I’d rather not bark orders for them to go ahead over something trivial like this.”

The pause stretched between them, taut and expectant, until Neuvillette finally allowed a faint smile to touch his lips—a smile so subtle it could have been mistaken for a flicker of candlelight in a storm. It was not a smile of agreement, nor one of outright refusal. It was him smiling to say he’d play along. He would always play along.

The orchestra surged to life then, strings and woodwinds weaving together in a lilting melody that seemed almost impatient for its cue. The music filled the hall with a restless energy, and Neuvillette realized, with a small pang of resignation, that there would be no delaying this moment any longer. The world around him blurred for a second—the gilded chandeliers above casting warm pools of light upon the polished marble floor, the muted hum of conversation fading into the crescendo of the waltz. He felt the weight of expectation settle on his shoulders like an ornate cloak, heavy and impossible to shed.

It was strange—so very strange—to be standing here now, hand in hand with Wriothesley. The man who had haunted his thoughts for longer than he cared to admit. And yet, as they stepped onto the middle of the dance floor, something intangible shifted between them. The Wriothesley before him now felt like someone else entirely—someone unfamiliar, distant. It was as though the man he had imagined all those years had melted away under the glow of reality, leaving behind a stranger in his place.

“Neuvillette,” Wriothesley said softly, his voice cutting through the haze of Neuvillette’s thoughts like a blade through fog. His tone was steady but laced with something raw—something pleading. “Look at me.”

Neuvillette blinked slowly, as if waking from a dream, and raised his gaze to meet Wriothesley’s. His head felt heavy, his mind sluggish, weighed down by emotions he couldn’t quite name. The room around them seemed to fade into insignificance; the swirling silks and tailored suits of the other dancers became mere blurs at the edge of his vision. All he could see was Wriothesley—the sharp lines of his jaw softened by the flickering light, the intensity in his eyes that seemed to pierce straight through him.

“Just pretend I’m someone else,” Wriothesley murmured, his words low but firm, like an anchor dropped into turbulent waters.

Neuvillette’s breath caught in his throat. How could he possibly do that? How could he pretend when every fiber of his being screamed otherwise? Even if he tried—if he closed his eyes and conjured another face—it would still be Wriothesley’s image that stared back at him in his mind’s eye. It had always been him. Always.

The two men danced, their movements weaving a silent rhythm amidst the gilded splendor of the hall. Neuvillette wasn’t entirely sure when he had been coaxed into this—perhaps it was the way Wriothesley extended his hand earlier. Or maybe it was the faintest tug of a smile on his lips. Now, as they moved together, the world seemed to blur around them—an endless swirl of faceless dancers, muted laughter, and the soft waltz of violins carrying them along like a current.

Neuvillette couldn’t quite name what he felt. Wriothesley’s hands were firm yet gentle, guiding him with an effortless grace that belied the man’s rugged exterior. The King moved like he owned every step of the dance floor, his confidence radiating in each turn and sway. Neuvillette, by contrast, felt exposed in a way he hadn’t anticipated—each touch of Wriothesley’s hand against his own, every fleeting brush of shoulders or gaze held too long, sent an unfamiliar warmth spreading through him. He tried to focus on the music instead, on the steady count of the beat. But it was impossible not to notice how close they were, how their breaths mingled each time they drew near.

When the music finally lulled into silence, Neuvillette wasn’t ready. He didn’t even realize it had stopped until Wriothesley began to pull away, releasing his hands with a finality that felt sharper than it should have. The pang in his chest was immediate and unexpected—a quiet ache that lingered as if something precious had been taken too soon.

Wriothesley stepped back with an easy nod, his expression unreadable but calm. “Thank you for the dance,” he said softly, his voice low enough that only Neuvillette could catch it. There was no flourish or unnecessary embellishment to his words—just simple sincerity that made Neuvillette’s heart tighten further.

“Wait—” Neuvillette began to say something, but before he could gather his thoughts into coherent words, someone else stepped forward from the crowd.

“I thought you didn’t dance, Your Majesty,” a voice chimed in—a woman’s voice, light and teasing yet underscored by unmistakable familiarity. Baroness Caspar stood before them now, her golden hair swept into an elegant updo and her gown shimmering like starlight under the chandelier’s glow. She carried herself with poise but spoke with a casualness that almost bordered on irreverence—a stark contrast to the formality of most guests tonight.

Wriothesley turned to her with a slight bow of acknowledgment. “Baroness,” he greeted her smoothly, though there was a faint edge of amusement in his tone. The woman who spoke to him, Baroness Navia Caspar, was quite a popular figure, Neuvillette learned. Currently she was the youngest person in Fontaine who became a lord, having prematurely succeeded her father after his passing. The youngest lord before her was of course, Wriothesley.

“You’re leaving so soon?” she asked, raising one perfectly arched eyebrow as she tilted her head at him. “Not going to spare one more chance with me?”

The corner of Wriothesley’s mouth twitched upward in what might have been another smile—or perhaps just a flicker of polite deflection. “Maybe next time,” he replied simply, already stepping away before she could press him further.

Neuvillette watched as Wriothesley disappeared into the crowd once more, his broad frame slipping seamlessly among the throng of glittering nobles and swirling dancers. His absence left an odd hollowness behind—a void that Neuvillette felt acutely despite himself. To his surprise, however, Baroness Caspar did not seem remotely disheartened by what could only be described as a blatant rejection. Instead, she turned back toward Neuvillette with an expression of mild curiosity and something resembling amusement.

“Well then,” she said lightly, folding her gloved hands before her. “It seems I’ve been abandoned before the night even began.”

Neuvillette hesitated for only a moment before extending his hand toward her in a gesture both courteous and impulsive. “Would you care to dance with me instead, Baroness Caspar?” he asked, his voice steady despite the lingering turmoil in his chest.

Navia—Baroness Caspar—regarded him for a heartbeat longer than necessary before breaking into a warm smile that lit up her entire face. “I’d be honored,” she replied graciously, placing her hand in his with practiced ease.

As the soft strains of the second song filled the hall, Neuvillette and Navia began to sway to its rhythm, their movements in sync with the melody. The polished marble beneath their feet gleamed faintly in the golden light of the chandeliers, casting delicate reflections that seemed to mirror their graceful steps. Yet, despite the beauty of the moment—the music, the laughter, the glimmering crowd—Neuvillette’s thoughts were elsewhere. His gaze, though polite and attentive to Navia, flickered now and then toward the edge of the room where Wriothesley had disappeared moments ago, his presence lingering like a ghost in Neuvillette’s mind.

The ache within him was subtle but persistent, simmering just beneath his composed exterior. It was not a sharp pain but a quiet weight—a feeling that gnawed at him. Still, he forced himself to focus on Navia, her bright laughter like chimes cutting through his haze of thought. Her smile was infectious, her energy light and warm, and for now, he let himself be drawn into her world, if only to escape his own.

Navia tilted her head slightly as they turned with the music, her golden curls catching the light like spun sunshine. “Something on your mind, Your Highness?” she asked, her tone playfully curious but with a hint of genuine concern beneath it.

Neuvillette shook his head gently, though the movement felt almost mechanical. “Nothing,” he replied, his voice measured and calm as usual. But after a beat, he added with a touch more interest, “I was merely thinking… You seem quite familiar with His Majesty.”

Navia’s expression shifted ever so slightly—her smile remained, but there was a flicker of something else there. Amusement? Nostalgia? Perhaps both. “Oh, I’ve known His Majesty for quite some time,” she admitted lightly. “Almost as long as I’ve known Clorinde. They share the same master, you see.” She twirled gracefully under Neuvillette’s arm before continuing, her voice dropping just enough to make it feel conspiratorial. “But if I’m being honest… I can’t say I’d call myself one of his close acquaintances.”

Neuvillette arched a brow at this. “No?”

Navia laughed softly, though there was a teasing edge to it. “Well… hanging out with him wasn’t exactly what I’d call fun.”

“Fun?” Neuvillette echoed, his tone curious but measured as always.

She waved a hand dismissively as if brushing away her own words. “Never mind what I said,” she replied quickly, though the sparkle in her eyes suggested there was more she wasn’t sharing.

Neuvillette could sense it—the layers beneath her casual words—but he chose not to press further. If Baroness Caspar had a personal relationship with Wriothesley, it was not Neuvillette's place to pry. 

“Baroness,” he said finally, his tone softening as they settled back into step with one another. “If I may… I would like to express my gratitude for all you have done to aid Petrichor. You and Spina di Rosula have been instrumental in bringing hope and relief during such dark times.”

Navia’s expression softened at his words, her smile taking on a more genuine warmth. “Your Highness gives me far too much credit,” she said modestly. “It’s nothing compared to what you’ve done; being there on the ground with them… It must have meant so much to those who had lost so much.”

Neuvillette’s gaze dropped for a moment as if considering her words carefully before responding. “I only did what duty demanded of me,” he said quietly. “It was His Majesty who sent me there. Without his benevolence…” He paused briefly, his tone growing even softer as he glanced away toward the spot where Wriothesley had disappeared once more. “…I wouldn’t have been able to do anything at all.”

Navia studied him for a moment as they continued to dance—a flicker of unknown emotion passing across her features. She didn’t press him further on that point; instead, she offered him another smile, this one tinged with something deeper than mere politeness.

The music swelled around them once again as they continued to move in perfect harmony with one another and the crowd around them. But even amidst the beauty and grace of the moment, Neuvillette couldn’t shake that quiet ache within him—the one that refused to fade no matter how much he tried to drown it in music or conversation or duty. And though he did not say it aloud… somewhere deep within himself, he wondered if Wriothesley felt it too.

The second dance came to an end, the lilting melody of the violins fading into a soft, lingering hum that seemed to echo in the gilded hall. Neuvillette straightened from his poised stance, his gloved hands releasing hers with a practiced elegance. His expression was as serene and composed as ever, though his pale, piercing eyes lingered on her face for just a moment longer than necessary, searching for something unspoken.

She curtsied in response, her movements fluid and precise, like water cascading over smooth stones. There was a grace about her that felt untouched by time—a kind of effortless dignity that drew attention without demanding it. But as she rose from her bow, her lips parted ever so slightly, and out came words that struck Neuvillette like an unexpected gust of wind.

“You… really don’t know anything, do you?”

The words hung in the air between them, delicate yet cutting, like shards of glass suspended by a silken thread. Her voice was calm but carried an edge—an undercurrent of something he couldn’t quite place. Was it frustration? Amusement? Pity? His brow furrowed ever so slightly, the only outward sign of his surprise.

“Pardon?” he asked softly, his tone measured but curious. He tilted his head just a fraction, the light catching the silver strands of his hair as he regarded her with a gaze that could unravel storms. There was no anger in his voice, no defensiveness—only a quiet intrigue that made it impossible to tell whether he was offended or simply intrigued.

Her eyes flickered downward for the briefest moment before meeting his again. They gleamed like polished stone under the warm glow of the chandeliers, unreadable yet brimming with some unspoken emotion. And then came a sigh—soft and fleeting, as though she were exhaling more than just air but also the weight of something she’d long carried.

“Forgive my rudeness earlier,” she said at last, her voice dipping into a tone so formal it felt almost rehearsed. She took a step back, her gown whispering against the marble floor as she prepared to take her leave. “Excuse me.”

But even as she turned away, there was no mistaking the tension in her shoulders or the fleeting glance she cast over one shoulder—one last look at him that seemed to say far more than her carefully chosen words ever could.

“This is the last place I’d expect you to be,” Navia remarked, her voice cutting through the quiet room as she stepped inside. She closed the heavy oak door behind her with a soft click , but her feet remained rooted near the threshold. Her narrowed eyes darted toward the couch where Wriothesley sat, his posture uncharacteristically relaxed. The faint crackle of a fire in the hearth filled the silence between them.

“You think me unsuited for a lounge room?” Wriothesley replied smoothly, his tone laced with dry amusement as he reached for the porcelain teapot resting on the low table before him. The delicate clink of china against china was deliberate, almost theatrical, as he poured himself a cup of tea. Without looking up, he grabbed a second cup and began pouring for Navia as well, his movements precise yet casual.

“You seem quite moody,” he continued, lifting his piercing gaze to meet hers briefly before returning to his task. “Are you breaking off your engagement with Clorinde again?”

The question hit its mark with infuriating precision. Navia’s lips tightened into a thin line before she exhaled sharply, folding her arms across her chest. “You know—” she began, her voice rising slightly in frustration before she caught herself. “Well, you know it’s partly Your Majesty’s fault!”

Wriothesley raised an eyebrow at that, his expression morphing into one of mild curiosity. “Mine? How intriguing.”

“Yes, yours,” Navia snapped, stepping forward but stopping short of the couch. Her boots clicked against the polished marble floor, echoing faintly in the otherwise quiet room. “You make her work to the bone these days—I can hardly see her anymore.”

He leaned back in his seat, cradling his cup in both hands like it was the most fascinating thing in the world. “Ah,” he murmured, his tone teasing yet infuriatingly calm. “I made sure Clorinde received an invitation to this party. She’s quite literally here under this very roof.”

Navia blinked at him, momentarily thrown off by his response before realization dawned on her face like a storm cloud rolling in. Her jaw tightened as she squared her shoulders. “Huh,” she muttered, her voice tinged with annoyance and resignation as she finally pieced together what he was doing. She took another step closer but still kept a deliberate distance between herself and him. “I hate it when you talk in code,” she said sharply, gesturing vaguely toward him with one hand. “But even more so when you refuse to let anyone speak your damn tongue.”

Wriothesley offered no immediate reply. Instead, he took a long sip of his tea, his lips curling into an enigmatic smile that only served to stoke Navia’s irritation further.

“The Prince is really that clueless about all this, isn’t he?” she pressed after a beat, her voice low but insistent.

“I don’t know what you mean,” came Wriothesley’s carefully measured response.

Navia let out a soft growl of frustration, pacing a few steps as she tried to keep her temper in check. “Do you want me to spell out your plan for any potential eavesdropper lingering outside that door?” she shot back, pointing toward the entrance with an accusatory glare. “Or are you going to take me seriously for once?”

“I always take you seriously, Baroness,” Wriothesley replied evenly..

“Says the lying traitor,” Navia retorted with a roll of her eyes. Her words were sharp, laced with venom, but they lacked the heat they might have carried years ago; there was something more calculated about her now—a woman who had learned how to wield her anger without letting it control her.

Wriothesley chuckled softly under his breath at her remark but chose not to rise to her bait just yet. Instead, he set his cup down on its saucer with deliberate care before leaning back into the cushions of the couch.

“How did you manage to convince the council to change the plan?” Navia demanded after a moment of tense silence, her voice hard and steady now as she crossed her arms again. Her gaze bore into him like twin daggers aimed straight at his heart. “This wasn’t what you were supposed to do.”

For a moment, Wriothesley simply regarded her in silence, his sharp blue eyes studying her as though weighing whether or not she deserved an answer. Then, slowly—infuriatingly slowly, a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“My father was involved in this from the very beginning,” he said finally, his voice calm and measured but carrying an undeniable edge of authority. “Long before you ever had a say in it. Do you think I wouldn’t know everything?” 

 “Sometimes,” Wriothesley replied softly yet firmly, “i’s better not to burden yourself with knowledge that could weigh you down.”

“Spare me your riddles,” Navia shot back without missing a beat. There was no fear in her eyes—only simmering anger and something far sharper: determination.

“And for the record,” Wriothesley added smoothly as though he hadn't heard her protest, “I never betrayed Spina di Rosula.”

Navia’s eyes narrowed further at that particular phrasing—his deliberate choice of words wasn’t lost on her. “Now you’re just spinning my words,” she said coldly. While outwardly composed, she could feel frustration bubbling just beneath the surface; he’d dodged accountability yet again by clinging to technicalities.

“You think me disloyal because I act in accordance with my own principles?” Wriothesley countered smoothly.

“My father vouched for you,” Navia pressed on stubbornly, unwilling to let him steer their conversation away from its course. Her voice softened slightly—not out of weakness but out of simmering disappointment laced between every word. “He trusted you because of your duchy… because of your relationship with the Prince.” Her tone darkened once more as she moved closer still until only inches separated them. “So why are you stealing the throne for yourself?”

Wriothesley paused at that accusation—not because it startled him but because it never ceased to surprise him how little she understood… or perhaps how much she thought she did.

“Do you want it?” he asked suddenly—quietly—but there was steel beneath those words that made them resonate heavily between them.

“What?” Navia blinked in surprise.

“The throne,” Wriothesley clarified coolly as he leaned closer. His voice dropped into something dangerously soft and intimate: “Do you want it?”

“Of course not!” Navia burst out almost immediately before scowling at him for daring to ask such a ridiculous question.

“Then…” Wriothesley straightened up again with an air of finality about him, his broad shoulders set as if he had just sealed a deal in his mind. The subtle shift in his posture conveyed authority, a man used to having the last word. His gloved hand rested lightly against the edge of the desk, his fingers tapping once—a small but deliberate punctuation to the tension hanging between them. His eyes, cold and calculating as winter’s frost, bore into Navia with an intensity that seemed to dare her to challenge him further.

“…You could not possibly understand my reason.” His words fell like a gavel striking down in court—measured, irrevocable.

Wriothesley rose from his seat with a fluid grace that belied the weight of his imposing frame. The couch creaked faintly in protest as he left it behind, but he paid it no mind. Towering over Navia now, he moved deliberately into her space, closing the distance between them with slow, deliberate steps. His height was a weapon here, a reminder of who held the upper hand—or so he believed.  

“Do not take this the wrong way,” he began, his voice low yet edged with steel. It was the tone of someone who had long since mastered the art of veiling threats in civility. “But our fellow conspirator was Baron Caspar.” He paused slightly here, watching for her reaction, though none came—not immediately. “And we kept our promise to his interests. The fact that you are your father’s successor does not automatically make you our ally.”

Navia didn’t flinch—not at his words, nor at his looming presence. There was no shrinking back, no faltering under the weight of his scrutiny. Her hands rested loosely at her sides, but her fingers twitched ever so slightly–a subtle betrayal of the fury simmering just beneath her calm exterior. Her eyes burned with quiet defiance, like embers refusing to be extinguished even by the most relentless storm.

For a moment, silence stretched taut between them, thick and suffocating like smoke after a blaze. And then she smirked—a slow, deliberate curl of her lips that spoke volumes more than words ever could. The expression was not one of submission but of provocation, daring him to underestimate her again.

“Your Majesty,” she began smoothly, her voice laced with mock politeness that dripped like honey over a blade. “It is very inappropriate to threaten a lady, you know.”

The corner of Wriothesley’s mouth quirked up in response—not quite a smile but something akin to amusement flickering briefly across his otherwise unyielding visage. “Oh,” he said with a chuckle that rumbled deep in his chest like distant thunder. “Where are my manners?”

He turned away abruptly, breaking the standoff between their gazes as if dismissing it entirely. Crossing the room with purposeful strides, he reached for his coat draped neatly over the back of a chair near the window. The leather sighed faintly under his grip as he swung it over one shoulder with practiced ease.

“I’ll give Clorinde a long vacation to make up for it,” he continued casually as though they were discussing nothing more consequential than the weather. There was a hint of teasing in his tone now—subtle but unmistakable. Yet beneath it lay something sharper: a calculated move meant to keep her guessing at whether he was jesting or entirely serious. “But you’ll have to find me a replacement for her set of skills during her absence.”

Navia raised an eyebrow at that, her smirk deepening into something almost conspiratorial. “Like I said,” she replied coolly, folding her arms across her chest in a gesture both confident and dismissive, “I can arrange an afternoon tea with the Director of House of the Hearth.”

Wriothesley froze mid-step as though her words had struck some hidden nerve—though if they had, he gave no outward sign beyond the briefest flicker in his expression. Slowly, he turned back toward her, one hand still resting on the doorframe while the other hung loose at his side.

“Jings, Baroness!” he exclaimed suddenly, throwing both hands up in mock horror as if she’d just suggested something truly scandalous. His voice took on an exaggerated tone that bordered on theatrical—but there was no missing the glint of genuine amusement in his eyes now. “How could you say that? I’m a married man.”

Navia offered no response, and the door clicked shut behind Wriothesley softly—but its echo lingered long after he was gone.

It was expected that Wriothesley did not intend to linger at this party for long. When he returned from wherever he had disappeared to, his stride was brisk, his expression unreadable save for the faint crease of impatience on his brow.

“Neuvillette,” Wriothesley’s voice was low but firm, cutting through the hum of conversation and the soft strains of a string quartet playing in the background. “We’re leaving.”

Neuvillette tilted his head slightly, a flicker of surprise crossing his face, but he did not question Wriothesley. “I understand.”

As they made their way toward the exit, a glimmer of movement caught Neuvillette’s eye. It was Navia.

She stood apart from the crowd, leaning against one of the grand marble pillars that lined the grand hall like silent sentinels. Her champagne glass dangled loosely from her fingers, though she didn’t seem particularly interested in its contents. Her gaze was distant, fixed somewhere beyond the room’s ornate walls, lost in a realm of thoughts unknown to him.

Neuvillette hesitated for a moment, his gaze lingering on her. There was something about her posture—the slight droop of her shoulders, the way her lips pressed together in a faint line—that spoke of weariness, or perhaps something deeper. He turned slightly toward Wriothesley, “Your Majesty,” Neuvillette called out softly, “Could you spare me a moment? I’d like to speak with someone before we leave.”

Wriothesley paused mid-step and glanced back over his shoulder with an arched brow. His expression was one of mild curiosity mixed with exasperation—though whether it was directed at Neuvillette or the situation as a whole was unclear.

“Fine,” Wriothesley said with a casual wave of his hand before continuing toward the door. “I’ll be in the carriage.”

Neuvillette inclined his head in acknowledgment before turning fully toward Navia. As he approached her, he slowed his steps, careful not to startle her from whatever reverie held her captive. The sound of his polished shoes against the marble floor was muffled by the ambient noise of the room—a gentle rhythm that seemed to mirror his own heartbeat.

“Excuse me, Baroness Caspar.” he said softly when he was close enough for her to hear without raising his voice.

She blinked once, twice, as if surfacing from deep waters. Her gaze shifted to him slowly, and for a brief moment, it seemed she struggled to place him amidst her thoughts. But then recognition dawned in her eyes—a flicker of warmth that chased away some of the shadows lingering there.

“Ah, Your Highness,” Navia greeted him. Her lips curved into a faint smile, polite yet distant, but the light in her eyes betrayed none of the warmth that such a gesture might have promised. Instead, her gaze flickered briefly to the grand marble column behind him—an avoidance so subtle it could have been mistaken for shyness. “I didn’t see you there.”

The prince inclined his head slightly in acknowledgment, his movements deliberate yet unpracticed, as though every gesture still carried the weight of royal scrutiny. His hair swayed gently with his motion, catching the golden glow of the chandeliers above. “I would like to sincerely apologize to you,” he said softly, though his tone carried an earnestness that seemed unusual in an environment so accustomed to courtly facades.

Navia blinked at him, her composure faltering for just a moment as confusion crept into her features. “Eh?” she breathed, the sound barely louder than a whisper. Then her eyebrows furrowed slightly in disbelief. “Huh? For what?”

He hesitated briefly, his gloved hands brushing against each other—not as a reflex of defense but as though grounding himself in the moment. The silence between them stretched thin, almost fragile. Finally, he confessed, “You seemed upset at the end of our dance earlier.” His eyes searched hers for some confirmation of what he feared to be true. “Perhaps I said something wrong?”

For a moment, Navia’s expression softened, but it was quickly replaced by a flicker of something unreadable—guardedness or guilt, perhaps. She shook her head firmly, the jeweled pins in her hair catching the light as they shifted with her movement. “No,” she said, her voice steady despite the turmoil in her chest. “Your Highness did not do nor say anything wrong at all.” Her hands clenched briefly at her sides before she folded them neatly in front of her gown. The fabric rustled softly with the motion. “It is me who needs to apologize for my rude remarks.”

The prince tilted his head slightly at her words, his brow creasing in thought. “You were not wrong.” His voice dropped lower—not out of secrecy but with an almost confessional sincerity that made Navia feel momentarily unsteady. “I do not understand many things,” he admitted, his gaze dropping for just a moment before finding hers again. “I lack the experience and wisdom that other nobles have mastered to ensure the prosperity of their people.”

His words came slowly, as if each syllable had been carefully chosen from a wellspring of self-awareness—a quality rarely seen in those born into crowns and titles. He exhaled softly, almost imperceptibly, and straightened his posture as though steeling himself against some unseen judgment. “But I intend to learn.”

Navia’s lips parted slightly in surprise at his candor. She studied him silently for a moment longer than propriety allowed.

“Nevertheless,” he continued before she could respond, his voice growing steadier with resolve, “I am relieved to know someone as remarkable as you is one of the pillars that hold this nation together.” There was no trace of flattery in his tone; rather, it was spoken with such quiet conviction that Navia found herself unable to look away from him.

“I may be slow in catching up,” he added with an almost boyish humility that seemed entirely incongruous with his station. A faint smile tugged at the corners of his mouth—hesitant but genuine. “But I hope you will continue to lend us a hand.”

Navia’s heart twisted at his words—a sensation both disarming and unwelcome. She had spent years fortifying herself against moments like these: moments when this man’s sincerity finally threatened to breach the armor she had so carefully constructed around herself. For all she knew, Prince Neuvillette was not qualified to become a King and for so long she never questioned her father’s intention to conspire with other lords because Neuvillette was Fontaine’s only other option. It was either him or compensate with different evil.

Her father died for him and he did not even know it–Navia could not help but feel frustrated by his mere presence. A physical manifestation of what was traded for her father’s soul.

But now… now she found herself wavering.

She drew in a breath and lowered her gaze to the polished marble floor between them, where their reflections shimmered faintly beneath the flickering light of countless candles. “I will help you,” she murmured finally, though her voice lacked its usual sharpness.

The Prince Consort stiffened slightly at her words, his shoulders straightening as if bracing for something he hadn’t expected. Relief flickered across his face—a fleeting expression he quickly masked with a measured nod. “Thank you—” he began, his tone formal, restrained, as though careful not to overstep.

But before he could finish, Navia moved with sudden purpose. Her hand shot out and captured his in a firm grasp, her fingers curling tightly around his own. Neuvillette’s eyes widened slightly in surprise, his usual composure faltering under the intensity of her gaze.

“I will,” she interrupted him, her voice stronger now, steadier. Her grip tightened as if anchoring them both to this moment. She raised her chin and lifted her eyes to meet his once more. “Help you .”

Chapter Text

“Where are we going today, Your Highness?” the coachman asked, his voice carrying a light, almost mischievous lilt that immediately caught Neuvillette off guard. The man’s tone was far too casual for such a formal address, and it pulled Neuvillette from his morning reverie like a sudden gust of wind scattering neatly arranged papers.

The question hung in the crisp morning air, strange and unexpected. Neuvillette blinked once, then twice, as if the words needed time to fully register.

Neuvillette received another order from Wriothesley yesterday to handle something for him, something about visiting a hospital near the aquabus main station, though he also was vague about it, saying that someone would brief Neuvillette about the details on the way to the hospital.

So, here he was, but somehow it seemed like that was not the case at all. He adjusted his gloves, glancing instinctively toward the grand entrance of Palais Mermonia. The pale morning light bathed the marble steps in a soft glow, but the usual bustle of attendants and staff was conspicuously absent. Only a pair of guards stood at their posts, statuesque and silent. His carriage stood ready as always—polished wood gleaming, gilded accents catching the light—but there was no sign of the usual flurry of preparation that accompanied his daily duties.

“I thought—” Neuvillette began, his voice faltering slightly as he scanned the empty courtyard. His sharp gaze darted between the coachman’s curious smile and the stillness around them. “I do not—”

“He meant that you could choose your destination today,” came a voice from behind him, smooth and tinged with amusement. Neuvillette turned swiftly to find Wriothesley leaning against one of the marble columns just outside the entrance. The King’s dark attire contrasted starkly with the pale stone backdrop, and as always, he carried himself with an effortless air of authority. His arms were crossed over his chest, but there was a subtle glint in his eyes—a rare softness that hinted at something more playful beneath his regal exterior.

“You’ve earned a day off,” Wriothesley continued, stepping forward until he was just within arm’s reach.

Neuvillette blinked again, momentarily stunned. “A… day off?” He repeated the words slowly, as if testing their weight on his tongue. It wasn’t that he didn’t understand the concept—it had simply never occurred to him that such a thing would be granted to him. His days these days were meticulously planned, each hour accounted for in service to Fontaine and its people. To have an entire day with no obligations felt almost… alien.

“Yes,” Wriothesley confirmed with a small chuckle. “You know; time for yourself? Rest? Leisure? Or have you forgotten what those words mean?”

“I can go anywhere?” Neuvillette asked cautiously, still half-convinced this was some kind of elaborate test or riddle.

“Of course,” Wriothesley replied, his tone light but sincere. “Anywhere your heart desires.”

Neuvillette hesitated, his mind racing to make sense of this unexpected gift. Part of him wondered if there was some hidden agenda—perhaps a duty disguised as leisure—but another part dared to believe that this was genuine. Wriothesley had always been enigmatic, but he was not cruel to Neuvillette. If he said Neuvillette could choose any destination, perhaps it was true.

Still, doubt lingered at the edges of his thoughts. It could be a trick, he mused silently. Perhaps there truly was something urgent waiting at the hospital—a matter so delicate it required subterfuge to bring him there without alarming others. Yet… Wriothesley’s expression betrayed no ulterior motive. If anything, there was an openness in his demeanor that Neuvillette found disarming.

“I…” He began tentatively before trailing off. A flicker of excitement sparked deep within him as memories of places long yearned for began to surface. As a boy confined within Palais Mermonia’s gilded walls, he had dreamed endlessly of exploring Fontaine’s wonders: the sea that the nation was most proud of, bustling markets overflowing with colors and scents, serene gardens where time seemed to stand still, ancient ruins whispering secrets of the past…

But among all those cherished dreams, one place stood out above the rest—a place steeped in history and mystery, tied irrevocably to Wriothesley himself.

“I want to go to Meropide,” Neuvillette said quietly but firmly.

The words seemed to echo in the space between them. For a moment, Neuvillette held his breath, watching Wriothesley’s face intently for any sign of displeasure or offense. The King had spoken often of abolishing his former duchy—of leaving behind its shadowed legacy—but Neuvillette knew better than most how deeply those roots ran. Would Wriothesley see this request as disrespectful? As prying into something best left buried?

“If that is not acceptable…” Neuvillette added quickly, lowering his gaze slightly in deference. “I can choose another place.”

“No,” Wriothesley said after a brief pause, shaking his head with a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “It’s not unacceptable at all.” He straightened up from where he had been leaning and took a step closer. “But I’ll admit—it’s not exactly a popular tourist destination.”

Neuvillette looked up again, hope flickering in his eyes like sunlight breaking through clouds. “Then… it is permissible?”

“Of course,” Wriothesley replied warmly before adding with a wry grin, “Though I don’t think anyone here has ever been there before—especially not in its current state anyway.” He tilted his head slightly as if considering something before continuing, “Do you mind if I tag along?”

Neuvillette’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Your Majesty… wishes to accompany me?”

“It’s safer that way,” Wriothesley said, his voice carrying an easy confidence as he offered a casual shrug. His words, though lighthearted on the surface, carried a weight that Neuvillette couldn’t quite ignore. “Meropide isn’t exactly known for its easy route.”

Neuvillette studied him closely for a moment, noting the way Wriothesley’s posture remained relaxed, almost deliberately so, like someone accustomed to dangerous paths yet unbothered by their challenges. There was no boastfulness in his demeanor—only a quiet assurance, as if this was simply fact.

“Besides,” Wriothesley added after a beat, his voice dropping just enough that it softened the edges of his words. There was something almost imperceptible in his tone—an undercurrent of sincerity that cut through his usual air of nonchalance. “I know the place better than anyone else alive.”

The statement hung in the air between them, unassuming yet oddly profound. Neuvillette felt something shift within him—a flicker of emotion he hadn’t anticipated. Gratitude? Yes, certainly that. But there was something else too; relief, perhaps? It took him by surprise how much lighter the prospect of venturing into Meropide felt with Wriothesley beside him.

Wriothesley’s sharp eyes flicked back to him when Neuvillette didn’t immediately respond. The silence stretched just long enough to make Wriothesley raise an eyebrow, his expression shifting slightly into something more inquisitive. “Unless you’ve got someone else you’d rather be with?” he said suddenly, breaking the silence with an edge of playfulness in his voice.

The words startled Neuvillette out of his thoughts. Wriothesley’s tone was lighthearted again, but there was a subtle shift in his gaze—a flicker of something almost unreadable beneath the teasing remark. Was it hesitation? Concern? Neuvillette couldn’t quite tell. He realized then that Wriothesley might have misunderstood his silence as reluctance.

“No,” Neuvillette replied quickly—perhaps too quickly. His voice came out sharper than intended, and he immediately softened it with the next words, fearing Wriothesley might retract his offer if he hesitated further. “Let’s go.” He met Wriothesley’s gaze directly this time, as if trying to convey just how much he meant it.

Wriothesley blinked at him for a moment before breaking into an amused grin, but Neuvillette wasn’t finished.

“I want you to come too.” 

When they arrived at Meropide, the journey's turbulence still lingered in Neuvillette’s bones. The winding path had been treacherous, its uneven terrain jostling the carriage until even the most stoic traveler might have felt nauseous. Just as Wriothesley had warned, it was as if time itself had forgotten this desolate place. The town lay unnaturally quiet, a suffocating stillness broken only by the rhythmic clatter of the carriage horses' hooves echoing against the barren streets. Each strike of hoof against stone seemed to reverberate endlessly, filling the void where life and laughter once resided.

The town emerged from the horizon like a ghost materializing from mist—silent and unmoving, its silhouette fractured against the dull sky. A suffocating stillness blanketed everything, so oppressive it seemed to muffle even the natural world. Not a single bird called from above; not a whisper of wind stirred the skeletal trees that lined what must have once been proud streets. The only sound was the steady clatter of the horses’ hooves striking stone, each impact reverberating through the empty air with a hollow finality. It was as though every echo sought to fill a void far too vast for sound alone to conquer.

Neuvillette leaned forward slightly in his seat, steadying himself with one hand against the window frame. His other rested lightly on his lap, but his fingers twitched with unease, betraying the calm façade he struggled to maintain. The polished glass felt cold beneath his palm as he peered out at the desolation unfolding before him. He had seen ruins before in books—ancient temples reclaimed by nature, battlegrounds long abandoned to time—but this was different. This wasn’t merely a place forgotten by history; it was a place deliberately destroyed, its spirit crushed underfoot by forces that cared nothing for what had once thrived here.

The houses that lined the streets were nothing more than skeletal remains now—charred frames and crumbling walls standing as grim testaments to what had been lost. Roofs sagged or had caved in entirely, their jagged edges thrusting skyward like broken ribs exposed to an uncaring world, pointing toward the sky like accusing fingers. Where windows and doors once welcomed light and life, there were now only gaping voids that seemed to stare back at him with hollow indifference.

The town square came into view next, or what remained of it. Once a gathering place for neighbors and friends, it now resembled an open wound at the heart of Meropide. The trees that had likely offered shade during festivals and market days stood stripped bare, their spindly branches clawing at the gray sky like desperate hands reaching for something they couldn’t grasp. Dust coated every surface—a fine layer that dulled even the faintest traces of color—as though time itself had conspired to smother any lingering spark of vitality.

Neuvillette’s gaze lingered on a fountain at the center of the square. Its stone basin was cracked and dry, its once-proud statue lying toppled beside it in pieces. He tried to imagine children playing here once upon a time, their laughter ringing out across cobblestones now buried beneath debris and ash. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t conjure the image fully; it was as though even his imagination recoiled from touching something so irrevocably broken.

The faint stench of smoke and decay drifted through the air—a ghostly reminder of whatever had torn this place apart. It wasn’t overpowering anymore; time had dulled its potency along with everything else here. But it lingered nonetheless, persistent and unyielding like an unwelcome guest refusing to leave.

As Neuvillette stepped down from the carriage, the faint groan of its wooden frame fading into silence, his boots sank into the soft, rain-soaked earth. The ground seemed unwilling to let go, clinging to his soles as if tethering him to the weight of what lay ahead. He paused mid-step, his gloved hand tightening briefly on the doorframe of the carriage before he let it fall to his side. The air was heavy with moisture and a faint metallic tang that hinted at decay, wrapping around him like an unwelcome shroud. His chest rose and fell in a measured rhythm, but his mind churned with emotions he could not yet name—an amalgamation of dread, grief, and a reluctant determination. It pressed upon him like an unseen iron hand, unyielding in its grip.

Ahead of him, Wriothesley’s mansion loomed like a phantom from another life. Once a beacon of grandeur and stability, it now stood as a hollow shell of its former self—a monument to ruin and regret. The estate’s walls bore deep scars; blackened streaks from fire marred their surface, creeping upward like skeletal fingers clawing at the pale stone. Moss and ivy had begun their silent conquest in the absence of care, their tendrils spilling over broken ledges like green veins on lifeless skin. The grand front door hung awkwardly on its hinges, one corner tilted downward as if bowing under the weight of its own defeat. Each gust of wind that swept through its fractured threshold elicited a low groan, a sound that seemed less mechanical and more like the mourning sigh of a wounded beast.

Beneath shattered windows lay jagged shards of glass scattered across the flagstones like fallen stars. They caught what little sunlight pierced through them, glinting briefly before being swallowed by shadow once more. A tangle of thorny brambles had claimed much of the once-manicured garden, their wiry branches reaching out as if to ensnare anyone who dared approach. The mansion seemed alive in its desolation—a grotesque parody of what it had been, whispering stories of splendor turned to sorrow for anyone willing to listen.

Neuvillette’s throat tightened as he took a hesitant step forward. His polished boots crunched against gravel half-buried beneath mud and weeds, each sound sharp and jarring against the oppressive silence. He faltered slightly as he approached the uneven stone steps leading to the door, his composure slipping just enough for his hesitation to show. He didn’t need to glance back to know Wriothesley was standing just behind him; the man’s presence was palpable; a silent, simmering force that filled the space between them. It wasn’t just silence; it was absence and weight all at once, an energy so charged it felt like it could ignite if either man spoke too soon.

Neuvillette turned his head fractionally toward Wriothesley without fully meeting his gaze. "I didn’t expect it to be..." He paused as if searching for a word that wouldn’t wound further but found none. Instead, his voice softened under the strain of empathy. "Like this."

Wriothesley’s jaw tightened visibly, his profile etched in stoic defiance against the backdrop of encroaching ruin. His arms were crossed tightly over his broad chest, not out of indifference but as if physically bracing himself against something unseen. "What did you expect?" he asked quietly, though there was no accusation in his tone—only a bitter resignation that seemed to cut deeper than anger ever could.

Neuvillette hesitated before answering, his hair catching a brief glimmer of light as he inclined his head slightly downward. "I don’t know," he admitted finally, almost inaudibly. "Not this." His words carried with them an unspoken acknowledgment—that no one should have to see their past reduced to ashes and fragments.

Wriothesley exhaled sharply through his nose and turned away from Neuvillette's scrutiny, his gaze locking onto the mansion instead as if daring it to confront him directly. "It looks worse than I remember," he muttered after a long pause, his voice barely above a whisper yet weighted with something raw and jagged. This place was steeped in memories for Wriothesley; Neuvillette could sense it in every fractured detail of the mansion before him. Happy memories, perhaps—but they were irrevocably tainted now by tragedy, by choices that could never be undone.

A tragedy that Wriothesley himself had ordered.

Neuvillette reached out hesitantly, his gloved fingers brushing against the cold, rough surface of one of the mansion's remaining walls. The stone felt lifeless beneath his touch, as if it carried the weight of all that had transpired here. A wave of despair crashed over him, threatening to drown him in its depths. He closed his eyes for a moment, inhaling deeply despite the acrid air that burned his lungs. The distant howl of a lone wolf echoed through the desolation, haunting and sorrowful—and for a fleeting moment, Neuvillette felt as though it mourned alongside him.

"I told you," Wriothesley's voice cut through the silence like a blade. It was calm yet laced with exasperation. "there was nothing left here."

Neuvillette opened his eyes and turned to face him. Wriothesley still stood several paces behind him, arms crossed over his chest and an unreadable expression etched onto his face. There was no anger there—only resignation and a hint of something softer, something deeply buried beneath layers of hardened resolve.

"I'm sorry."

"Sorry?" Wriothesley raised an eyebrow, though there was no mockery in his tone—only weariness. "What are you sorry for? For not believing me?"

"For everything," Neuvillette admitted quietly, lowering his head as shame washed over him. "For not understanding…"

Wriothesley regarded him for a long moment before letting out a heavy sigh. He unfolded his arms and took a step closer, though he kept some distance between them—as if unsure whether to offer comfort or maintain detachment.

"You see broken things and want to make them whole again. That’s why you don’t believe me. That’s why you come here thinking there’s something salvageable." He glanced past Neuvillette toward the ruined mansion and shook his head slightly. "But some things… some things are meant to stay broken."

Neuvillette looked up at him then, searching his face for any trace of bitterness or anger—but there was none. Only acceptance.

Neuvillette murmured after a pause, "I sincerely apologize, Your Majesty."

For a moment, neither man spoke—each lost in their own thoughts as they stood amidst the wreckage of what had once been so much more than just stone and mortar.

Finally, Wriothesley broke the silence, his eyes narrowing slightly as he tilted his head toward the mansion's crumbling facade. “It’s fine,” Wriothesley murmured, though his voice lacked conviction. A sigh escaped him, soft but weighted, as though he were exhaling more than just air—perhaps an unspoken tension or a regret buried deep within him. His tone softened as he glanced at Neuvillette, who stood watching him with quiet curiosity.

“Let’s just go,” he added, his voice steadier now, though a thread of weariness still clung to his words. A faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “We might be able to make it to Opera Epiclese and catch the last show of the day.”

Neuvillette nodded after a pause, but as he lifted his gaze to respond, a flicker of movement caught his attention—a glimmer of light bouncing off something hidden behind the dense trees ahead, somehow untouched by the ruins.

A spark of curiosity ignited within him. “Is that…?” His voice trailed off before he could complete the question. Without waiting for confirmation or explanation, Neuvillette took a step forward, his long coat swaying with the sudden motion. He squinted into the distance, trying to discern what had captured his attention. “It looks like a lake,” he said finally, excitement creeping into his usually calm tone. There was a rare brightness in his expression now—a childlike wonder that softened his otherwise regal demeanor.

Wriothesley turned to follow Neuvillette’s gaze, his brows furrowing slightly. “A lake?” he echoed, though there was no enthusiasm in his voice—only hesitation. His eyes flickered toward the shadows beyond the trees, and for a moment, something unreadable passed across his face. “Oh, that’s—well…”

But before he could elaborate—or perhaps dissuade Neuvillette—he seemed to think better of it. With an almost imperceptible shake of his head, he gestured sharply in the opposite direction and took a step forward himself. “Come with me,” he said briskly, motioning for Neuvillette to follow.

Neuvillette hesitated, torn between curiosity and obedience. He cast one last glance toward the glimmering light before turning on his heel to follow Wriothesley’s lead. As they moved away from the mansion and deeper into the wooded path, a profound stillness settled over them—the kind that seems to amplify every sound: the crunch of their boots on gravel, the rustle of leaves overhead, even their measured breathing.

But then the landscape began to change. The hard-packed earth beneath their feet softened gradually into lush grass that sprang back with every step they took. The air grew cooler, tinged with an unmistakable freshness that hinted at water nearby. Sunlight filtered through the canopy above in fragmented beams, dappling their path with shifting patterns of gold and shadow.

Neuvillette’s pace slowed as they emerged from the dense cluster of trees and stepped onto an open stretch of land that sloped gently downward. His breath hitched as his eyes widened in awe.

Before them lay a vast expanse of water so clear it seemed otherworldly—its surface shimmering like liquid glass under the muted sunlight that peeked through overcast skies. The lake stretched far into the distance, its edges bordered by tall reeds that swayed lazily in the breeze. The turquoise hue of the water was unlike anything Neuvillette had ever seen—a vibrant contrast to the barren wastelands surrounding Meropide.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The only sound was the gentle lapping of waves against the shore—a rhythmic melody that seemed to resonate with something deep within Neuvillette’s chest. He inhaled deeply, savoring the mingling scents of fresh water and damp earth. There was a tranquility here that felt almost sacred.

“This…” Neuvillette began softly, his voice barely louder than a whisper. He turned to Wriothesley with an expression that was equal parts wonder and melancholy. “This feels… out of place.”

Wriothesley had been staring at the lake too, though his gaze was far less enchanted and far more guarded. His jaw tightened slightly as he crossed his arms over his chest. “It is,” he said curtly.

Neuvillette frowned at the cryptic response but chose not to press further—at least not yet. Instead, he stepped closer to the water’s edge, marveling at how its surface mirrored the sky above so perfectly that it was difficult to tell where one ended and the other began.

The soft sand beneath his feet gave way to smooth pebbles as he crouched down by the shoreline. He carefully removed his gloves and then he reached out tentatively with one hand and dipped his marred fingers into the cool water. A shiver ran up his spine—not from cold but from an inexplicable sensation that seemed to pulse through him the moment he made contact with it.

“This is such a lousy destination, huh? What a waste of your day off,” Wriothesley muttered, his words laced with bitterness that clung to the crisp air. He stuffed his hands into his coat pockets, his fingers curling into fists as though trying to grip onto something tangible in the face of his frustration. The faint crunch of gravel underfoot seemed louder in the stillness of the moment.

Neuvillette, walking a step towards him, tilted his head slightly at the comment. His pale eyes, calm like the surface of an untouched lake, lingered on Wriothesley’s tense shoulders. A gentle breeze rustled through the nearby trees, carrying the scent of damp earth, but Neuvillette appeared untouched by the chill. His voice was steady when he replied, “No, it is not.” He didn’t elaborate at first, instead allowing the silence between them to stretch—an invitation for Wriothesley to speak further if he chose.

But when no response came, Neuvillette pressed on with quiet insistence. “Your Majesty,” he began again, his tone softening to a note of concern, “have you taken any break at all? Since–”

Neuvillette’s gaze flickered downward for just a moment before returning to Wriothesley’s eyes. There were things unsaid between them—things that neither of them had yet dared to voice aloud. But even now, Neuvillette’s question wasn’t meant to pry; it was an offering, a subtle reminder that someone noticed. Despite everything, someone cared.

“We probably should leave now before it gets dark on the way back,” he said brusquely, his words clipped as though trying to end the conversation before it could dig any deeper. “The road can get pretty dangerous.”

For a moment—just a moment—Wriothesley’s carefully constructed facade cracked ever so slightly under the weight of his own words. His shoulders tensed visibly; his jaw tightened as though biting back something he couldn’t quite say aloud. His eyes—usually so sharp and unwavering—betrayed him with a flicker of hesitation, a fleeting shadow of vulnerability that disappeared almost as quickly as it had surfaced.

He turned on his heel abruptly, breaking eye contact entirely and heading back up the path without waiting for Neuvillette to follow. “Let’s just keep moving,” he said over his shoulder—this time with less bite but more urgency in his tone. His strides were long and purposeful, almost as if trying to outrun whatever emotion had threatened to surface moments ago.

Neuvillette watched him go for a moment before falling into step behind him. His own pace was slower, more contemplative as he let his gaze wander across their surroundings—the towering trees swaying gently in rhythm with the wind, the scattered patches of wildflowers clinging stubbornly to life despite the encroaching cold of late autumn. There was beauty here if one cared enough to see it.

Then, suddenly, Neuvillette remained rooted where he stood for several long seconds—his gaze lingering on Wriothesley’s retreating figure before drifting back toward the shimmering expanse of water behind him.

Something about this place felt important—significant—even if Wriothesley refused to acknowledge it outright.

And Neuvillette wasn’t sure if he was ready to leave just yet.

After a few more seconds of lingering behind, Neuvillette found himself losing sight of Wriothesley's figure as it blurred into the distance, the man’s strides carrying him further along the winding forest path. The trees leaned in close on either side of the trail, their gnarled branches cast long shadows that sprawled across the ground like reaching fingers.

Putting his gloves back, just as he was about to quicken his pace to catch up, a faint rustling sound reached his ears. It came from the woods just off the path, soft yet distinct—a shuffle of leaves, almost imperceptible beneath the occasional whisper of wind through the canopy. Neuvillette paused mid-step, his head tilting slightly as his pale brows furrowed. He glanced toward the dense underbrush, his sharp gaze searching for movement. The sound was so subtle that for a moment, he thought he might have imagined it or that it came from deeper within the forest where the trees grew darker and closer together. But then it came again—closer this time.

Curiosity piqued, Neuvillette turned off the path, moving with careful precision so as not to disturb whatever lay ahead. The crunch of twigs and leaves beneath his boots was muffled by his deliberate steps. As he approached the source of the noise, he gently pushed aside a tangle of branches and saw something small and shadowed emerge hesitantly from behind a cluster of bushes. His breath hitched when light fell on it—a dog, its trembling form barely distinguishable from the shadows clinging to its fur.

Neuvillette had never seen a dog in person before but he recognized the breed from a book. A rottweiler, though its strong breed was reduced to little more than skin and bones. The animal whimpered softly, its voice raw and broken like it hadn’t been used in weeks—or perhaps months. Its coat was matted with dirt and dried blood, patches of fur missing entirely to reveal raw, inflamed skin underneath. One back leg hung awkwardly as if it could barely bear weight on it, and even from where Neuvillette stood, he could see how emaciated it was—its ribs pressing sharply against its sides like fragile bars holding together what little life remained in its body.

Neuvillette’s heart clenched painfully at the sight. His first instinct was to step forward and help, but as soon as his boot scraped against a stone, the dog flinched violently, retreating a step into the shadows with a low growl that quickly dissolved into another pitiful whimper. Its dark eyes were wide with fear, darting between Neuvillette and potential escapes into the forest.

He froze where he was, lowering himself slowly into a crouch to make himself appear less threatening. His expression softened as he extended both hands outward, palms facing up in an open gesture of peace. “It’s all right,” he murmured softly, laced with warmth and reassurance. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

For several tense moments, the dog didn’t move except for the faint rise and fall of its ragged breaths. Neuvillette stayed perfectly still, his patience unwavering despite the ache building in his knees from crouching on uneven ground. Finally, with hesitant steps that spoke of desperation overriding fear, the dog limped toward him. It stopped just short of his outstretched hands, sniffing them warily before pressing its cold nose briefly against his fingers.

“There we go,” Neuvillette said gently, relief flooding through him as he carefully moved one hand to stroke its head. The dog didn’t pull away but leaned ever so slightly into his touch—a fragile sign of trust that made his chest tighten with emotion.

As he examined it more closely under what little light filtered through the trees, Neuvillette’s relief gave way to deeper concern. The injuries were worse than they had seemed at first glance—the wound on its leg was crusted over with dried blood that cracked with every movement, and its malnourished frame trembled even as it remained still under his touch.

Without hesitation or regard for what Wriothesley might say later, Neuvillette shrugged off his coat—a finely tailored garment that now seemed frivolous compared to the creature shivering before him—and gently wrapped it around the dog’s frail body. The fabric swallowed its thin frame entirely but offered some semblance of warmth and comfort.

“I’m taking you somewhere safe,” he murmured softly to the dog as he slid one arm under its belly and another beneath its injured leg to lift it carefully into his arms. The animal stiffened momentarily but didn’t resist; it was too weak to fight back even if it wanted to.

When Neuvillette returned to the path carrying the bundled dog against his chest, Wriothesley was already there by their carriage, leaning casually against its side with an air of impatience that melted into surprise as soon as he saw them.

“Neuvillette,” Wriothesley began in a tone that carried equal parts confusion and exasperation, “what in—”

“I apologize,” Neuvillette interrupted quickly as he approached, his tone calm but pleading. “He’s injured—badly—and I couldn’t just leave him there.” He adjusted his hold on the dog slightly so Wriothesley could better see its condition. “I’ll take him to a shelter as soon as we return—”

Wriothesley cut him off with a sharp wave of his hand and stepped closer to inspect the dog himself. His sharp blue eyes swept over its injuries with practiced efficiency before flicking back up to meet Neuvillette’s gaze.

“If you send him to a shelter looking like this,” Wriothesley said bluntly, though not unkindly, “they’ll put him down before morning.” He straightened up and gestured toward the carriage door with a nod of his head. “Let’s get him back to Palais Mermonia first. The veterinarian there will know what to do.”

Neuvillette blinked at him in surprise but wasted no time following Wriothesley’s lead. As they settled into their seats inside the carriage—Neuvillette cradling the dog protectively while Wriothesley gave instructions to their coachman—he found himself glancing over at Wriothesley with quiet gratitude.

“Thank you,” Neuvillette said softly after a moment.

Wriothesley shrugged as if it were nothing but then added in a quieter voice: “You’ve got a soft heart, Neuvillette. Just don’t let it get trampled.”

When their carriage rolled to a stop in front of Palais Mermonia, Wriothesley was swift to act. The moment his boots touched the cobblestone driveway, he turned sharply, scanning the area for the nearest attendant. His voice, steady yet laced with urgency, cut through the crisp evening air. “You there,” he called to a young man dressed in the palace’s formal livery, who immediately straightened at the sight of him. “There’s an injured dog. A stray the Prince found on the way here. See that someone prepares warm water and supplies for tending wounds, and call the vet. Quickly.”

The attendant nodded, his face pale but determined as he dashed toward the entrance to carry out the command. Meanwhile, inside the carriage, Neuvillette lingered, his demeanor faintly shadowed by concern. The injured dog rested limply on his lap, its uneven breaths audible in the intimate quiet of the carriage. Neuvillette’s pristine coat that was wrapped around the creature, now marred with streaks of dirt and smears of blood where it had pressed against its fragile frame. He stared down at it, his gloved hand gently brushing against its matted fur as if silently willing it to hold on.

He frowned slightly, not out of frustration but from deliberation. How would he step out without jostling the animal further? Its thin limbs trembled even in unconsciousness, and each shallow breath seemed like a battle fought and barely won. Just as he shifted forward to attempt an exit, a soft knock on the carriage door startled him from his thoughts.

“Your Highness?” a maid’s gentle voice called as she appeared halfway inside, her hands already extended in readiness.

Neuvillette met her eyes and gave a small nod of acknowledgement before carefully lifting the dog toward her waiting arms. “Take care not to move it too suddenly,” he said, his voice quiet but firm. There was no mistaking the subtle authority laced within his words—a tone that brooked no negligence when it came to matters of compassion.

“Yes, Your Highness,” she replied sincerely, her grip steady yet tender as she cradled the wounded creature close to her chest.

As she turned to leave the carriage, Neuvillette quickly followed her, his long strides purposeful but unhurried. “I will come as well,” he stated firmly as if daring anyone to suggest otherwise.

The maid hesitated for only a second before nodding in understanding. “Of course, Your Highness,” she replied softly.

“What should we do first?” Neuvillette asked as they began walking toward one of the side entrances of the palace. His gaze flickered briefly back toward Wriothesley, who remained outside still directing attendants with brisk efficiency.

“We’ll need to clean its wounds first,” the maid suggested after a moment’s thought. “That will help us determine how serious they are.”

Neuvillette gave another brief nod of agreement, but as he passed by Wriothesley, he paused just long enough to catch his eye. There was no need for words; a simple glance sufficed. His expression was one of quiet gratitude—an unspoken acknowledgment of Wriothesley’s quick thinking and decisive action earlier when they’d first stumbled upon the dog.

For his part, Wriothesley returned the look with a slight incline of his head—his own way of granting permission or perhaps reassurance that everything was under control on his end.

Once inside Palais Mermonia, Neuvillette and the maid disappeared down one of its many winding corridors toward a quiet chamber where they could tend to the dog without interruption. Outside, however, another figure approached Wriothesley with careful steps and an expression that hovered somewhere between curiosity and concern.

Sigewinne stood at his side now, her petite frame dwarfed by his imposing presence but her voice carrying its usual warm clarity. “That is a very old dog,” she remarked after a moment’s pause, her perceptive gaze lingering on where Neuvillette had disappeared moments earlier. “You’re not planning on sending it to a shelter… are you?”

Wriothesley turned slightly toward her, one brow arching in mild amusement at her directness. “That’s not my decision to make, Matron,” he replied evenly though there was no mistaking the faint smirk tugging at one corner of his mouth.

Sigewinne frowned slightly but didn’t press further just yet; instead, she crossed her arms thoughtfully and tapped one finger against her elbow as if weighing something in her mind. “It wouldn’t be fair to leave its fate up to chance,” she said finally, her tone soft but resolute. “Especially not after all this effort.”

Wriothesley chuckled lightly at that—an almost imperceptible sound that softened some of his rough edges. “I suppose you’ll just have to convince Neuvillette then,” he said dryly before turning back toward the entrance where more attendants were now bustling about under his watchful eye.

Sigewinne blinked once before breaking into a small smile herself—one that carried equal parts determination and optimism. “Maybe I will,” she murmured quietly before walking off in pursuit of Neuvillette and the injured dog.

As she disappeared inside, Wriothesley allowed himself one brief moment of stillness amidst the growing activity around him. His sharp eyes traced over the path Sigewinne had taken before shifting back toward where Neuvillette had gone earlier.

“An injured dog,” he muttered under his breath with a faint shake of his head and a wry half-smile playing across his lips. “Trust you to find something like that.”

Later that night, Wriothesley pushed open the door to the makeshift veterinary room, the faint smell of antiseptics and clean bandages meeting him. The overhead light bathed the room in a subdued glow. His boots barely made a sound against the floor as he stepped inside, his eyes immediately finding Neuvillette. The man was seated in a chair pulled close to the examination table, his back slightly hunched as though shielding the dog from the world.

Neuvillette’s hair cascaded over his shoulders, catching the soft light as he leaned forward, his hand resting protectively on the dog’s side. The dog with graying fur and soulful eyes now closed in slumber—lay curled up on its side. Its chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm, each breath accompanied by a faint wheezing sound. The faint gleam of its freshly cleaned coat revealed patches where fur had been shaved away to treat wounds. The IV drip attached to its scrawny leg seemed almost too large for its fragile frame, but despite its battered condition, the animal exuded an air of peace.

Wriothesley hesitated for a moment, taking in the tender scene before him. Neuvillette sat there, fingers idly brushing over the dog’s uninjured flank. A deep sense of care radiated from him, filling the room with an almost tangible warmth. Wriothesley’s chest tightened as he watched, an unfamiliar ache spreading through him.

Finally, Wriothesley stepped further into the room, his movements deliberate and quiet. He didn’t want to disturb whatever fragile connection had formed between Neuvillette and the sleeping animal. Pulling out a chair from the corner with practiced ease, he placed it beside Neuvillette and lowered himself into it without a word. For a moment, neither of them spoke; the silence was filled only by the occasional rustle of fabric as Neuvillette shifted his position slightly.

“How is he?” Wriothesley asked at last, his voice low and gentle so as not to shatter the tranquility.

Neuvillette turned toward him slowly, his eyes a shade darker than usual under the dim lighting but no less striking. A faint smile curved his lips—not one of joy but of weary relief—and his gaze softened as he met Wriothesley’s. “He’ll be fine,” he murmured. “The vet said his injuries are manageable... despite severe dehydration and exhaustion on top of those cuts.” His hand hovered above the dog for a moment before returning to stroke its fur with careful precision. “He needs rest… and kindness.”

Wriothesley’s lips quirked upward briefly at Neuvillette’s choice of words—“kindness.” It wasn’t what most people would have said about an injured stray, but it was undeniably fitting coming from him. “You’ve already given him plenty of that,” Wriothesley replied softly, nodding toward where Neuvillette’s fingers lingered against the dog’s side.

Neuvillette let out a quiet chuckle at that, though it was tinged with something bittersweet. “Perhaps,” he admitted, tilting his head slightly as though considering his own actions. “But it doesn’t feel like enough—not yet.”

There was a pause as both men turned their attention back to the dog. Its breathing hitched slightly in its sleep before evening out again, causing Neuvillette’s hand to still momentarily on its side as though reassuring himself that all was well.

“You’ve grown attached,” Wriothesley observed after a beat, his tone unreadable but not unkind.

Neuvillette didn’t deny it; instead, he nodded slowly. “I couldn’t help it,” he confessed quietly. “He reminds me...” He trailed off for a moment before shaking his head slightly, as if dismissing whatever thought had begun to form. “He deserves better than what he’s been through.”

Wriothesley studied him carefully for a moment before leaning back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other in a relaxed posture that belied the seriousness of his expression. “So what are you going to do?” he asked evenly.

Neuvillette hesitated. His fingers stilled against the dog’s fur, and he looked down at it with an expression that was equal parts fondness and uncertainty. “I don’t know,” he admitted at last. He glanced sideways at Wriothesley then, searching his face for something—approval? Understanding? He wasn’t sure. “I can’t abandon him now.”

Wriothesley nodded slowly, his expression unreadable, though the faint furrow in his brow hinted at the weight of the thoughts stirring behind his eyes. He didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he shifted forward in his seat, the worn leather of the chair creaking softly beneath him. His elbows came to rest on his knees, hands loosely clasped as he leaned slightly toward Neuvillette. His eyes locked onto Neuvillette’s with an intensity that seemed to demand attention but also carried a quiet understanding.

Finally, after a moment of silence thick enough to feel tangible, he spoke. “I understand what you’re feeling,” he said, his voice low and steady, each word carefully measured. “But it’s important for you to see the whole picture before making a decision.” He paused briefly, as if weighing how best to phrase what came next. “This dog… if you take him to a shelter, well…” He exhaled through his nose, a sharp breath that seemed laced with frustration at the reality of the situation. “People don’t usually adopt older dogs. They want puppies—something young and full of life. What happens to him then? He’ll spend his last days confined in a cold metal cage, overlooked and forgotten by everyone who walks past. But he will live, at least.”

Neuvillette flinched at Wriothesley’s words, his eyes widening slightly as the imagery settled heavily in his mind. For a moment, he couldn’t bring himself to respond. His gaze dropped instinctively to the bundle of fur in front of them—a frail creature whose breathing was shallow but steady. The dog whimpered softly, shifting ever so slightly against Neuvillette’s touch as though sensing the weight of the conversation.

“What if…” Neuvillette began hesitantly, his voice catching on the words as though they were fragile glass threatening to shatter. He swallowed hard before continuing. “What if I keep him here instead?”

Wriothesley leaned back slightly in his chair now, regarding Neuvillette with a mixture of sympathy and caution. His lips pressed into a thin line before he let out a slow, heavy sigh. “If you do that,” he said at last, his tone softening but losing none of its gravity, “you have to understand what you’re signing up for.” He gestured lightly toward the dog with one hand, palm turned upward as if presenting an invisible weight for Neuvillette to consider.

“He’ll live,” Wriothesley continued after a moment’s pause. “For now.” There was no cruelty in his words, only an unvarnished honesty that felt like a quiet mercy in itself. “You can nurse him back to health; feed him, care for him—but his old age will catch up with him sooner rather than later. No matter how much love or care you give him, it won’t change that fact.” His voice softened further as he added gently, “He won’t have much time.”

Neuvillette’s grip on the dog tightened slightly—not enough to startle or hurt the animal but enough to show how deeply Wriothesley’s words affected him. The dog let out another faint whimper, its body trembling. Tears threatened to be pricked at the corners of Neuvillette’s eyes as he stared down at the creature; a soul so vulnerable yet somehow still clinging to life with quiet resilience. He shook his head and with that his unshed tears.

“I don’t care how little time he has,” Neuvillette said finally. “I’ll take care of him,” he vowed, each word deliberate and unwavering despite the tremor in his tone. “I’ll give him the best life I can… even if it’s only for a little while.”

Wriothesley studied him for a long moment, his expression unreadable once again. When he finally spoke, his voice was calm but carried an unmistakable weight—the kind of tone that demanded careful thought before answering. “Even if you know he’ll die in your arms one day?” he asked quietly, leaning forward again as though trying to ensure Neuvillette fully grasped the implications of what he was saying.

“Because this isn’t just about giving him a home or nursing him back to health—it’s about being there until the very end. Can you handle that kind of heartbreak?”

The question hung in the air like a challenge—not meant to dissuade but to force reflection. Neuvillette didn’t respond right away; instead, he looked down at the dog again, studying every detail of its frail form. “I know,” Neuvillette replied softly. “Matron Sigewinne also said that.”

“And you’re ready for that?” Wriothesley pressed gently but insistently.

Neuvillette took a deep breath before answering. “No one can ever truly be ready for loss, but also, no one is responsible for my feelings except me.” he said slowly, each word carefully chosen as though piecing together a fragile truth. “It would be far worse to let fear of heartbreak dictate my actions—to turn away simply because I’m afraid of getting hurt and abandoned.” He paused for a moment before adding more quietly: “He doesn’t have anyone else... and neither do I.”

The vulnerability in those last words caught Wriothesley off guard; finally breaking eye contact first, Wriothesley pushed himself up from his chair with deliberate slowness. “Alright,” he said simply as he straightened up fully. “It’s your decision.”

Neuvillette looked up at him sharply then—half-surprised by how easily Wriothesley seemed willing to leave it at that—but before either man could say anything more, Wriothesley offered him one last glance over his shoulder as he made his way toward the door.

For several moments after he left, Neuvillette remained where he was seated beside the dog—his hand still resting lightly against its fur—as faint echoes of Wriothesley’s retreating footsteps faded into silence once more.

Just as every time Wriothesley visited him, Neuvillette found himself in a rather good mood today. The soft warmth of anticipation lingered in his chest, and occasionally, his hand drifted to the pocket of his coat. His fingers brushed over the wrapped gift tucked securely inside, his touch gentle as if the object might shatter under too much pressure. It was a small thing, but it carried weight—an unspoken sentiment he had carefully chosen. He straightened his posture with an almost imperceptible smile curling at the corners of his lips, a rare lightness softening his otherwise composed demeanor.

The garden sprawled before him, its neatly trimmed hedges and vibrant blooms basking under the golden afternoon sun. The air smelled faintly of roses and freshly turned earth, a calming scent that seemed to harmonize with the quiet rustle of leaves in the breeze. Neuvillette's pale gaze scanned the area, searching for Wriothesley’s familiar figure amidst the tranquil scene. At first, he saw nothing but the swaying greenery and the dappled sunlight casting patterns on the stone pathway. Then, movement caught his eye—a fleeting glimpse of dark fabric disappearing behind one of the marble pillars lining the garden’s edge.

“Wriothesley?” Neuvillette called out, his voice low and steady yet laced with curiosity.

There was a brief pause before Wriothesley’s head cautiously peeked out from behind the pillar. His cheeks were flushed a deep crimson, a stark contrast to his usual cool composure. He looked uncharacteristically flustered, as though caught in the middle of something clandestine. His hair was slightly disheveled, and he seemed to fidget nervously with something Neuvillette couldn’t see.

“Ah,” Wriothesley began awkwardly, his voice carrying an unsteady mix of haste and embarrassment. “I’m sorry, Your Highness, but… uhm… could you… close your eyes for a moment?”

Neuvillette blinked at the unusual request, surprise flickering across his features before understanding softened them into a smile. “Of course,” he replied, his tone calm and reassuring. Without hesitation, he closed his eyes, trusting Wriothesley implicitly.

The sounds that followed were subtle but distinct against the serene backdrop of the garden. There was the faint rustling of fabric—layers shifting against one another—and what sounded like metal softly clinking. Neuvillette’s mind wandered as he listened, piecing together possibilities. Was Wriothesley changing clothes? The thought was peculiar yet oddly endearing.

After what felt like an eternity but was likely only a few moments, Wriothesley’s voice broke through the quiet once more. “Your Highness,” he said, this time steadier but still carrying an undercurrent of nervous energy. “Please open your eyes now.”

Neuvillette obliged, opening his eyes slowly as though savoring the anticipation. His breath caught almost imperceptibly when he saw Wriothesley standing before him. Gone was the simple attire he usually favored; practical yet elegant in its own right—and in its place was something far grander. Wriothesley stood tall and proud, exuding an air of authority that seemed almost foreign yet entirely natural on him. He wore a noble outfit befitting someone of his stature—a richly tailored ensemble adorned with intricate embroidery that shimmered subtly under the sunlight. A deep blue cape lined with gold trim draped over one shoulder, fastened with Meropide’s emblem sculpted from pure gold. At his side hung a ceremonial sword, its hilt gleaming with polished silver and engraved with intricate patterns.

Neuvillette took a step closer, his gaze sweeping over every detail with quiet admiration. Sometimes it truly slipped his mind just who Wriothesley was beyond their personal connection—the heir to a dukedom whose rank in society legally stood just beneath royalty itself. But seeing him like this… it was impossible to ignore.

“What do you think?” Wriothesley asked hesitantly, breaking the silence that had stretched between them. His voice carried a softness that betrayed the confidence his attire projected. “It’s for my birthday…”

“And your investiture ceremony,” Neuvillette added gently, finishing the thought for him. His hand instinctively brushed over the pocket where the gift rested once more before pulling back hesitantly. The timing didn’t feel right—not yet—but the thought lingered in his mind.

He should have waited until Wriothesley’s birthday—a day so significant it marked both his coming-of-age celebration and official rise to Duke of Meropide. Yet past years had taught Neuvillette a painful truth: he was rarely granted permission to attend such events despite his numerous requests. The memory of those refusals stung faintly even now, but he pushed it aside with practiced ease. This wasn’t about him or his disappointment; it was about Wriothesley and this pivotal moment in his life.

Instead of dwelling on uncertainties, Neuvillette focused on what mattered most—the man standing before him radiating nervous excitement beneath all that finery. “You look very handsome,” he said sincerely, each word deliberate and weighted with affection.

A faint smile tugged at Wriothesley’s lips—shy yet undeniably pleased by the compliment. “I wanted Your Highness to be the first to see me wearing this,” he admitted quietly as though sharing a secret.

“I am very honored,” Neuvillette replied earnestly, inclining his head slightly in acknowledgment. He stepped closer still until they were only a breath apart before reaching up to adjust Wriothesley’s tie with careful precision—a small gesture but one imbued with tenderness nonetheless.

Up close like this, Neuvillette couldn’t help but notice how much taller Wriothesley had grown over their years of acquaintance. The realization brought a fleeting pang of bittersweet nostalgia—memories of a younger Wriothesley flashing through his mind like snapshots from another lifetime.

“Congratulations,” Neuvillette said softly once he had finished adjusting the tie to perfection. “The next time we meet… you will be Duke of Meropide.” His tone carried both pride and wistfulness as though acknowledging not just Wriothesley’s achievement but also how much things would inevitably change moving forward.

Wriothesley chuckled lightly at that, though there was an edge of uncertainty beneath his amusement. “To be honest… I’m not sure how I feel about it all,” he confessed after a moment’s pause.

Neuvillette raised an inquisitive brow at that response but remained silent—patient as always—as he waited for Wriothesley to continue.

“There are certain things I couldn’t do while I was just an heir,” Wriothesley explained thoughtfully, his gaze drifting momentarily as though lost in contemplation. “Decisions that had to go through parliament or required approval from others higher up… Soon all of that will change.”

He paused briefly before adding with a self-deprecating laugh: “It probably sounds underwhelming coming from me… but honestly? All I can think about is how soon I can get back to work.”

Neuvillette regarded him quietly for a moment before speaking again—his voice gentle yet firm: “Wriothesley… you truly care about Meropide deeply.”

Wriothesley met his gaze then—a flicker of something unspoken passing between them before he nodded resolutely. “It’s our home,” he said simply yet passionately—a statement imbued with unwavering conviction that left no room for doubt or pretense. “It may not seem interesting or glamorous compared to other places… but it’s everything we have.”

His expression softened slightly as though reflecting inwardly on some private thought before continuing: “And if protecting what’s precious to us is my duty… then there’s nothing else I’d rather do.”

“Oh, that’s unusual.” The maid’s voice floated through the still morning air, her tone laced with curiosity and just the faintest hint of intrigue. She stood a few paces away from Neuvillette, chatting with the gardener near one of the neatly trimmed hedgerows. She had paused mid-sweep of her broom, leaning slightly on the handle as if the weight of her words demanded her full attention.

Neuvillette’s ears perked up at her statement, though he kept his posture languid where he sat on the marble bench in the garden. His book rested open on his lap, but he hadn’t turned a page in several minutes. The sunlight filtering through the canopy of leaves above cast dappled shadows across his crisp attire, though his focus had subtly shifted from the printed words to the quiet conversation nearby.

“What?” The gardener’s gruff voice broke through the early morning serenity, tinged with mild confusion. He straightened from where he’d been crouched amongst the rose bushes, wiping his hands on a dirt-stained cloth.

“His Majesty is leaving Palais Mermonia,” the maid replied, her voice dropping slightly as though sharing a secret not meant for everyone’s ears.

At that, Neuvillette instinctively raised his head, his eyes flickering toward their direction. From his vantage point, however, the dense foliage blocked any view of what had captured their attention. For a moment, he considered standing to investigate further but thought better of it. He lowered his gaze again and feigned interest in the book before him, though his fingers hovered idly over the edge of an unread page.

“By himself?” The gardener’s question carried an unmistakable undercurrent of disbelief.

“Not quite,” the maid answered, adjusting her grip on the broomstick as though preparing for a lengthy explanation. “He’s with those two assistants of his—you know, the ones who can’t seem to go five minutes without bickering.”

The gardener let out a short laugh, shaking his head. “Oh, you mean the married ones?”

There was a brief pause before the maid gasped audibly. “They’re married?!” Her exclamation came out louder than intended, catching even Neuvillette off guard. A small smile tugged at the corner of his lips as he listened.

“Well…” The gardener hesitated for dramatic effect, clearly enjoying being the source of gossip for once. He tossed the cloth over his shoulder and shrugged with exaggerated nonchalance. “If they’re not married by now, then they might as well be.”

The maid let out a scandalized gasp before bursting into soft laughter. “You’re terrible,” she chided playfully, swatting at him with her broom. A dull thwack echoed across the garden as it made contact with his arm.

“Ow!” The gardener yelped in mock pain, rubbing at the spot where she’d hit him. “I’m just saying—”

Their laughter faded into a comfortable silence before the maid spoke again, this time lowering her voice conspiratorially. “Still… it is strange, don’t you think? His Majesty always makes people come to him. Why would he suddenly leave like this?”

The gardener hummed thoughtfully as if pondering her words. “Maybe he’s meeting someone… someone who can’t be seen entering Palais Mermonia.”

This time, there was another smack—sharper than before—and an accompanying cry from the gardener that sounded far less amused. “Ow! What was that for?” he whined.

“For saying something so ridiculous,” the maid retorted with a huff. “Honestly…”

Neuvillette tilted his head slightly at their exchange, his expression neutral but his thoughts quietly stirring. It was odd for Wriothesley to leave the palace so abruptly—and without fanfare at that—but Neuvillette quickly dismissed it as none of his concern. He had other matters to focus on, after all.

Still… He glanced down at the book in his hands without really seeing it. His original plan had been to speak with Wriothesley about his upcoming birthday later that day—a topic that had proven surprisingly difficult to broach in recent weeks. Wriothesley had been deflecting every attempt Neuvillette made to discuss it, brushing off questions with casual ease or steering conversations toward unrelated subjects.

Neuvillette sighed softly and closed the book with deliberate care. Perhaps it would be best to wait until Wriothesley returned from wherever he had gone before bringing it up again.

Except… Wriothesley didn’t return that evening—or even the next day.

Days passed in uneasy silence within Palais Mermonia. The absence of its ruler cast a peculiar shadow over its grand halls and bustling staff. Though no one dared voice their concerns aloud, there was an unspoken tension in every corner of the palace.

When Wriothesley finally returned—exactly one day after his birthday—it was as if nothing unusual had happened at all.

Lately, Neuvillette had taken to finding solace in the quiet embrace of the outdoors. The air, tinged with the faint scent of damp earth and greenery, seemed to offer a reprieve from the weight pressing on his mind. Outside, nestled near the closest entrance to his chambers, stood a modest wooden bench partially shaded by an overhanging tree. Its edges were worn smooth by time and familiarity. It was here—always here—that he could be found most weekends, a book resting gently in his lap, its pages fluttering faintly in the breeze.

Today was no different. The soft rustling of leaves above provided a soothing backdrop as Neuvillette sat in his usual spot, engrossed in the delicate prose of his chosen novel. His gloved fingers traced the edges of the page as if savoring every word, his posture a study in quiet elegance. The world around him seemed to fade into obscurity, leaving only the melody of words and the steady rhythm of his breathing. He didn’t notice the ominous shift in the sky—the way the once-brilliant blue had been overtaken by heavy clouds that swirled with promise of rain. It wasn’t until a single drop struck the page before him, blossoming into an uneven circle of ink and water, that he finally looked up.

Blinking slowly, Neuvillette closed the book with care, as though afraid to disturb its slumber. He tucked it securely inside his coat, shielding it from further harm, before lifting his gaze to meet the heavens. The first few drops danced across his skin like tentative whispers, cool and fleeting against his cheeks. Then came another, and another, cascading in earnest as the rain began to pour. Yet he remained rooted to the spot, unmoving.

For reasons he couldn’t quite articulate—perhaps even to himself—he allowed the rain to envelop him entirely. His hair clung to his face and neck, darkening under the relentless downpour. Water streaked down his high cheekbones and along his jawline like fragile rivers carving their paths. To any onlooker, it might have seemed as though he were simply lost in thought, but there was something deeper—something hidden beneath that calm exterior.

His expression was unreadable—a blank slate—but his chest felt heavy with an ache he dared not name. Was it grief? Longing? Or merely exhaustion from carrying burdens too vast for one soul? Whatever it was, he welcomed the rain's embrace. After all, no one would notice if tears mingled with raindrops here beneath this weeping sky. And even if they did… what difference would it make?

The spell was broken by a soft sound—a plaintive whine that tugged at something tender within him. He lowered his gaze and found his dog staring up at him with wide, concerned eyes. The dog’s black fur glistened with droplets as it stood at attention just a few feet away. Between its teeth hung a towel, slightly askew but unmistakably offered with purpose.

“Charon,” Neuvillette’s voice emerged as a low murmur, tinged with surprise and something warmer—something grateful. He crouched down slowly so their gazes met on equal footing. “Did you… did you bring this for me?” His lips curved into a faint smile, weary but genuine as he reached out to take the towel from his dog’s grasp.

The dog wagged its tail once, a sharp yet hopeful flicker of movement that betrayed its satisfaction at being helpful. Neuvillette’s fingers brushed against damp fur as he accepted the offering. “Thank you,” he said softly, pausing for a moment as though searching for words that might convey more than gratitude alone while he led Charon back inside.

But instead of drying himself off immediately, Neuvillette’s attention shifted to Charon. “You’re soaked,” he murmured with gentle reproach. “Come here.” Without waiting for protest—not that Charon would object—he unfolded the towel and began dabbing at the dog’s fur with careful precision.

Charon tilted its head curiously but allowed the ministrations without complaint. The creature leaned into Neuvillette’s touch ever so slightly, its trust unwavering despite the storm raging above them.

After ensuring Charon was relatively dry—or at least less drenched—Neuvillette straightened up and gestured toward the hallway in front of them. “Let’s get back where it’s warm,” he suggested quietly but firmly, brushing stray droplets from his coat as they made their way toward his chambers.

The hallway welcomed them with its familiar stillness and Neuvillette paused to glance back at Charon. The dog shook itself vigorously before following Neuvillette, sending droplets flying in every direction. Neuvillette chuckled softly despite himself, a rare sound that seemed almost foreign after so much silence. “Good boy,” he teased lightly before kneeling once more to fuss over Charon’s now-damp paws.

As he worked—his movements methodical yet tender—he found himself speaking aloud without fully intending to: “As expected, you are very smart, are you not?.” There was no response save for another wag of Charon’s tail and an affectionate nudge against Neuvillette’s shoulder.

But somehow… that was enough.

He’d been doing so much better than the day Neuvillette had found him, a trembling, emaciated shadow of the proud creature he must have once been. The first time Neuvillette had reached out a hand to him, the dog had flinched back, his lips curling ever so slightly, as if weighing whether to snarl or simply run. But that was a memory now; a distant one that seemed to belong to another life entirely.

Now, the rottweiler walked beside Neuvillette with full trust, his massive paws falling in a steady rhythm against the polished marble floors. His thick, glossy coat gleamed under the soft glow of the chandeliers above, and his deep brown eyes scanned his surroundings with an almost human-like awareness. He carried himself with a quiet dignity, as though he understood fully the importance of the space he occupied and the man he followed. Yet, despite his calm demeanor, Neuvillette could sense Charon’s subtle unease. The dog’s ears would twitch at even the faintest sound of footsteps echoing down the hallways, and his tail, which should have wagged freely, remained low, swaying in cautious arcs.

Neuvillette glanced down at him, faintly amused but also empathetic. “They’ll get used to you,” he murmured softly, his voice carrying the gentle cadence of reassurance. “It will just take time.”

Charon let out a low, almost imperceptible huff through his nose and glanced up at Neuvillette briefly before returning his gaze forward. The dog didn’t understand every word spoken to him, but there was something calming about Neuvillette’s voice—steady and unwavering like the flow of a great river.

It had always been like this since Neuvillette decided to take care of the dog: attendants would pass by, their movements stuttered ever so slightly as their eyes flickered nervously toward Charon. Some tried to mask their unease with polite smiles or quick nods toward Neuvillette, but their sidelong glances betrayed them. Others would nearly stumble when they caught sight of Charon rounding the corner ahead of them.

And the dog in question seemed to always notice their discomfort immediately, slowed his pace to a near crawl. His head dipped slightly, and his ears tilted forward in what could only be described as an apologetic gesture. He would stand perfectly still for a moment, allowing people to pass without incident.

He rarely ventured outside Neuvillette’s chambers without his master leading him anyway, and he never ran or darted through the halls like how dogs might; instead, he moved with a measured grace that seemed almost unnatural for one of his size. It was clear that he remained acutely aware of how others perceived him—a giant mutt who did not yet know they had nothing to fear from him. 

Sigewinne had mentioned something interesting the other day; Rottweilers were bred for work in Fontaine—a lot of them used to be Gardes’ partners back in his father’s day. Tough dogs. Smart too. They’d patrol alongside their handlers like clockwork. There was a good chance Charon used to belong to someone in the force. She also said Wriothesley was looking into it.

Neuvillette glanced down at Charon again, it seemed like that would’ve explained why people were terrified of him; they were worried he was going to snap one day and go full guard dog on them. Can’t say Neuvillette blamed them.

And yet, for all his imposing presence, Charon had proven himself nothing but gentle—especially when it came to Neuvillette. The dog seemed to sense when his master returned weary from long hours spent in his office or attending events. On those evenings, Charon would be waiting patiently by the door of Neuvillette’s chambers, his tail thumping softly against the floor in greeting as though to say: I’m here. You’re not alone.

And there was something else—something unspoken yet deeply felt in the way Charon filled spaces that might otherwise have been left cold and empty. The large bed in Neuvillette’s chambers was one such space; its expanse often felt too vast for just one occupant. Wriothesley had never once set foot there—not even during fleeting visits when duty brought him close enough.

But Charon? He claimed that space from time to time, as if he could sense exactly when Neuvillette was feeling particularly lonely. At night, he would leap up onto the bed with surprising grace for a creature of his size, circling twice before settling down near Neuvillette’s side. His presence was a comforting weight—a reminder that companionship didn’t always need words or grand gestures; sometimes it was simply about being there.

The hallway stretched out and at the farthest end of this corridor, the man who had not been on Neuvillette’s bed stood.

Wriothesley leaned casually against the wall, though there was a tension in his posture, a deliberate stillness that suggested he was no stranger to waiting. His hand rested lightly on the head of an umbrella that stood upright beside his leg, as if it, too, were a silent participant in this moment.

Neuvillette approached him with measured steps. Beside him, Charon moved slightly faster and he positioned himself just slightly ahead of Neuvillette. "Your Majesty," Neuvillette said, bowing his head slightly.

Wriothesley inclined his head slightly in acknowledgment before stepping away from the wall. His gaze swept over Neuvillette and then briefly settled on Charon before shifting back. "Neuvillette," Wriothesley said simply, his tone clipped. After a moment's pause, his gaze flicked downward—to Charon's steady stance—and then back up again. "Your birthday is coming up soon." His voice carried no hesitation; it cut straight to the point like a blade slicing through fog.

Neuvillette blinked once—barely perceptible—as he hadn’t expected this topic so suddenly or so directly. Or that Wriothesley even remembered about his birthday. Wriothesley wasn’t one for small talk, but even so, there was something disarming about his straightforwardness.

"I’ve been thinking about how to celebrate," Wriothesley went on, his tone thoughtful now but still firm. "I’m not entirely sure about holding… a proper party yet." He glanced briefly at Neuvillette again before continuing. "So instead, I’d like to host something more intimate—a quiet gathering." His hand gestured faintly as he spoke, as though trying to shape the idea into something tangible. "I have a property near Lumidouce Harbor that would be perfect for it—secluded enough to avoid drawing bothersome attention."

Neuvillette nodded once in understanding, though he remained silent for a moment longer than usual.

Wriothesley studied Neuvillette’s face carefully before adding with a trace of dry humor in his voice: "Of course, holding anything remotely ‘small’ here would be impossible." He gestured vaguely toward their surroundings. "Even if we tried to keep it low-key… people would notice."

"Of course," Neuvillette replied finally, inclining his head slightly in agreement. "If that is what Your Majesty wishes."

Wriothesley nodded once but wasn’t finished yet. "If you’d like to invite anyone specific," he added after a pause, "just give Jurieu the list." His words were brisk and efficient now—the tone of someone accustomed to handling logistics without fuss.

Neuvillette nodded again in acknowledgment but found himself caught slightly off guard by what came next.

"Do you want anything for your birthday?"

Neuvillette faltered ever so slightly. He opened his mouth as though to answer but closed it again just as quickly.

Wriothesley noticed immediately—how could he not? But instead of pressing further or allowing awkwardness to settle over them like an unwelcome guest at dinner, he waved a hand dismissively and offered an out.

"You don’t have to answer now," he said smoothly, his tone softer than before but still carrying its usual confidence. "Take your time… think about it." His gaze lingered on Neuvillette for just a moment longer before adding almost as an afterthought: "When you’re sure—and only when you’re sure—let me know what it is you want."

There was no hint of arrogance or presumption in his words; they were merely a statement of intent—a promise wrapped neatly inside an offer.

Neuvillette inclined his head again—this time more deeply—as if silently thanking Wriothesley not just for the question itself but for granting him space to consider it carefully.

As silence settled over them once more, it enveloped the hallway like a soft snowfall, muffling the world with its quiet weight. The faint patter of rain against the windows echoed in the distance. Neuvillette stood still, his hands loosely clasped before him, watching as Wriothesley turned away.

Neuvillette tilted his head slightly as he noticed something. He wasn’t sure why Wriothesley brought an umbrella with him as if he wanted to go outside, when he was actually heading towards the opposite side instead.

They left Palais Mermonia a week before Neuvillette’s actual birthday. The property Wriothesley had spoken of was not part of his Meropide inheritance but rather a separate estate he had acquired through some means that Neuvillette had never pressed him about. It didn’t matter how Wriothesley had come to own it; what mattered was that it was beautiful in its own right.

As their carriage rolled up the long gravel drive flanked by manicured hedges and blooming roses, Neuvillette could see the estate unfold before them like a painting brought to life. The mansion itself was an elegant structure with pale stone walls that seemed to glow in the late afternoon sunlight. Climbing ivy clung to its facade, framing tall windows that promised warmth within. A fountain stood in the circular driveway, water cascading down in gentle streams that sparkled like diamonds.

"This is it," Wriothesley said, leaning forward slightly as if seeing it anew himself.

Neuvillette inclined his head, taking in every detail. "It’s lovely," he said softly, though the word hardly felt sufficient. He could already imagine how it must look in the spring when the gardens would be in full bloom or during winter when snow might dust its rooftops like powdered sugar.

When they arrived, most of the attendants were already bustling about, their movements purposeful as they prepared for the upcoming celebration. The air hummed with activity—laughter from somewhere near the kitchen, the clink of glassware being arranged, and the faint notes of someone tuning a string instrument in one of the larger rooms. A young caretaker approached them as they stepped out of the carriage, bowing politely before gesturing for Charon to follow him. Neuvillette watched as his dog disappeared down one of the many hallways leading deeper into the estate.

Wriothesley led Neuvillette through a side entrance, avoiding much of the commotion. Their footsteps echoed lightly against polished marble floors as they ascended a staircase adorned with an intricate wrought-iron railing. The hallway they entered was quieter, lined with oil paintings depicting serene landscapes and gilded mirrors that caught fragments of their reflections.

“This will be our room,” Wriothesley said as he pushed open a door with a slight creak. The master bedroom was spacious yet welcoming, its centerpiece a grand four-poster bed draped in deep blue velvet curtains embroidered with silver thread. The room smelled faintly of lavender and wood polish, a soothing combination that immediately put Neuvillette at ease. Sunlight streamed through tall windows framed by heavy drapes, casting golden patterns onto the plush carpet beneath their feet.

Wriothesley strode inside and placed Neuvillette’s bag on a polished oak table near the window. “Guests will stay here as well,” he explained, glancing back over his shoulder, “so we have to share a room.”

“That is fine by me,” Neuvillette replied without hesitation, though there was a slight formality in his tone that hinted at how unused he was to such arrangements.

“Don’t worry,” Wriothesley said with an easy smile as he moved toward another door on the left side of the room. He opened it to reveal a smaller adjacent space—a study, neatly arranged with shelves brimming with books and a sturdy desk positioned near another window. “It’s connected to this study room,” he added casually before tossing his own bag onto a chair within. “I’ll sleep there.”

He leaned against the doorframe for a moment, his hand resting lightly on the knob as if he hadn’t quite decided whether to step back into the bedroom or remain where he stood. “But I’m gonna have to get in and out through this bedroom,” he continued after a pause, “if you don’t mind.”

“Of course,” Neuvillette said with a small nod, though something tightened in his chest at those words. Of course, this arrangement—a married couple sharing a room—was merely part of their facade. Wriothesley had gone out of his way to find a solution that respected Neuvillette’s comfort while maintaining appearances. And yet… there was an ache of disappointment buried beneath layers of propriety. He chided himself silently for feeling it at all—after all, Wriothesley’s thoughtfulness deserved gratitude, not selfish longing.

Wriothesley lingered for just a moment longer before straightening up and stepping fully into the study. “I still have work to do,” he said over his shoulder as he began unpacking papers from his bag and spreading them across the desk. “You can do whatever you want—explore the mansion, take a walk outside…” He glanced up briefly, meeting Neuvillette’s eyes with an unreadable expression before adding, “If you want to look around, ask someone named Wolsey to take you.”

Neuvillette tilted his head slightly at this suggestion but nodded again nonetheless.

“Oh,” Wriothesley added abruptly, as if just remembering something important. He turned back toward Neuvillette fully now, one hand braced against the edge of the doorway. “You may want to stop by the stables later.”

After wandering through the sprawling gardens and taking in the serene beauty of the estate, Neuvillette finally turned his attention back to the imposing mansion behind him. The rhythmic crunch of his boots against the gravel path was accompanied by the faint rustle of leaves in the breeze. Though his expression remained composed, his eyes traced every detail of the estate with quiet curiosity. He paused for a moment, gazing up at one of the tall windows glittering in the sunlight, before addressing Wolsey, who had been trailing him. This man was apparently one of Wriothesley’s former attendants, but Neuvillette didn’t ask where he was working at the moment after Meropide had disappeared, nor that Wolsey said anything about it at all.

“Wolsey,” Neuvillette began softly, as though testing the weight of his request. “Would you mind showing me to the stables?”

Wolsey’s face lit up with unrestrained enthusiasm, his jovial nature shining through as he gave a slight bow. “Of course, Your Highness.” he said with a grin that crinkled the corners of his eyes. “Follow me.”

The pair walked side by side toward a path leading to the stables, surrounded by tall hedges trimmed with precision. As they approached, the earthy scent of hay and leather mingled with the faint musk of animals, carried on the wind. In front of them was a vast and beautiful ranch. The stables themselves were a testament to fine craftsmanship—arched doorways framed in dark wood, with ivy creeping along the beams in picturesque disarray. The soft nickering of horses reached their ears even before they stepped inside.

Neuvillette’s gaze swept across the interior as they entered. Sunlight streamed through high windows, casting golden patches onto the straw-strewn floor. At least a dozen horses stood in their stalls, their coats gleaming like polished bronze and chestnut under the light. A stablehand moved with practiced ease, brushing manes and refilling water troughs. One horse turned its head toward Neuvillette, its dark eyes intelligent and curious as it let out a low whinny.

“Oh,” Neuvillette murmured, his voice laced with genuine admiration. He stepped closer to one of the stalls, resting his gloved hand lightly on the wooden edge as he observed a particularly striking horse with a silvery mane. “They are beautiful.”

“They certainly are,” Wolsey replied warmly, folding his arms over his chest as he leaned against a nearby post. “Quite different from the ones you're used to seeing in Fontaine’s courts, I imagine?”

Neuvillette tilted his head thoughtfully before nodding. “Indeed,” He paused, running his fingers lightly over the polished grain of the stall’s frame. “Where did His Majesty find such fine creatures?”

Wolsey chuckled softly and straightened up, waving a hand dismissively as if recounting an amusing anecdote. “Well now, there’s a story for you.” His voice grew more animated as he continued. “A few years back, His Majesty bought this ranch from some Earl who’d managed to run himself into ruin. Poor fellow couldn’t keep his own house afloat, let alone maintain this place—it was more of a passing fancy for him than anything practical.”

Neuvillette turned slightly to glance at Wolsey, intrigued by both the story and Wolsey's evident delight in sharing it. So it seemed like this ranch was part of the estate and Wriothesley bought both.

“Does His Majesty have an interest in horses?” Neuvillette asked carefully, though he already suspected what Wolsey’s answer might be.

“God, no!” Wolsey exclaimed with a hearty laugh that echoed through the stable, startling a few birds perched on the rafters above. It was quite a surprise for Neuvillette. “The man has many talents, I’ll give him that—but when it comes to horseback riding… well…” He trailed off for a moment, shaking his head as though recalling some long-forgotten but deeply amusing memory. “Let’s just say that those lessons didn’t go over too well for his instructor.”

Neuvillette raised an eyebrow in quiet curiosity but said nothing, allowing Wolsey to elaborate.

“I still remember it plain as day,” Wolsey continued with a grin that bordered on mischievous. “He took to most of his lessons like a fish to water—too stubborn not to excel at anything he put his mind to—but horseback riding? Now that was another matter entirely. Every time it came time to practice mounting up or trotting around, there’d be an argument or some excuse about how it wasn’t practical.”

Neuvillette couldn’t help but smile faintly at the thought; it was difficult to imagine Wriothesley—usually so composed—throwing fits over horseback riding lessons. Besides, lately Neuvillette had stopped trying to imagine Wriothesley’s life outside his visits to Palais Mermonia. 

“You seem to hold him in very high regard,” Neuvillette observed quietly after a moment.

Wolsey’s expression softened as he nodded. “Little duke—pardon me—His Majesty has come a long way since those days,” he said wistfully. “I won’t bore you with all the details now, but let’s just say there were plenty of us who pitched in to raise him after… well,”

Neuvillette inclined his head slightly in understanding but chose not to press further; Wriothesley himself had once mentioned something similar during one of his visits to Palais Mermonia a long time ago. Just about the residents of Meropide, though, and never a single word regarding his dead parents.

Before either man could dwell too much on somber thoughts, Wolsey clapped his hands together and brightened once more. “Anyway! Back to these fine animals here,” he said with renewed vigor. “His Majesty may not care much for riding himself, but he had enough sense to put this ranch to good use.”

“Oh?” Neuvillette prompted gently.

Wolsey nodded enthusiastically. “He brought in scholars from Sumeru—experts in all sorts of fields, I believe—to oversee operations here. Their goal was to train these horses for equine-assisted therapy.”

Neuvillette’s brows lifted slightly in surprise and admiration at this revelation. “You mean… these horses are used for medical treatment?” he asked, marveling at such an innovative idea.

“Exactly,” Wolsey confirmed with pride evident in his tone. “Mostly physical therapy—for folks recovering from injuries or illnesses that leave them needing help regaining strength or balance. Struck a good deal with the Sumerunians too. They get to run their research here and in return, people can sign up for affordable therapy. We’re close to a harbor too, so many foreigners have good access to it as well. ” He gestured toward one particularly calm horse being groomed by a stablehand nearby. “Horses like this one—they’re patient and gentle by nature—which makes them perfect for working with people who need that kind of support.”

Neuvillette studied the horse thoughtfully for a moment before speaking again. “It seems like such a noble purpose for creatures so majestic,” he said softly.

Wolsey chuckled warmly. “Aye—and practical too! You see, regular folks like us can’t afford horses outright; they’re expensive creatures to keep,” he explained matter-of-factly. “And Gardes don’t want this breed—they prefer something faster and leaner for patrols.” He shrugged lightly before adding with mild amusement: “And nobles? Well… they won’t touch anything unless it’s deemed fashionable by someone else first.”

Neuvillette allowed himself another faint smile at Wolsey’s dry humor before returning his gaze to the horses once more. Behind every detail of this ranch—from its origins to its current purpose—he could sense traces of Wriothesley’s thoughtfulness and determination woven into its very fabric.

And yet… There was still so much about the man that remained enigmatic—a puzzle waiting patiently to be unraveled piece by piece.

Suddenly, a stableman emerged from the shadows, his boots crunching softly against the hay-strewn ground as he approached. He inclined his head toward Wolsey, his voice steady. “She’s ready, sir.”

Wolsey’s expression brightened instantly, his features softening into a grin. He clapped the stableman on the shoulder in a gesture of approval before turning back toward Neuvillette. The Prince stood poised yet uncertain, his hands clasped neatly behind his back, though his pale eyes betrayed a flicker of curiosity. Wolsey’s grin widened as if he were privy to some delightful secret.

“Your Highness,” he said with an air of triumph, “please follow me.”

Neuvillette hesitated for the briefest moment before nodding curtly, his composure intact despite the faint crease forming between his brows. His long cloak swayed slightly as he moved, following Wolsey through the stable and toward a smaller, quieter stable tucked just behind the grander first one. The scent of fresh hay mingled with the earthy musk of horses, and the low sounds of whinnies and soft snorts filled the air. Here, the atmosphere was calmer—less imposing than the grandeur of Palais Mermonia’s main stables.

Wolsey came to an abrupt stop in the middle of the second stable. He turned to face Neuvillette with a flourish, gesturing grandly toward one particular stall. “His Majesty has personally chosen this horse for you,” he announced with pride.

Neuvillette stepped closer but faltered slightly as his gaze landed on the creature before him. A beautiful mare stood within the stall, her coat a warm chestnut brown that gleamed like polished wood under the shafts of sunlight. Her large eyes were dark and gentle, framed by a white blaze that ran down her face like a delicate stroke of paintbrush. She regarded Neuvillette with quiet curiosity, her ears flicking forward as if she could sense his hesitation.

“But I… I do not know how to ride a horse,” Neuvillette confessed at last, his voice soft but edged with unease. His fingers tightened briefly around the hem of his cloak before he let it fall back to his side.

Wolsey chuckled warmly, a sound meant more to reassure than to mock. “Ah, Your Highness,” he said, stepping closer to pat the mare’s neck with practiced ease. “I understand. His Majesty had informed us that the breed of horses at Palais Mermonia is rather difficult for beginners—but there’s no need for concern.” He gave the mare another affectionate pat before turning back to Neuvillette with an encouraging smile. “This breed is unlike any other you’ll find there.”

Neuvillette arched a brow, intrigued despite himself. “What do you mean?”

“Avelignese horses,” Wolsey explained, gesturing toward the mare as if she were some rare treasure on display, “are renowned for their temperament. They are gentle creatures—trustworthy and exceptionally patient. Perfect for first-time riders.” His voice softened slightly as he continued, almost conspiratorial in tone. “Even His Majesty himself learned on a horse much like her when he was but a boy.”

Neuvillette glanced again at the mare, whose velvety muzzle twitched as she sniffed at the air between them. Her calm demeanor was strangely disarming—a stark contrast to the imposing warhorses he’d seen paraded through Palais Mermonia’s courtyards during royal ceremonies. There was no fire or defiance in her eyes; instead, they held an inviting warmth that made something in Neuvillette’s chest loosen ever so slightly.

“She does seem… different,” Neuvillette admitted after a moment’s pause. His voice had softened too, though there was still a note of apprehension lingering beneath it.

Wolsey seized on this small victory with enthusiasm. “Of course she does! She is bred for kindness and loyalty—they practically bond with you from the moment you meet them.” He stepped back from the stall and gestured again for Neuvillette to come closer. “Go on, Your Highness—introduce yourself to her.”

Neuvillette hesitated again, glancing between Wolsey and the mare as if weighing whether this was truly wise. But something about Wolsey's unwavering confidence—and perhaps something about the mare’s gentle gaze—compelled him forward. Tentatively, he reached out a hand toward her muzzle.

The mare leaned forward without hesitation, her large eyes glinting with curiosity as her soft nose brushed against Neuvillette’s open palm. He froze for a moment, caught off guard by the gentleness in her movement, as if she had chosen to trust him without question. Neuvillette’s fingers flexed instinctively before he relaxed them, letting the mare explore his hand at her own pace.

“She’s not shy,” Wolsey remarked. “That’s a good sign. Means she’s got spirit—but she’s not afraid to connect.”

Neuvillette glanced sideways at Wolsey before returning his gaze to the mare. His brow furrowed slightly as he studied her—really studied her—for the first time. Up close, she seemed impossibly delicate for an animal of her size, her well-muscled frame belying an elegance that could only be described as regal. He marveled at how easily she bridged the gap between imposing strength and quiet grace. A faint smile tugged at his lips as he murmured almost to himself, “She seems… gentle.”

“And sharp,” Wolsey added, straightening up and taking a step closer, his boots crunching softly on the straw-laden floor. “You’ll find no dullness in this one. She watches, listens—takes everything in.” He nodded toward Neuvillette’s hand where the mare’s nose lingered, almost nudging now. “That right there? That’s her way of saying she likes you.”

Neuvillette tilted his head slightly at Wolsey’s words, as if weighing their merit. He turned his attention back to the mare and allowed himself to trace a slow line along her jaw with his fingertips, marveling at the satin-like texture of her coat. Her ears flicked forward at his touch, swiveling briefly to catch every movement in their immediate surroundings before settling on him again. It was as though she were attuned to him now, locked into some silent understanding that neither of them fully grasped but both accepted.

“What is her name?” Neuvillette asked finally, his voice quieter now, almost reverent.

Wolsey hesitated for a beat before offering with a shrug that seemed deliberately casual, “Your Highness can choose one for her… if you’d like.”

For a moment, Neuvillette didn’t respond. His gaze remained fixed on the mare as though searching for something unspoken in her demeanor; the essence of who she was beneath all that muscle and sinew and calm intelligence. Time seemed to stretch in the quiet space between them: the soft rustle of straw underfoot; the distant whinny of another horse outside; the faint creak of wood settling around them.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity but was likely only a few heartbeats, he said simply, “Enna.”

The name rolled off his tongue with an ease that surprised even him—it felt solid yet soft, much like the mare herself. He watched her ears twitch at the sound before she lowered her head slightly toward him again, almost as if in acknowledgment.

Wolsey let out a low chuckle behind him and clapped his hands together once in approval. “Well now,” he said with an exaggerated nod of agreement. “Seems like she likes that name too.” 

Neuvillette allowed himself a small smile—the first genuine one since entering the stables—as he gently stroked along the mare’s nose. “She is… lovely,” he murmured quietly, almost as if speaking aloud might shatter whatever fragile connection had formed between them.

Wolsey clapped his hands together once, breaking the spell of silence that had settled over them. “Well then! Shall we begin your lesson? There’s no time like the present.”

Neuvillette straightened immediately at that, his fleeting moment of ease replaced by visible tension once more. “Lesson?” he echoed warily.

“Of course!” Wolsey replied cheerfully, already moving toward where a saddle rested on a nearby rack. “His Majesty expects you to be riding confidently within days—and trust me, Your Highness, this is only the beginning.”

As Wolsey bustled about in the stable, his hands deftly sorting through leather straps and buckles, the faint clinking of metal echoed softly against the wooden beams. The rhythmic hum of his work filled the air, a steady counterpoint to the occasional snort or shuffle from the horses in their stalls. Neuvillette lingered a few paces away, his gaze fixed on the mare standing patiently in her stall. Her coat gleamed like polished chestnut under the sunlight, every muscle poised yet relaxed, as if she already understood her part in this peculiar new partnership.

He stepped closer again, boots crunching softly against the hay. Enna’s ears flicked toward him, catching his approach, but she remained calm, her large brown eyes meeting his with an almost uncanny steadiness.

“Good girl,” he murmured, his voice low and steady as he reached out a tentative hand. His fingers brushed against her sleek neck, and the mare responded with a soft exhale, her breath warm against his palm. “I suppose that makes us friends now,” he added softly, his lips curving into a faint smile.

Making a mental note for tomorrow’s plans, Neuvillette let his thoughts drift briefly to his dog. The image brought a faint smile to his face. Charon would be thrilled by this place, he thought. The wide-open fields on the ranch would offer endless opportunities for play.

“I’ll bring Charon along tomorrow,” Neuvillette said aloud, more to himself than anyone else, though Wolsey caught the comment and grunted in approval.

“Aye,” Wolsey replied without looking up from where he was adjusting a saddle strap. “Dogs and horses—they’re not so different when it comes down to it. Both need trust—and patience.” He glanced over briefly, his weathered face serious but kind. “You’ve got plenty of both in you, Your Highness.”

Neuvillette tilted his head at Wolsey’s words but said nothing. Instead, he turned back to the mare and let his hand rest gently against her neck once more. Her warmth seeped into him through his gloved fingertips—a quiet reassurance that perhaps Wolsey was right.

He leaned closer to her ear, speaking in a low murmur meant only for her to hear. “Tomorrow,” he promised softly. “I will introduce you to another friend.” His tone carried a rare warmth, unguarded and sincere.

The mare flicked her tail lazily in response and nuzzled his shoulder lightly as if acknowledging his words—or perhaps agreeing with them outright.

A week-long stay at this estate was less about preparing for his birthday and seemed, to Neuvillette, more like an unexpected reprieve—a holiday wrapped in the guise of responsibility. The sprawling grounds of the estate were a world away from the structured routine of Fontaine’s courts. There wasn’t much for him to do when it came to the actual preparations; Wriothesley had long since enlisted a cadre of seasoned professionals to handle every detail. Florists, chefs, decorators—all handpicked and trusted to execute with precision. All that was required of Neuvillette was his approval, a signature here or there, which left him with an abundance of leisurely hours.

Each day unfolded in a tranquil rhythm. Mornings began with the soft rustle of curtains pulled open by attentive maids, sunlight spilling into his room in golden streaks. After breakfast—a quiet affair often accompanied by the distant hum of activity from the kitchen—he immersed himself in books he had long neglected. When he wasn’t reading, he wandered through the estate’s grounds, his polished boots crunching against gravel paths as he took in the symphony of chirping birds and rustling leaves. Occasionally, he would pause by the lake near the property, its surface rippling under the touch of a gentle breeze.

Of course, there was also Charon to tend to. His loyal dog had become something of a companion during these quiet days, trotting alongside him on walks or bounding ahead to chase after stray butterflies. The two even attended horseback riding practice together—a pastime that Neuvillette found both calming and invigorating. Watching Charon’s eager attempts to keep pace with the horses always brought a rare smile to his face.

But today felt different. It was the day before his birthday.

The mansion was abuzz with subtle shifts in energy—doors opening and closing more frequently than usual, footsteps echoing briskly in hallways as staff hurried to finalize preparations. Today marked the arrival of the guests who would be staying at the estate for tomorrow’s celebration. Neuvillette could hear faint laughter and chatter filtering through open windows as carriages arrived one by one in the front courtyard.

His maids had assured him there was no need to greet each guest individually; they would handle it while he continued with his usual routine. “Please don’t trouble yourself,” one of them had said earlier that morning, her tone as firm as it was polite. “Everything is well in hand.” And so, he obliged.

By mid-morning, Neuvillette found himself at the ranch, though this time without Charon. The dog had been uncharacteristically lethargic since waking up—a mild illness, according to the caretaker who had offered to watch over him for the day.

The hours passed quickly as they often did when he was around horses and it wasn’t until nearly noon that Neuvillette decided to return to his room. The walk back was peaceful, yet there was an undeniable undercurrent of anticipation in the air now; even nature seemed attuned to it. The wind carried faint strains of music from somewhere on the grounds—likely musicians rehearsing for tomorrow’s festivities—and the scent of freshly baked bread wafted from the kitchen windows.

As he entered his room, he was greeted by a familiar voice.

“You’re back,” Wriothesley said smoothly, emerging from the adjoining door that connected Neuvillette’s bedroom to the private study. The King looked as composed as ever, though there was a hint of weariness around his eyes.

Neuvillette paused mid-step, brushing invisible dust off his sleeves as he regarded Wriothesley with quiet curiosity. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

“The last guests had just arrived,” Wriothesley confirmed with a nod, stepping further into the room. His tone held a trace of satisfaction, though it remained measured as always. “We’ll have a welcome lunch shortly—I thought it would be a good opportunity for everyone to gather informally before tomorrow.”

Neuvillette inclined his head slightly in acknowledgment. “Understood.”

Wriothesley studied him for a moment longer before offering a faint smirk. “Don’t look so stiff about it,” he teased lightly. “It’s your birthday we’re celebrating, after all.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Neuvillette replied dryly but allowed himself a small smile before excusing himself toward the bathroom.

Once inside, he let out a quiet sigh as he turned on the shower. Steam filled the room almost immediately, curling around him like an ethereal veil as water cascaded over his skin. The warmth was soothing—a welcome reprieve from both physical fatigue and lingering thoughts about what lay ahead.

Neuvillette hurried himself to get ready, his movements brisk yet uncharacteristically deliberate, as if he were trying to balance urgency with precision. As he dressed afterward in attire befitting an informal luncheon—tailored yet understated—he caught sight of himself in the mirror: composed yet thoughtful, every detail meticulously arranged down to his cufflinks. For someone who preferred order over chaos and solitude over crowds, being at the center of such an elaborate celebration still felt somewhat foreign. His birthday had felt so distant all his life, a celebration that actually had nothing to do with him. Therefore, he was able to detach himself from it, so not to make him feel left out.

Lonely, yes. Left out, no. Not really.

The soft rustling of fabric and the muted thuds of drawers opening and closing punctuated the quiet room, mingling with the faint hum of activity drifting in from the outside of this mansion. Sunlight pooled generously through the windows, casting golden streaks across the polished floor and glinting off the silver thread embroidered into Neuvillette’s attire. He moved gracefully, though there was an undercurrent of haste in his every step—an energy that betrayed a desire to ensure everything was perfect before Wriothesley would need the space.

Pausing for a brief moment, Neuvillette cast a glance toward his husband. Wriothesley stood near the dresser, his tall frame commanding attention even in such a mundane setting. There was an ease to his movements as he paced, buttoning his shirt with a practiced efficiency that suggested years of discipline. Each deft flick of his fingers brought the fabric together with perfect precision, his broad shoulders shifting beneath the tailored material in a way that drew Neuvillette's eye despite himself. The slight furrow of concentration on Wriothesley's brow softened only when he noticed Neuvillette watching him. For a moment, their gazes met, but Neuvillette quickly looked away.

Neuvillette moved to sit at the edge of the bed, his posture impeccable yet notably tense. Folding his hands neatly in his lap, he stared down at them for a moment, his white gloves resting like ghostly echoes beneath his palms. His hair, impossibly soft and cascading like streams of moonlight, framed his face delicately as he tilted his head slightly toward the window. The light caught in those waves, illuminating him in such a way that he looked almost ethereal—a figure carved from serenity itself. Yet his eyes betrayed him; they followed Wriothesley's every motion with a quiet yearning, tracing the lines of his husband’s form as though memorizing him anew.

And yet, there was something else on Neuvillette's mind—something heavy, something that had been lingering just beneath the surface for days now. He chewed on the inside of his cheek, his fingers twitched faintly in his lap, betraying the conflict within him as he debated whether or not to speak. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he rose from the bed with deliberate care, smoothing out invisible creases in his coat as if stalling for just a moment longer.

“Your Majesty,” Neuvillette began softly, his voice low and measured but trembling ever so slightly at the edges. “You asked me what I wanted for my birthday tomorrow… didn’t you?”

Wriothesley paused mid-motion, one hand still adjusting the cufflink on his wrist. His head turned slowly toward Neuvillette, eyes narrowing slightly as they searched his husband’s face for clues as to where this conversation might lead. “I did,” he replied evenly, his tone calm but tinged with curiosity. Setting aside the cufflink he'd been fiddling with moments ago, he turned fully to face Neuvillette, crossing his arms loosely over his chest. His gaze softened—not dramatically so, but enough to signal that he was listening intently. “Have you decided what it is you want?”

Neuvillette clasped his hands tighter together, his knuckles whitening under the pressure as if grounding himself for what he was about to reveal. He took a small step forward before stopping abruptly, hesitating as though an invisible wall had risen between them. His lips parted briefly but no sound came out; he closed them again and exhaled shakily through his nose before finally managing to speak.

“I want…” He faltered briefly, swallowing hard against the lump forming in his throat. “I want to send a letter to my mother.”

For a moment, it seemed as though even time itself had stilled; the room grew unnaturally quiet save for the faint rustle of curtains shifting in the breeze. Wriothesley's expression darkened—not with anger but with something far heavier. It was a seriousness that seemed to weigh down every line of his face and settle into the set of his jaw like stone.

“That’s not possible,” Wriothesley said finally after a measured pause. His voice was firm but not harsh—a steady anchor meant to ground rather than chastise. Yet there was no mistaking the finality in those words.

“I understand,” Neuvillette replied almost immediately, stepping closer as though proximity alone might bridge the emotional chasm opening between them. His voice cracked slightly on those two simple words—a sound so fleeting it might have gone unnoticed by anyone less attuned than Wriothesley—but he pressed on regardless. “I understand that she won’t be allowed to send anything back,” he continued hurriedly, desperation creeping into his tone despite his best efforts to mask it. “But I just—” He faltered again, biting down hard on the inside of his cheek before forcing himself to continue. “It would ease my worry to know she is well enough to receive my letter.”

Wriothesley’s gaze softened further at that confession—just barely—but enough for Neuvillette to notice and draw some small measure of comfort from it. For several long moments, Wriothesley said nothing; instead, he studied Neuvillette’s face with an intensity that seemed almost clinical yet deeply personal all at once.

Finally breaking the silence between them, Wriothesley let out a slow sigh. “You know how dangerous it could be,” he said quietly but firmly, each word carefully chosen and weighted with meaning. “Not just for her—for you too.”

“I know,” Neuvillette whispered back, lowering his gaze as though unable—or perhaps unwilling—to meet Wriothesley's eyes any longer.

Wriothesley let out another measured sigh. His gloved hand raked through his dark, tousled hair, the movement deliberate, almost as if grounding himself in the act. The faint glint of light caught in the strands, emphasizing the intensity of his furrowed brow. When he finally looked up, his gaze met Neuvillette’s with a steadiness that seemed to cut through the haze of tension between them. Neuvillette’s pale blue eyes brimmed with something raw—pleading, desperate, and unbearably vulnerable.

“She’s alive,” Wriothesley said firmly, his voice low but resolute. Each word carried an unyielding conviction, as though he believed that if he spoke it with enough certainty, Neuvillette would believe it was an undeniable truth. “I promise you—she is alive.”

Neuvillette’s lips trembled as if fighting to form words. His voice emerged fractured, betraying the torrent of emotions churning inside him. “But—” He faltered, taking a hesitant step forward, his movements timid yet laced with determination. “I swear… I swear I will not write anything that could tarnish your reputation or compromise your position. You have my word.”

Wriothesley’s expression hardened instantly, his sharp features drawn into an impenetrable mask. The shift was subtle but unmistakable; the tightening of his jawline, the slight narrowing of his piercing eyes. His arms unfolded from where they had been crossed over his chest, falling stiffly to his sides before crossing again in a gesture that screamed both authority and frustration.

“It’s not about that,” Wriothesley interrupted sharply, though his tone didn’t rise. There was no anger in his voice, only an unwavering steadiness that carried more weight than any shouted argument ever could. “It’s not the content of the letter that concerns me.” He straightened slightly, as though bracing himself for what he was about to say next. “It’s the risk involved in sending such a letter.”

His words hung in the air like a storm cloud gathering above them, heavy with implications neither wanted to confront. His gaze remained fixed on Neuvillette’s face, unrelenting and intense enough to render him motionless.

“Do you have any idea,” Wriothesley continued, his voice softening just enough to sound less like a reprimand and more like a plea for understanding, “how many hands that letter will pass through before it reaches her? Do you realize how easy it would be for someone to trace its path back to her location?” There was a note of urgency now—an almost imperceptible crack in his otherwise composed demeanor.

Neuvillette’s mouth opened slightly as though to respond, but no words came out. He blinked rapidly, visibly grappling with what he had just heard. But before he could find his voice again, Wriothesley pressed on.

“Or perhaps…” Wriothesley added bitterly after a pause, the faintest edge creeping into his tone as he tilted his head slightly to one side, “you’d rather I deliver it myself? Is that it? Do you want me to personally ensure no one else can track it?” His words were pointed now—a sharp contrast to the measured calmness from moments ago—but still controlled enough to avoid outright anger. “Tell me this—am I not recognizable too? Do you think I can just slip past unnoticed?”

Neuvillette flinched as though struck by the weight of those words. His gaze dropped momentarily to the floor between them. The fragile silence that followed was shattered only by Neuvillette’s trembling voice.

“Please,” he whispered desperately, shattering whatever thin veneer of composure he had left. His hands reached out instinctively and latched onto Wriothesley’s sleeve—slender scarred fingers clutching at the fabric as though it were a lifeline keeping him from sinking into despair. “Please… I won’t ask anything else from you ever again.” His voice cracked audibly on the last word as tears pooled in his eyes and began spilling over onto his pale cheeks. “I promise—I’ll be good—I’ll do anything you want me to do.” A sob caught in his throat as he choked out the final plea: “Have I not obeyed you enough?”

For several long moments, Wriothesley said nothing. He simply stared at Neuvillette with an expression so conflicted it was nearly unreadable—a complex mixture of frustration warring with guilt and something softer buried deep beneath both. His jaw tightened visibly as though restraining himself from speaking too soon.

Finally—gently but firmly—he pried Neuvillette’s trembling hands away from him. The action was devoid of cruelty but carried an air of finality that made Neuvillette’s heart sink.

“I’m sorry,” Wriothesley said quietly but resolutely. The apology lingered between them like an unspoken truth neither could escape. He hesitated for a heartbeat longer before continuing in a gentler tone: “Look… don’t worry about welcoming our guests today. You can rest here instead.” He glanced briefly toward the door as though imagining the bustling activity beyond it before returning his gaze to Neuvillette’s tear-streaked face. “I don’t want anyone seeing you like this… distraught.”

It was meant to be reassuring—a small act of kindness—but Neuvillette felt only rejection in those words. Like being cast aside when he needed comfort most. Something inside him broke under their weight.

“She is all I have!” Neuvillette shouted suddenly—his voice raw and trembling with emotion—as he took an involuntary step back from Wriothesley. The forcefulness startled even himself; his chest rose and fell heavily with labored breaths while tears streamed freely down his face now without restraint.

“I don’t have anything else!” he cried out again, fists clenching tightly at his sides as anger surged through him alongside despair like waves crashing violently against a fragile shoreline. “I only have my mother!”

His voice cracked on the final word—a heartbreaking sound that echoed through the room long after silence fell once more.

Wriothesley stood rooted in place amidst the storm of Neuvillette’s anguish—his imposing figure suddenly seeming smaller against the enormity of what had just transpired between them. For once… he didn’t know what to say.

When no response came—when none of his words seemed to pierce through the storm that raged in Wriothesley’s heart—a frustrated cry burst from Neuvillette's throat, raw and jagged like a wound torn open. His tone cracked under the weight of his emotions, the strain audible in every syllable.

“Just because you don’t care about your parents doesn’t mean others are—”

The rest of his words were swallowed by an explosive sound that reverberated through the room, sharp and sudden as a thunderclap. The force jolted Neuvillette out of his tirade, his breath hitching as he froze mid-sentence. His wide, startled eyes darted to the source of the noise.

Wriothesley’s fist had collided with the wall behind him with such ferocity that the plaster buckled under the impact, leaving a jagged, angry dent. Dust sprinkled down from the cracked surface like falling ash, catching in the faint light streaming in from the window. The vibration lingered in the air, heavy and oppressive, like the aftershocks of an earthquake.

The sheer force of it rooted Neuvillette in place, his body stiff as though he’d been turned to stone. His mind scrambled to process what had just happened, but before he could make sense of it, Wriothesley was suddenly there—towering over him with a presence that felt as suffocating as it was commanding. In one swift motion, Neuvillette found himself pressed against the very same wall that bore the brunt of Wriothesley’s fury.

Wriothesley’s hand remained planted mere inches from Neuvillette’s head, his knuckles still trembling from the impact. The tension in his arm was palpable, veins standing out starkly against his skin. His eyes burned with an intensity that was almost unbearable to meet—a tempest of emotions swirling in their depths. Fury clashed with something deeper, something raw and unspoken that only made his gaze all the more piercing.

“You don’t know anything about my parents,” Wriothesley growled, his voice low and guttural, yet razor-sharp. Each word was spat out with venom, deliberate and cutting. “Nothing.”

The sound of his voice sent a shiver down Neuvillette’s spine, and he instinctively recoiled against the wall, his chest rising and falling rapidly as panic clawed its way through him. For a moment that stretched into eternity, neither of them moved or spoke.

Neuvillette’s lips parted as if to respond, but nothing came out. His throat worked soundlessly as if he were choking on his own fear. He couldn’t tear his gaze away from Wriothesley’s face—the tightness in his jawline, the way his brows furrowed deeply over those expressive eyes that betrayed far more than anger. There was hurt there too—raw and festering like an open wound.

But Neuvillette couldn’t dwell on it for long. His legs trembled beneath him, unsteady as though they no longer trusted themselves to hold him upright. Slowly—almost imperceptibly at first—they gave way entirely. He sank to the floor without grace or thought, his back sliding down the rough surface of the wall until he crumpled into a vulnerable heap at Wriothesley’s feet.

His arms instinctively came up to shield himself as though warding off an unseen blow. Trembling fingers curled protectively around his head while his shoulders hunched inward, folding in on himself like a broken bird seeking refuge from an oncoming storm.

“Neuvi—” Wriothesley’s voice broke through after a moment of deafening silence. It was softer now—guilt ridden even—but laced with uncertainty. The sharp edge from earlier had dulled into something hesitant and almost apologetic.

He took a half-step closer before stopping abruptly as if unsure whether his presence would comfort or worsen things. His hand hovered awkwardly at his side, clenched tightly one moment before relaxing in indecision.

“Hey…” Wriothesley tried again, quieter this time but no less earnest. His voice faltered slightly as though he didn’t quite know how to bridge the gaping chasm between them. “I didn’t mean—”

But Neuvillette cut him off—not with words directed at him but with a broken whisper that felt more like a confession spoken to himself than anyone else.

“I hate you.” The words tumbled out amidst gasping sobs that shook Neuvillette’s entire frame. They were raw and unfiltered—a dam bursting after being held back for far too long.

“I hate you,” he repeated shakily, each word sounding heavier than the last as though they were dragging him further down into despair. “I hate the man you’ve become.”

Wriothesley flinched visibly at that—a sharp intake of breath betraying just how deeply those words struck him. He opened his mouth to respond but found himself unable to form any coherent thought.

Neuvillette pushed forward despite his trembling voice, curling further into himself as though trying to disappear entirely. “I want my friend back,” he choked out between sobs; a desperate plea wrapped in layers of pain and longing.

The room, once cold and indifferent in its silence, seemed to shift in response to Neuvillette's suffering. The faint echo of his muffled cries bounced off the walls, filling the space with a haunting melody of grief. Wriothesley stood frozen in place, his towering frame now stiff and immobile. His hands clenched at his sides, knuckles white from the pressure, but he didn’t move toward Neuvillette. His jaw tightened in frustration or perhaps regret—it was hard to tell—but his lips parted briefly as though he wanted to speak.

Yet no words came.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity but could only have been moments, Wriothesley took a step back. Then another. Each movement was slow and deliberate as though every step away from Neuvillette required immense effort, and he retreated further towards the bedroom door.

Neuvillette’s head snapped up suddenly at the sound of retreating footsteps, his tear-streaked face twisting into something between disbelief and desperation. “Don’t…” he started to say, reaching out instinctively—but Wriothesley was already too far away for him to touch.

Wriothesley paused briefly in the doorway but didn’t turn around. The door clicked shut behind him with a finality that echoed through Neuvillette’s very soul. And just like that, he was alone—left in a room that now felt impossibly large and unbearably empty. The sobs came harder then—unrestrained and gut-wrenching—as Neuvillette continued to crumpled to his knees on the cold floor beneath him.

Chapter Text

They buried Wriothesley’s parents behind the Meropide mansion, in a small patch of land overlooking the lake. The spot was chosen carefully, not just for its serene beauty but for its proximity to the family home, as though in death they might still keep watch over the estate and the young heir they had left behind. But the graves were symbolic at best, empty caskets lowered into the earth with no bodies to mourn. The shipwreck that claimed their lives had left no remains to recover, only fragments of a shattered hull washed ashore weeks later. What was buried here wasn’t their physical selves but the idea of them, a cruel reminder of what had been lost to the depths.

The young heir they left behind was far too young to carry the weight of their absence. Wriothesley had stood at that funeral in clothes too large for his small frame, his pale hands clutching at the sleeves of his coat as though trying to anchor himself in a world that had suddenly turned unpredictable and vast. The caskets—polished wood adorned with silver handles—had seemed enormous to him then, like great chests containing all the answers he’d never get to ask his parents. And ever since that somber day, Wriothesley had returned here every single morning without fail. No matter the weather he was always drawn back to this place, as though tethered by invisible strings.

The mansion itself loomed nearby, austere and imposing, its high stone walls etched with ivy that clung stubbornly despite years of pruning. It was a house that seemed built to endure anything, much like its late master, the former Duke. Inside, it ran like clockwork. Though it didn’t boast a large staff, those who were employed there had been handpicked by Wriothesley’s father—meticulous choices that reflected his belief in loyalty and reliability above all else. Each attendant moved with quiet purpose, their roles so well-rehearsed that they rarely needed instruction. So when Wriothesley disappeared from sight each morning, it wasn’t long before someone would head out toward the lakeside graves.

“If this is going to be a recurring thing,” Wolsey said one such morning as he approached Wriothesley’s spot by the graves, “do you prefer to take your meal here?” His tone was pragmatic, clipped—but not unkind. That was just how things were done in Meropide. No flowery words or unnecessary gestures; everything was direct and efficient.

Wriothesley didn’t look up immediately. He was crouched near one of the gravestones, tracing its engraved letters with a finger as though memorizing every curve and line. When he finally straightened and turned toward Wolsey, his expression was calm but distant, like someone who had learned to bury emotions deep beneath layers of practiced composure. “I’ll return soon,” he said simply, brushing some dirt off his shirt. “No need to worry about that.”

Wolsey remained where he stood, hands clasped behind his back in a posture that spoke of years of disciplined service. After a moment’s pause, he added, “A letter just came from Palais Mermonia. It’s from Her Majesty the Queen.” He held out an envelope sealed with wax—a deep crimson impression bearing Elynas’ insignia rather than that of Fontaine’s royal family.

Wriothesley hesitated before taking it. His fingers brushed against the wax seal as he examined it closely, brows furrowed slightly. “Was she not made aware of Mom’s death?” he asked quietly.

“She knows,” Wolsey replied with a slight inclination of his head. “The letter is addressed to you personally.”

That gave Wriothesley pause. He hadn’t received much correspondence since his parents’ passing—most people weren’t sure what to say to a boy suddenly thrust into adulthood by tragedy and from Meropide, too, of all places. He carefully broke the seal and unfolded the letter inside, scanning its contents quickly at first before slowing down to reread certain lines.

“She wants me to come to the Court of Fontaine,” he said at last, his voice tinged with faint surprise. “For the Crown Prince.”

Wolsey raised an eyebrow but didn’t interrupt.

“To do what exactly? Be his companion?” Wriothesley’s tone turned dry, though there was no real malice in it—just weariness.

“Perhaps,” Wolsey said evenly. “But if Her Majesty has summoned you personally, then it’s more than likely important.”

“Yeah.” Wriothesley shrugged one shoulder as though brushing off the weight of whatever this might mean. “It’s whatever. An order is an order, right? I’ll just have to go along with His Highness and see what this is all about.”

“I can write the reply on your behalf,” Wolsey suggested after a brief silence.

But before Wriothesley could answer, a thought flickered through his mind like an ember catching fire. He remembered something—something tucked away in one of the mansion’s quieter rooms: a box of letters written by his late mother during her lifetime. Letters she’d replied to but had kept nonetheless, bound together with care and stored in a drawer she thought no one would notice.

He wondered if the Queen kept those letters she received from his mother just as secretive as her dead penpal did.

“No,” he said after a moment’s consideration. His tone softened slightly as though speaking more to himself than Wolsey now. “It’s okay—I’ll write it myself.”

Wolsey studied him for a moment longer before nodding curtly and turning back toward the mansion, leaving Wriothesley alone once more by the graveside. The young heir lingered there for a while longer, gazing out over the lake as sunlight danced across its surface like molten gold. Somewhere deep within him, beneath layers of practiced detachment and inherited duty, there was a childish hope that his parents would emerge from the water in this lake and returned to him. Waters connected all lives, right? And this lake was connected to the sea, too, right?

Today was not the day.

He turned around and leave.

Wriothesley’s morning routine always started the same way, with a run that would carve a path through the woods, his breath mingling with the crisp dawn air, until he reached the small, serene lakeside clearing. Here, tucked beneath the shade of two oaks whose gnarled roots curled protectively around the gravestones, lay his parents.

“Good morning, Mom. Good morning, Dad,” Wriothesley greeted softly, his voice carrying a warmth that defied the chill in the air. He crouched down, brushing away a few stray leaves from his mother’s gravestone with careful fingers and placed her favourite flower there. A smile played on his lips, faint but genuine, as though he could feel their presence just over his shoulder, watching him with quiet pride.

The response was always silence—no voices to answer him, only the gentle rustling of wind through branches and the rhythmic lapping of water against the shore. Yet he found solace in this quiet exchange, as though nature itself carried their love back to him in its subtle movements. He often thought that if he listened hard enough, he might hear their laughter woven into the melody of the breeze.

“I met someone new yesterday,” he began casually, his voice breaking through the natural symphony around him. He straightened and stretched his arms back, deliberately puffing out his chest just slightly as he turned toward his father’s gravestone, a playful smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “A master. Dame Petronilla.”

There was pride in his tone now, an unmistakable glimmer of satisfaction in his eyes. His hand instinctively brushed across his chest—a symbol of honor and progress that he imagined would have made his father beam with delight. “She’s going to teach me swordsmanship and marksmanship,” he continued, leaning closer as if sharing a secret. “Not just anyone gets this opportunity, you know.” The words carried a boyish enthusiasm that he couldn’t quite hide.

He paused for a moment, running a hand through his damp hair before letting out a small chuckle. “Though I’m not sure she wanted another pupil.” His mind wandered back to their first meeting—a terse exchange of words that left him questioning whether she even liked people at all. “She’s… different,” he admitted aloud, tilting his head as though searching for the right way to describe her. “Sharp-tongued and impatient, but there’s something about her… like she’s carrying a weight no one else can see.”

Leaning back on his heels, Wriothesley grinned faintly to himself as another memory surfaced. “Her first pupil was there too,” he added, shaking his head slightly at the thought of her. “She’s just a kid—well, younger than me at least—but you wouldn’t believe it if you saw her fight. Quiet as a stone most of the time, doesn’t say much… but when she picks up a weapon…” His voice trailed off as he gestured vaguely with his hands, mimicking an explosion. “It’s like thunder in her hands.”

His grin grew wider as he looked between the two gravestones. “Can you imagine that? This tiny girl standing there like she’s made of stone one moment and then moving faster than you can blink?” He laughed softly before sobering slightly. “But she’s strong. Really strong.” There was admiration in his voice now—a deep respect for someone who had clearly worked harder than most to earn their place.

His gaze drifted upward toward the sky, where streaks of gold and pink were beginning to bleed through the fading darkness. One hand reached out almost instinctively as if trying to grasp something intangible—a dream hovering just out of reach. “It makes me wonder how far I can go,” he mused quietly. “If Dame Petronilla could teach someone like her to wield that kind of power at such a young age… then what could she teach me?”

He lowered his hand slowly, turning back toward the gravestones with renewed determination burning in his eyes. “I want to be strong,” he declared firmly, though there was an unspoken layer beneath those words—a desire not just for strength but for purpose and fulfillment. For something that would make him worthy of standing before someone he had yet to introduce them to.

The sound of birds beginning their morning chorus broke through the stillness as Wriothesley rose to his feet once more. He brushed off his hands and took one last lingering look at both gravestones before stepping back toward the path leading into the woods.

“I’ll make you proud,” he promised under his breath before turning away, the faintest hint of resolve etched into every step as he disappeared into the trees.

Not even the lively festivities of his birthday party last night could deter Wriothesley from his routine. As dawn broke, painting the sky in soft hues of pink and orange, he tied his running shoes with practiced precision. His breath puffed visibly as he jogged along the familiar path, heart pounding rhythmically in his chest—not just from exertion but from anticipation. His destination awaited: a quiet spot by the lake where two gravestones rested, as if whispering secrets to the heavens.

The moment Wriothesley arrived, his pace slowed to a stop, his chest rising and falling heavily as he wiped a bead of sweat from his brow. He stood still for a moment, catching his breath, before lowering himself onto one knee to brush away fallen leaves from the gravestones. His fingers lingered against the cold stone, tracing each engraved letter with care.

“Good morning, Mom. Good morning, Dad,” he greeted. Wriothesley straightened up slowly, looking down at the gravestones with a flicker of realization sparking in his mind. For a moment, he tilted his head in thought, his gaze narrowing slightly as he measured the distance between himself and the ground. “Strange…” he murmured under his breath, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Have I grown taller since last year? Or… maybe I’m just noticing it now.” The thought made him chuckle softly—a sound that felt almost out of place in such a solemn setting but carried with it a sense of boyish wonder.

His hands found their way into his pockets as he shifted on his feet, rocking slightly from heel to toe. A pang of longing settled in his chest as he spoke again, this time with a tinge of apology coloring his tone. “Ah… I’m sorry,” he began, glancing briefly at the lake’s placid surface as if searching for answers in its reflections. “Neuvillette couldn’t come again this year.” His voice dropped slightly, quieter now, almost confessional. “I know I say this every time… but I really wanted him to meet you both.” He paused, exhaling deeply as though trying to let go of some unspoken weight pressing against him. Again and again, he could not come to Meropide because he couldn’t get the King’s permission. At this point, Wriothesley knew it was unlikely that he’d ever going to visit, and yet Wriothesley always extended an invitation every year so not to hurt Neuvillette’s feelings.

“You would’ve loved him,” he added with a soft smile that was equal parts wistful and proud.

The corners of Wriothesley’s mouth twitched upward again—though this time his cheeks flushed faintly pink. He rubbed at his neck awkwardly and glanced away toward the horizon where sunlight danced across rippling waters. Was it embarrassment heating his skin? Or perhaps something else entirely—a mix of emotions stirred by memories and unfulfilled hopes? He wasn’t sure, but it didn’t matter much.

Still unable to shake off those feelings entirely, Wriothesley shifted topics with an exaggerated sigh that bordered on theatrical—a habit he’d picked up over years of playfully teasing friends and colleagues alike. “I did get a lot of presents though,” he said with mock exasperation, lifting both arms briefly in an exaggerated shrug before letting them fall back to his sides. “More than I know what to do with! Honestly…” His tone softened then as sincerity crept into his words like sunlight breaking through clouds. “They all mean so much to me.”

He crouched down again beside the gravestones, resting one arm casually on his bent knee while gazing thoughtfully at the names etched before him. “These people…” He hesitated for just a moment before continuing more firmly. “They don’t have much—not even enough to make ends meet sometimes—but they still went out of their way to bring me gifts last night.” His lips pressed together briefly as emotion welled up inside him; it wasn’t sadness exactly but something far more complex—a deep gratitude mingled with humility and an almost overwhelming sense of responsibility. “Most of the gifts weren’t anything valuable in a traditional sense, I suppose you’d know that already, right?” he admitted softly, “Just little things they made themselves… but those are worth more to me than anything money could buy.”

He sat back slightly on his heels and let out another sigh—this one gentler than before—as though releasing some invisible tension that had been coiled tightly within him since arriving. “I hope you’re relieved to know,” Wriothesley said after a moment’s pause, addressing his parents directly once more with an affectionate smile playing at his lips, “that there are so many people I can rely on now—so many adults who’ve taken me under their wing in their own way.”

As he spoke these words aloud into the still morning air, Wriothesley couldn’t help but feel as though those unseen parental figures had somehow multiplied around him over time—like an ever-growing family bound not by blood but by shared struggles and mutual respect. For just a fleeting second or two… it almost felt like home again.

It was raining that night, a relentless downpour that hammered against the ground with a fury, turning the dirt into thick, clinging mud. The lake shimmered in the dim moonlight breaking through the storm clouds, its surface disturbed by the impact of countless raindrops. Lightning forked across the black sky, briefly illuminating the silhouette of Wriothesley as he approached his parents’ gravesite.

He moved slowly, his boots sinking into the sodden ground with each step, the hem of his coat heavy with rain and dirt. His shoulders hunched under the weight of exhaustion and something far heavier—guilt. His breath came out in visible puffs, mixing with the cold night air. He crouched down in front of two simple, weather-worn gravestones. The names engraved upon them were barely legible now, worn away by years of exposure to wind and rain, yet Wriothesley didn’t need to see them to know who rested beneath.

Beside him lay his sword. Its blade was caked with blood, deep crimson streaks mixing with the rainwater as it pooled around the weapon. It glinted dully in the faint light, a silent witness to what had transpired just hours before. Wriothesley stared at it for a long moment, his jaw tightening as his throat bobbed with a hard swallow.

“They wanted me dead,” he said finally, his voice low and hoarse as if dragged from somewhere deep within him. His gaze lifted from the sword to the graves before him, and he allowed himself a bitter laugh that had no humor in it. “They thought I wouldn’t find out. That I wouldn’t… that I couldn’t do what needed to be done.”

The wind howled through the trees surrounding the lake, bending their branches until they looked like they might snap under the strain. Wriothesley closed his eyes briefly, letting the cold rain lash against his face as though it might wash away some part of him—the guilt, the anger, or perhaps even the memory of what he had done.

When Wriothesley’s former nanny returned to the mansion a year ago, her expression had been etched with kindness and nostalgia. She had stood in the grand hall with her hands clasped tightly together, her eyes glistening as she looked around at walls she hadn’t seen since Wriothesley was just a baby.

Wriothesley had hesitated at first. He was young then—barely more than a teenager—but already carrying too many burdens for someone his age. The mansion felt emptier than ever after his parents’ deaths, its vast halls echoing endlessly with silence. Yet when she made her offer to stay and help once more, this time bringing her husband along to assist her, he found himself nodding before he even realized it.

It hadn’t taken long for Wriothesley to hear about what they’d been doing since leaving their positions at the mansion years prior. The townsfolk spoke highly of them: how they took in children who had nowhere else to go—orphans left behind by tragedy or abandoned by parents who couldn’t care for them anymore for whatever reason; death, incapability of caring, sinner’s shame—the couple took them into their house with love and care the kids deserved without hesitation.

Wriothesley admired them for it; he envied them too for how much they could do for children that were unfortunate. When they suggested bringing those children into his home—his mansion—he hadn’t hesitated. An heir to Meropide should not hesitate for something like that, it was a given to help to that extent, right?

The first arrivals came timidly but soon filled the place with life. Laughter echoed through the halls again for the first time in years as meals became lively affairs filled with shared stories and inside jokes. For a brief moment in time, Wriothesley allowed himself to believe he had found something close to family again.

Until one by one… they began to disappear.

At first, it was subtle—easy enough to dismiss as coincidence or miscommunication. A child would vanish overnight without explanation; rumors would circulate that they’d run away or been taken back by distant relatives no one had ever met.

But then it happened again. And again.

Wriothesley couldn’t ignore it any longer when one of the younger children—a girl no older than seven—vanished without taking any of her belongings or even saying goodbye to friends she played with every day.

His heart pounded as dread clawed its way into his chest like icy fingers wrapping around his ribs. He started asking questions—quietly at first—but soon became relentless in his search for answers.

It didn’t take long for him to uncover fragments of truth hidden beneath layers of deceit: stolen coins from locked chests; whispers exchanged between servants when they thought no one was listening; strange visitors arriving late at night only to leave before dawn broke over the horizon.

And then came evidence he couldn’t ignore—a ledger tucked away among belongings that weren’t meant for prying eyes detailing transactions… sales… names crossed out like inventory items being marked off lists.

His name was in it, too, uncrossed. Yet.

The realization hit him like a blow he wasn’t prepared for: these weren’t accidents; these weren’t coincidences; these weren’t runaways.

They were crimes.

“They don’t see me as a duke,” Wriothesley muttered now under his breath at the gravesite, his hands curled into fists on either side of him where he crouched in front of his parents’ gravestones once more. “But why should I still punish them like one?”

Lightning flashed across the sky again as thunder rumbled ominously overhead—louder this time—as if nature itself recoiled at what had transpired beneath its watchful gaze earlier that evening.

He could still see their faces—the couple who once stood before him offering help and kindness now sprawled lifeless on cold stone floors stained red by betrayal turned vengeance.

Meropide was the last and only stop for sinners that had been forgotten by society. A chance to atone, where the only rule was that each and every one of them were responsible for their own survival. The Duke of Meropide was responsible to keep outside’s harm from reaching them, and keep everyone in check so nobody would even think about standing in the way of someone else’s survival.

Breaking a rule in Meropide had only one type of punishment, one that had to be carried out by nobody but the Duke of Meropide.

"I don’t know how you did it, Dad," Wriothesley whispered shakily, his voice cracking under the weight of unspoken grief. His knees pressed into the cold, unyielding earth beneath him. He stared at the empty space before him—a void left not just by death itself but by the absence of understanding. A void that only someone who had taken a life could ever truly fathom. And yet, even for those who understood it, it remained an unbearable wound—a scar that never stopped aching, burning quietly beneath the surface. Quietly at first… then louder. And louder still. Until it roared within him like a storm he could never escape.

His breath hitched as tears blurred his vision, turning the shadows of the night into twisted shapes that seemed to mock him. His fists clenched tightly at his sides, nails biting into his palms as if punishing himself for still being here—alive—when so many others were not. "I don’t know how you carried this... how you bore it alone," he choked out. "How you lived with it... without letting it destroy you."

He paused, his chest heaving as he fought against the tide of emotion threatening to pull him under. "I don’t know how to face the others either," he admitted in a broken whisper. "The other kids… I can’t look them in the eye knowing I couldn’t save their siblings. What should I tell them? Lourvine and Jurieu… they’re so clever, they would get mad at me because they can see right through me, wouldn’t they?" He could almost hear their voices—the children he’d failed to protect—echoing in his mind like ghosts that refused to be silenced. Their laughter, their cries for help, their last breaths… all of it haunted him relentlessly.

Wriothesley’s fingers dug into the dirt as if searching for something solid to hold onto amidst the chaos inside him. Slowly, painfully, he pushed himself up from the ground. His legs felt weak, trembling beneath him as though they might give way at any moment. He tilted his head back and gazed up at the night sky above—a vast expanse of blackness that cried not for Wriothesley, too indifferent to offer any solace.

"Maybe it’s my fault," Wriothesley murmured. "Maybe I was foolish to think I could ever see them as my parents." His lips curled into a bitter smile that didn’t reach his eyes as he shook his head slowly. "My parents are dead," he said firmly this time, his tone laced with both sorrow and resignation. "And nothing will ever replace them."

The night stretched vast and silent, its velvety darkness wrapping around Wriothesley as he trudged down the narrow, winding path toward the lake. The air carried a faint chill, heavy with the mingling scents of earth and water, while a gentle breeze stirred the tall grasses bending along the trail. Moonlight spilled across the scene, illuminating the rippling surface of the lake and casting a silvery glow over the two modest headstones. Around them, a sea of flowers bloomed in vibrant defiance of the somber atmosphere—delicate pluie lotus, all swaying gently in the night air. They were his mother’s favorites; ones that Wriothesley had brought here every single day ever since the funeral.

His steps faltered as he reached the gravesite. For a moment, he stood utterly still, his broad shoulders rising and falling with each slow breath. His hands were buried deep in his coat pockets, fingers curling into fists as though he were bracing himself for some unseen force. His chest felt tight, constricted by an ache that no amount of time seemed to dull. His eyes were red-rimmed and swollen, evidence of tears shed long before he arrived here tonight. The rawness lingered in his expression—a mixture of sorrow, guilt, and something deeper, more unnameable.

“Good evening, Mom... Dad,” he said at last, breaking the silence with words that trembled faintly at the edges. His voice carried a rich baritone now, deeper than it had been in his youth—deeper even than his father’s had been. It struck him as ironic how much he had grown to resemble his father in some ways yet felt so wholly unworthy of that comparison. He crouched down slowly, brushing a stray leaf from the base of one headstone before resting his hand lightly against it. The stone was cold beneath his palm.

“I…” He hesitated, his throat tightening as if the weight of what he needed to say pulled at him physically. “This is the last time I’ll visit.”

The words hung in the air like a confession, heavy and irrevocable. His gaze dropped to the ground between the graves as shame clawed its way through him. A bitter laugh escaped his lips—a quiet, hollow sound devoid of humor.

“I’m sorry, in the end I could not introduce you to Neuvillette,” he continued after a long pause, his voice quieter now but no less steady. “and moreover, I let you down.”

His jaw clenched as he fought to keep his composure. Memories rose unbidden—his father’s guidance, his mother’s laughter filling their home—and with them came an overwhelming sense of failure.

“But I can’t possibly show my face in front of you again,” he admitted softly, almost as if speaking to himself. “I know… I know you would’ve disowned me if you were still here.”

He closed his eyes briefly, inhaling deeply through his nose as though trying to draw strength from the crisp night air. When he opened them again, they shone with a steely resolve beneath the lingering sorrow.

“I took care of our people,” he said firmly, lifting his head to meet the silent gaze of the headstones as if daring them to judge him. “There are still good people in Fontaine who wanted to take them in—people who’ll make sure they’re safe and cared for. So… you don’t have to worry anymore.”

His voice wavered slightly on the last word, but he pressed on regardless. He needed them to understand—even if they couldn’t hear him—that what he had done was for their sake as much as anyone else’s. He was the Duke of Meropide, and he would not stand in the way of everyone else’s survival.

Behind him, distant yet unmistakable, the sound of crackling flames began to rise above the stillness. He didn’t turn around; there was no need. The firelight cast flickering shadows against the trees surrounding him, its orange glow reflecting faintly on the surface of the lake like a cruel parody of warmth. The mansion was now engulfed in flames that licked hungrily at its walls and consumed everything within.

It should have felt like an ending—a final act of closure—but Wriothesley felt strangely numb as he watched it burn from the corner of his eye without once looking back fully. The destruction was deliberate, calculated—a necessary step toward severing ties with a past that no longer held meaning for him.

By morning, there would be nothing left—not of this place or this life he had once known so intimately. And by tomorrow night… tomorrow night would mark the beginning of something far greater and more dangerous than anything he had ever undertaken before.

“I suppose this is goodbye,” Wriothesley murmured at last, rising slowly to his feet and brushing dirt from his knees. He lingered for one final moment beneath the shadow of the tree, gazing down at his parents’ graves with an expression unreadable save for its intensity.

His hand drifted toward one blooming flower and hesitated before withdrawing entirely. No keepsakes tonight; no tokens to carry with him when he left this place behind forever.

Turning away from the gravesite at last, Wriothesley began walking back toward the path that led away from the lake and though he carried no physical memento from this parting moment, Wriothesley knew that come what may this place would haunt him always.

Chapter Text

Neuvillette was twelve when his father, the King, decided that punishment would come from his own hand.

The boy’s knees trembled as the decree echoed through the grand hall. His father’s voice—cold and unyielding—had cut through the air like a blade, leaving everyone else in stunned silence. Neuvillette’s heart pounded in his chest, each beat reverberating in his ears as if it were trying to escape his ribcage. He opened his mouth to plead, but no words came at first—only a whimper that barely rose above the suffocating tension.

“Please…” he managed to croak, his voice betraying the raw fear that threatened to consume him whole. “Please don’t—”

But his desperate words were swallowed by the heavy clink of metal boots on marble as a guard stepped forward. The man’s armor gleamed dully under the chandelier, its edges etched with years of use, though his face was emotionless beneath his helm. Without hesitation, he grabbed Neuvillette’s arm in one harsh, practiced motion.

“No! Please!” Neuvillette cried out, his voice cracking as he tried to twist away. The guard’s iron grip tightened mercilessly around his thin arm, the cold steel of gauntlets pressing into his skin with bruising force. Pain shot up his arm, sharp and immediate, but it was nothing compared to the dread curdling in his stomach.

The ornate corridor stretched before them like a gilded tunnel of despair as Neuvillette was dragged forward. The polished marble floor reflected their movements in distorted fragments—the boy’s flailing limbs, the guard’s unrelenting stride—while golden-framed mirrors lining the walls seemed to watch with an indifferent gaze. Tapestries hung heavy with scenes of triumph and glory, their vibrant threads weaving tales of conquest and justice that now felt cruelly ironic. To Neuvillette, they loomed like silent judges, mocking him for his weakness.

“I’ll do better—I promise! I won’t ask for anything again!” he wailed, desperation clawing at every syllable. His feet skidded against the slippery floor as he tried futilely to dig in his heels. “I’ll study harder! I won’t disappoint His Majesty! Please, don’t do this!”

The guard didn’t so much as glance down at him. His face remained an unyielding mask, carved from stone or perhaps forged from years of duty that had long since eroded any trace of compassion. His silence stung almost as much as the bruises forming on Neuvillette’s arm.

No answer came—not from the guard, not from anyone else in the vast emptiness of the palace halls. Only the sound of their footsteps filled the space, echoing endlessly until it seemed to press down on Neuvillette from all sides. He began to shiver despite himself; whether from fear or from the chill creeping into the air as they ventured further into the palace, he couldn’t tell.

The corridors grew darker here, their opulence fading into shadowed austerity as they moved farther away from the warmth of inhabited wings. Dust hung thick in the air, stirred only by their passage and catching faintly in Neuvillette’s throat with each panicked breath he took. The boy glanced wildly around him for any sign of reprieve; a servant passing by who might intervene, another corridor where he could wrench free and run—but there was nothing but endless stone walls and silence ahead.

And then they stopped.

The guard pushed open a heavy wooden door with a loud creak that sent shivers crawling up Neuvillette’s spine. The hinges groaned under its weight as though reluctant to reveal what lay within; a dimly lit shed that smelled faintly of mildew and decay. It wasn’t part of the current palace proper; Neuvillette recognized it as one of the old stables tucked behind Palais Mermonia's sprawling grounds.

“No… no…” he whispered brokenly as realization dawned upon him like a cold wave crashing over his fragile form.

The shed beyond was barren save for scattered remnants of hay clinging stubbornly to cracks in uneven stone floors. A single beam of light streamed weakly through a narrow barred window set high above—too high for even an adult man to reach—and illuminated motes of dust suspended midair like ghosts frozen in time.

“Please,” Neuvillette whimpered again when he felt himself shoved forward into the shed’s oppressive stillness. His knees buckled under him as he stumbled inside, landing hard on unforgiving stone with a muffled cry that sounded too small for how much pain tore through him.

Before he could scramble back up—before he could even think to try; the door slammed shut behind him with a resounding thud that made him flinch violently. The sound reverberated through the shed like thunder trapped within its confines.

“No!” he screamed now—not pleading anymore but furious and terrified all at once—as he threw himself against the door with all the strength left in his slight frame. He pounded on it with clenched fists until they stung from impact; he kicked at its base until splinters pricked at his bare ankles.

“Let me out! Let me out!” The boy’s desperate cries reverberated in the small, squalid chamber, bouncing off the unyielding oak door. His fists pounded against it with all the strength his thin arms could muster, but the heavy wood absorbed each blow without so much as a creak. His voice cracked, raw from shouting, yet he continued to plead as if sheer will alone might shatter his confinement. “Please! Someone—anyone—help me!”

But outside that door—on this forsaken edge of royal splendor—there was only silence. No servants scurried past with hurried footsteps; no guards whispered in low tones. The absence of sound pressed down on him like a weight, amplifying his isolation.

The moments stretched unbearably, each second an eternity of fear and helplessness. Then came the sound that made his heart seize—a slow, deliberate cadence of heavy boots against stone. The boy froze mid-breath, his hands falling limp at his sides as dread coiled in his stomach. He turned toward the door just as it swung open with an ominous groan.

The figure that entered was both commanding and terrifying. His father—the King—filled the doorway. The golden sash draped across his chest caught the light and gleamed with an almost cruel brilliance. His embroidered tunic, adorned with intricate patterns of dragons and vines in deep crimson and gold thread, seemed garishly out of place in this bare and grimy shed. Dust motes swirled in the cold air between them as if even they dared not settle on his pristine attire.

Neuvillette’s breath hitched sharply, the sound catching in his throat as though the air itself had turned against him. He stumbled backward, unsteady, until his back collided with the cold, unyielding surface of the far wall. The impact sent a tremor through his already quivering frame, and his legs buckled beneath him, threatening to give out entirely. He dug his heels into the floor, trying desperately to anchor himself, but his knees wavered like a newborn fawn’s. His chest heaved with shallow, panicked breaths, each one a struggle, and his trembling hands instinctively clawed at the fabric of his tunic as if clutching at it could somehow steady the storm raging inside him—or keep his heart from splintering under the weight of his father’s gaze.

“Your Majesty…” The words barely escaped his lips, a faint whisper fractured by the sobs that choked him. His voice cracked, splitting like glass under pressure. He pressed one hand to his chest, fingers curling tightly into the fine material of his garments as though the motion might shield him from the unbearable truth of the moment. His other hand hovered uselessly in the air for a moment before falling limply to his side. “Please, I… I didn’t mean to…” The plea was fragmented, raw, torn from a place deep within him that he rarely allowed anyone to see.

The King did not move. He remained rooted in place at the center of the shed, drink in the dim light filtering through the high window. His crown caught what little illumination there was, casting sharp glints across the walls like daggers of light. But it wasn’t the regality of his attire nor the imposing breadth of his shoulders that made Neuvillette shrink further into himself—it was his eyes. They bore into him with an intensity that felt almost inhuman. Cold and unrelenting, they seemed to strip away every layer of defense Neuvillette had ever built for himself, exposing every flaw, every inadequacy to that merciless scrutiny.

There was no warmth in those eyes. No flicker of recognition or understanding. No trace of paternal affection that might soften their harsh glare. Instead, they gleamed with something much harder—disappointment sharpened into a weapon and aimed directly at Neuvillette’s heart. It cut deeper than any blade ever could.

The silence stretched unbearably thin between them, heavy and suffocating like a storm cloud ready to burst. When the King finally spoke, his voice sliced through it with all the precision and finality of an executioner’s axe.

“It seems your tutors’ disciplinary methods are insufficient.”

Each word fell like a stone dropped into still water—precise, deliberate ripples of disdain spreading outward and pulling Neuvillette under. The tone was devoid of anger; it didn’t need to be angry to hurt. Instead, it carried an icy detachment that somehow stung worse than any furious outburst could have. It was a verdict: cold, clinical, and irrevocable.

Neuvillette flinched as though struck by an invisible hand, his entire body recoiling under the weight of his father’s glare. The air between them seemed to thicken, heavy with unspoken expectations and the suffocating tension of disappointment. His chest tightened as though a vice had clamped around his ribs, squeezing the breath from his lungs. His lips parted, trembling, and before he could stop himself, the words tumbled out in a frantic rush.

“I’m sorry!” he blurted, his voice cracking under the strain of suppressed emotion. His apology hung in the air, raw and desperate, each syllable weighted with the terror of what might come next. The moment those words escaped him, it was as though a dam had burst inside him. Hot tears welled up in his eyes, spilling over and tracing fiery paths down his pale cheeks. He didn’t bother to wipe them away; his hands remained limp at his sides, clenched into fists but powerless to act.

The room swam before him, blurred by the sheen of his tears. All he could make out was the imposing silhouette of his father standing tall and unyielding, a figure carved from stone. The King’s expression was unreadable—cold, distant, and devastatingly silent. Neuvillette’s vision distorted further as his own sobs began to hitch in his throat, but even through the haze, he felt the weight of judgment bearing down on him like an unforgiving tide.

“Do you even realize what you’ve done?” His father’s voice finally broke the silence, low and sharp like the edge of a blade. It wasn’t loud but its quiet intensity struck harder than any shout ever could. Each word cut through Neuvillette’s fragile composure like shards of ice.

“I…” Neuvillette stammered, his voice barely above a whisper. His mind scrambled for an answer, for something—anything—that might appease the man standing before him. But it was no use. He couldn’t even remember what had started this ordeal in the first place. It was all a blur now: the question he’d asked and how it had somehow escalated to this very moment.

His father took a deliberate step forward, and Neuvillette instinctively shrank back, his shoulders hunching as though bracing for a blow that wouldn’t come. “You went over your head,” the King continued, each word measured and deliberate.

“I didn’t mean to,” Neuvillette choked out, his voice breaking again as fresh tears streamed down his face. He pressed trembling fingers to his temple as though trying to will himself into coherence. “I just… I just thought—”

“That’s precisely the problem,” his father interrupted coldly. “You didn’t think.”

The words struck harder than any physical punishment ever could have. Neuvillette’s breath hitched painfully in his chest as shame crashed over him like a tidal wave. He wanted to explain himself, to justify whatever it was he’d done or said that had caused such offense—but he couldn’t even remember what it was anymore. All he knew was the crushing certainty that he had failed in some profound way.

His father’s gaze bore into him with a weight that felt unbearable. “Do you have any idea how this reflects on me? On this family?” The King’s tone remained calm but carried an undercurrent of restrained anger that sent shivers down Neuvillette’s spine.

“I… I didn’t mean to embarrass you,” Neuvillette whispered, his voice so small it barely reached his own ears.

His father’s lips curled into something that wasn’t quite a smile—a grimace of disdain more than anything else. “Intentions mean nothing without results,” he said flatly. “You’ve been given every opportunity—every resource—to succeed, and yet you still manage to find new ways to disappoint.”

The words hit like a hammer blow, shattering whatever fragile defenses Neuvillette had left. No matter how many times his tutors reprimanded or punished him for his perceived shortcomings, none of it compared to a moment like this—a moment when his father finally delivered judgment personally. It wasn’t just punishment; it was condemnation. It meant that he had failed so completely that no tutor or mentor could salvage him—that his flaws were irreparable enough to demand the King’s direct intervention.

And all because… what? What had he even asked for? The memory eluded him now, swallowed by the chaos of guilt and fear swirling in his mind. Had it been something trivial? Something foolish? Whatever it was, he knew only one thing for certain: it hadn’t been worth this.

He staggered forward on trembling legs only to collapse onto his knees with a muffled thud. His hands clasped together tightly in front of him as though in prayer—not to any god above but to this man who held such terrifying power over him. His voice cracked again as he pleaded.

“I’ll try harder, I promise. Please don’t—” His words faltered there, breaking off into a ragged sob as he hunched over himself, shoulders shaking uncontrollably. He didn’t dare finish the sentence; even voicing the possibility aloud felt too dangerous.

The shed seemed impossibly large around him now,even the air seemed heavier here as if weighed down by centuries of expectation and judgment pressing down upon him like an invisible hand forcing him lower.

The King regarded him for a moment longer without speaking. His gaze remained as piercing and unreadable as ever—an unrelenting force that refused to offer any reprieve or reassurance.

“Remove your shirt,” the King interrupted flatly, his tone brooking no argument.

For a moment, Neuvillette simply stared at him, wide-eyed in disbelief. The words didn’t seem real; they hung in the air like a thundercloud about to break. “W-what? No… please…” His voice quivered, barely audible over the pounding of his own heartbeat.

The King’s expression darkened imperceptibly—a subtle shift that sent a shiver racing down Neuvillette’s spine. “Have you learned nothing?” His voice grew sharper now, cutting through Neuvillette’s protests like a whip through air. “Do not make me repeat myself.”

As if to punctuate the command, the King reached for his belt buckle with cold deliberation. The metallic clink as it came undone echoed in the shed like a death knell.

Neuvillette flinched at the sound, instinctively shrinking further into himself. His hands hovered hesitantly at the hem of his shirt, shaking so violently that he could barely grip the fabric. Every movement felt sluggish, weighted by dread and humiliation. Finally, with painstaking slowness, he peeled off the garment and hugged it against his chest for some semblance of comfort.

That comfort was short-lived; the King snatched it from his grasp without hesitation and tossed it aside like a discarded rag. The boy’s thin frame was left exposed to the chill air of the room—his bony shoulders hunched forward and ribs faintly visible beneath pale skin.

“Count to twenty,” came the next command, as emotionless as if he were instructing someone to recite their lessons.

Neuvillette blinked up at him in horror before dropping his gaze to the floor. He nodded weakly, biting down hard on his lower lip until he tasted copper. His voice was barely a whisper when he began: “One…”

The first strike came without warning—a sharp crack that splintered through the oppressive quiet like lightning splitting a tree trunk. Pain detonated across Neuvillette’s back in searing waves that stole what little breath he had left. A strangled cry tore from his throat before he could stop it.

“Two…” he gasped out between sobs, forcing himself to continue even as tears blurred his vision.

Another blow followed immediately, this one harder than the last. It carved a fiery welt across skin already aflame with agony. Neuvillette’s knees buckled slightly, but sheer terror kept him upright.

He opened his mouth to continue counting but faltered for a moment due to the pain. Biting down hard on his already bruised lip once more, he forced himself to speak: “Th-three…”

The word barely escaped before another crack rang out—this one sharper than before as if punishing him for daring to hesitate. By now, every nerve in Neuvillette’s body felt alight with fire; each lash carved its mark not only into tender flesh but into something deeper—something fragile within him that was already beginning to splinter under pressure.

Still…he counted.

With every number wrenched from between trembling lips came another strike—each one timed with merciless precision as if measured by clockwork. And above it all stood the King—silent and unyielding like some terrible monolith carved from stone—watching without expression as boy became shadow beneath him.

By ten, each number was dragged from him like a confession ripped from an unwilling soul under torture. His body shook violently now; sweat slicked his forehead despite the shed’s chill.

By fifteen, he could no longer stay on his feet. He collapsed onto all fours with a broken sob, fingers clawing desperately at the rough stone floor beneath him as though searching for an escape route that didn’t exist.

When twenty finally came—when no more blows followed, and silence once again claimed the shed save for his ragged breathing—Neuvillette lay crumpled on the floor like a marionette whose strings had been severed with brutal precision. His chest heaved, each shallow breath dragging shards of glass through his lungs, and his back was a grotesque tapestry of suffering—angry red welts crisscrossed with bruises that bloomed in dark purples and blues, each one a cruel testament to the King’s fury. The uneven stone floor pressed unforgivingly into his skin, but the pain from those points of contact was distant compared to the searing fire that radiated across his spine.

Above him, the King loomed like a shadow that devoured light. His presence was suffocating, a storm contained within human form. His broad shoulders were rigid, his hands still faintly curled as if they hadn’t quite forgotten the rhythm of the lash. He tilted his head slightly, studying Neuvillette with an expression devoid of satisfaction or anger. Indifference was etched into every severe line of his face, as though the act of punishment had been nothing more than an unpleasant chore to be completed.

“Get up,” the King commanded flatly, his voice sharp and cold like steel slicing through frost. When Neuvillette didn’t move—his trembling body unable to muster even the strength to lift his head—the King’s lips curled ever so slightly in disdain. “A week or two here should suffice,” he added after a moment, his tone dispassionate as though discussing the weather or some trivial matter of state.

“Lock him inside,” came the curt order barked at someone unseen beyond the threshold. “Starve him—I don’t care.”

As those words sank into Neuvillette’s mind like stones sinking into dark water, something within him shattered irrevocably. He wanted to scream but no sound escaped his lips this time. Only silence remained: heavy and suffocating like chains binding him to this moment.

Then suddenly came another voice—a voice so filled with fury and anguish that it seemed to shatter the oppressive stillness. Even Neuvillette, lost in the haze of his dazed and battered state, flinched at the sound, his head jerking slightly toward the door as though the sheer force of it could pull him upright.

“How dare you!” The words tore through the air, sharp as glass. It was his mother; the Queen—her normally gentle and measured tones now ablaze with righteous indignation. She moved like a storm down the pathway, her silk skirts sweeping behind her with a ferocity that matched her expression. Her pale features were taut with fury and her hands clenched at her sides as though restraining herself from striking out.

“You cannot treat him this way!” she cried, her voice breaking slightly as it climbed in pitch, trembling from the strain of both anger and despair. She stood before her husband, the King, her chest heaving with emotion as she blocked his path like an unyielding wall. Despite the disparity in their sizes—his towering frame versus her slighter build—she did not waver. “He is my son! My child!” Her voice cracked on the last word, tears pooling in her eyes but refusing to fall.

The King’s face darkened like a thundercloud, his jaw tightening as he regarded her with cold disdain. His hand moved before Neuvillette could process what was happening. The sound of the slap was deafening—a sharp crack that echoed and caused even the guards stationed nearby to flinch. The Queen staggered slightly but caught herself, one hand flying to her cheek where a red mark was already blooming across her pale skin.

“No…” Neuvillette’s broken whisper barely escaped his lips, but it felt like a scream in his own ears. His breath hitched painfully as he tried to push himself off the cold stone floor. His arms trembled violently beneath him, every muscle screaming in protest as he dragged himself inch by agonizing inch toward the door that separated him from his mother.

“Don’t hurt Maman too,” he croaked hoarsely, his voice raw and fractured like shattered glass. “It’s my fault… It’s my fault…” Tears blurred his vision as he reached out a bloodied hand toward where he imagined she stood on the other side, just beyond his reach.

But no one heard him—not over the sound of angry voices clashing like swords in the hallway. The King’s furious growl drowned out all else as he seized his wife’s wrist in an iron grip and began dragging her away despite her struggles.

“Do not speak to me of defiance,” he hissed through gritted teeth, his voice low but laced with venom. “You forget your place.”

“I will never forget who I am,” she shot back defiantly, even as she stumbled behind him. Her voice rang out with a strength that belied her small frame. “And I will never forget what you’ve done.”

Their voices faded into the distance while inside the shed, Neuvillette collapsed back onto the floor, his body too weak to hold him up any longer. His breaths came in ragged gasps, each one scraping against his raw throat like sandpaper. The door slammed shut moments later with a resounding thud that reverberated through Neuvillette’s very bones. The metallic scrape of a lock sliding into place followed, its finality punctuating the silence like a death knell.

For several agonizing moments, Neuvillette simply lay there, staring blankly at the locked door. He tried to summon something—anything—to anchor himself: anger, defiance, even fear. But all that came was emptiness—a hollow ache that gnawed at the edges of his soul.

A faint shuffle broke through the quiet then—the guard lingering just beyond the door. “I’m sorry,” came a low whisper barely audible through the thick wooden barrier. The words were tentative, almost reluctant, as though they had slipped out against their owner’s better judgment.

Neuvillette’s fingers twitched slightly in response—a feeble attempt to grasp onto that fragment of humanity offered to him—but he couldn’t bring himself to reply. What would be the point? Apologies wouldn’t mend shredded skin; they wouldn’t erase the weight of abandonment pressing down on him like an iron mantle.

Instead, he closed his eyes and let himself sink further into the darkness encroaching upon him from all sides. Somewhere deep within that void, something fragile splintered and broke—something he wasn’t sure could ever be pieced back together again.

Days passed in excruciating stillness. The days bled into nights with no distinction other than the faint shafts of light that occasionally pierced through the barred window of his confinement. His wounds festered unchecked, each movement sending fresh waves of pain coursing through him. So much for a so-called crown prince, the humiliation of being left to rot like this—no better than an animal kept in a cage—gnawed at what little pride he had left.

Food arrived sparingly, brought by faceless servants who slipped it through the door without a word or glance in his direction. Once every two days, they would leave a stale crust of bread and a cup of tepid water—just enough to keep him alive but never enough to sate his gnawing hunger. Twice, however, there was a reprieve: a small loaf of fresh bread a couple painkiller pills smuggled in by his mother’s maid who whispered hurried words of comfort before vanishing again into the shadows.

But even these fleeting acts of kindness did little to soothe Neuvillette’s torment. For above all else—above the physical pain and the degradation—it was guilt that consumed him most. Each time he closed his eyes, he saw his mother’s face twisted in anguish as she stood up to his father on his behalf. He heard again and again that terrible slap echoing in his mind, saw her staggering under its force.

It was because of me, he thought bitterly as fresh tears carved paths down his grimy cheeks. If I hadn’t been so foolish… if I hadn’t made him angry… Maman wouldn’t have been hurt.

He clung to that guilt like a lifeline, letting it fuel a vow deep within him: Never again would he allow himself to be the cause of her suffering.

When at last two weeks had passed and the door creaked open wide for the first time since it had slammed shut on his face, Neuvillette blinked against the sudden flood of light spilling into the shed. Standing silhouetted in the doorway was a figure he would recognize anywhere—the Queen.

Her expression was unreadable at first as she surveyed him lying crumpled on the floor like a discarded doll. But then something broke within her facade; tears welled up in her eyes as she stepped forward.

“Your Majesty,” one of the guards began hesitantly, stepping inside as though to retrieve Neuvillette himself. “Let me—”

“No.” Her voice was firm but soft—a tone that brooked no argument yet carried none of her earlier anger. She raised a hand to halt him mid-step, and though she did not look at him directly, her presence alone was enough to make him falter.

The guard hesitated for only a moment before retreating awkwardly back toward the doorway, guilt flickering across his face before he turned away entirely.

The Queen knelt before Neuvillette then—not as royalty but simply as a mother—and carefully gathered him into her arms, her embrace firm yet infinitely gentle, as though he were made of spun glass. His small body stiffened at first, caught off guard by this kind of display of maternal affection, but soon melted against her, his tiny hands clutching at the embroidered bodice of her gown.

Behind her, the silent assembly of servants and guards exchanged fleeting glances, their expressions a mixture of astonishment and unease. A few held their breath, their gazes darting to the grand double doors at the far end of the hall across the shed, half-expecting them to burst open at any moment to reveal the King’s imposing figure. For in this palace, tradition was law, and that law dictated that mothers of royal blood were never to sully their hands with mundane acts like carrying their own children. That was a task relegated to nannies—stoic women in gray uniforms who moved like shadows through the corridors, unseen and unacknowledged.

But the Queen didn’t care. Not about protocol. Not about tradition. And certainly not about the reprimand that would undoubtedly come later. Her focus was solely on her son—the small boy who now buried his face into the crook of her neck, his soft sobs muffled against her skin. She could feel his tears soaking through the fine fabric of her gown, warm and heartbreaking.

One of the maids stepped forward hesitantly, wringing her hands as though unsure whether to intervene or retreat. “Your Majesty,” she began in a tentative voice, bowing her head low. “Shall I… shall I fetch Matron Sigewinne to take him?”

The Queen’s head snapped up sharply, her gaze piercing as it met the maid’s eyes. “No,” she said firmly, though not unkindly. Her voice brimmed with quiet authority—a tone that brooked no argument yet carried an undertone of vulnerability that few ever witnessed. “He stays with me.”

The maid froze for a moment before nodding quickly and stepping back into line with the others. The murmurs among the staff ceased instantly, replaced by an uneasy silence broken only by Neuvillette’s occasional sniffles.

She whispered something then; soft words meant only for him—but Neuvillette could barely make them out anymore over the rushing sound in his ears. All he could do was lean into her embrace, letting himself be carried away from that wretched place at last.

As they passed through the halls of the palace on their way back to safety, Neuvillette glanced at his mother’s face. Her cheekbone bore no mark from where she had been struck—no bruise or scar remained—but the memory lingered nonetheless.

Closing his eyes against fresh tears threatening to spill over once more, he made another silent vow: Neuvillette would not push his limit with the king anymore. No matter how much he burned with questions or bristled under commands that felt unjust, he would swallow it all—every word, every indignity—if it meant sparing her from the wrath of a man who wielded power like a blade. He would keep his head low from now on, never ask for anything, never question what was given or not to him. Never again would he allow himself to fail her—not while there was still breath in his body to protect her from harm.

Chapter Text

He pulled the door shut behind him with a quiet click, the sound sharp against the heavy silence of the room he left behind. Wriothesley lingered for a moment in the corridor, his hand still resting on the doorknob as if tethered to the space beyond it. His chest tightened, each breath an effort as he forced himself to step away, to put distance between himself and Neuvillette. The air out here felt no freer—thick with unspoken words and emotions he could not afford to voice. 

He strode down the hall with purpose, though every step felt heavier than the last, as though the weight of his own deception pressed down on him. When he reached the attendants stationed near the grand staircase, he adjusted his coat with deliberate precision, masking his inner turmoil with a veneer of calm. His voice emerged steady but distant, as though he were speaking on autopilot.  

“I’ll be taking my horse out,” he announced, his tone clipped and formal, betraying none of the storm raging within. “I need some air.”  

One of the attendants nodded quickly. “Of course, Your Majesty. Shall I prepare anything for your return?”  

“No need, just tell the guests we will be canceling the welcome lunch. Please provide them with a private lunch in their respective chambers and make sure they get everything they need, so they won’t feel upset.” Wriothesley replied curtly, already turning toward the stables before she could ask further questions. He didn’t dare linger—didn’t dare let anyone see through the cracks in his composure.

Out in the yard, the cool breeze swept over him as he approached the stable doors. The scent of hay and leather filled his lungs, but he saw no one else tending to these horses. He found his horse already saddled—a dark mare with a sleek coat that glimmered faintly under the moonlight. He nickered softly as he approached, sensing his unrest even without a word.

He mounted with practiced ease, the leather reins taut in his hands as they set off at a steady trot through the gates and into the fields beyond. The rhythmic thud of hooves against packed earth was a welcome distraction—something to focus on other than the hollow ache gnawing at his chest.

Wriothesley ventured into the woods behind the sprawling estate, the dense canopy of trees overhead casting dappled shadows that danced across the uneven ground. The muted clop of his horse’s hooves on the damp earth was still steady rhythm, though the animal shifted uneasily beneath him, its ears flicking back as if sensing its rider's inner turmoil.

Wriothesley reached down and gave the reins a light tug, his gloved hands tightening against the leather as he muttered under his breath, “Come on, Pluto. I know you don’t like me much, but just bear with me.” His horse snorted in response, shaking its mane as if in disdain, a reminder of the uneasy companionship they had shared over the years. It was almost fitting, Wriothesley thought bitterly, that even his horse seemed to resent him. 

The cool forest air did little to calm the tempest raging in his chest. He had come here seeking solace, a reprieve from the suffocating weight of his thoughts, but they pursued him relentlessly like hounds on a scent. No matter how far he rode or how hard he tried to focus on the rustling leaves or the distant trill of birdsong, Neuvillette's voice echoed in his mind, raw and broken. The memory unfurled again, vivid and unrelenting: Neuvillette’s crystalline tears streaming down his pale cheeks, his trembling frame recoiling as if bracing for a blow that would never come. 

“I hate you,” Neuvillette had said with such quiet finality that it pierced through Wriothesley’s heart like a blade. But it wasn’t the words themselves that haunted him—it was the look in Neuvillette’s eyes as he said them. Eyes that usually held an endless depth of calm and understanding were now clouded with despair, betrayal, and something far worse: hopelessness. It was as though every ounce of light within him had been extinguished in that moment.

Wriothesley clenched his jaw, his knuckles whitening as he gripped the reins tighter. He could still hear his own voice, cold and detached—an act he had perfected for this very purpose. Words he said with deliberate indifference, even as every word felt like sandpaper against his soul. 

It was better that way.

But it wasn’t better. It wasn’t better at all.

He dismounted near a clearing where sunlight filtered through the trees in golden beams, illuminating patches of wildflowers swaying gently in the breeze. The scene should have been peaceful, serene even—but to Wriothesley, it felt like mockery. The beauty of the world carried on undisturbed while inside him there was nothing but ruin. He dropped the reins and let his horse wander a few steps away to graze, raking a hand through his dark hair as he exhaled sharply.

The ache in his chest was unbearable—a deep, gnawing emptiness that no amount of distance or distraction could fill. He paced back and forth along the edge of the clearing, his boots crunching against fallen leaves and twigs. Why do I keep doing this to myself, he thought. Why did I have to push him so far?

Because you’re trying to protect him, came the answer from somewhere deep within—a truth he didn’t want to confront but couldn’t ignore.

He stopped pacing and leaned against a tree, pressing his forehead against its rough bark as if grounding himself in its solidity might somehow steady the chaos inside him. His shoulders sagged under the weight of his own choices. Every fiber of his being wanted to turn around, march back into their shared chambers, and take Neuvillette into his arms—to kiss away those tears and beg for forgiveness. To tell him everything: how much he loved him, how much it killed him to see Neuvillette hurting because of him.

But he couldn’t.

Neuvillette needed to hate him—had to hate him and believe in that hatred down to his very core—because anything else would put him in danger. To be seen as anything other than the innocent victim of the regicide would paint Neuvillette as possible accessory to the coup. He could not be perceived as Wriothesley’s real friend, let alone a lover.

His thoughts drifted back to their last conversation—or rather, confrontation—and he replayed every detail in excruciating clarity. He remembered how Neuvillette’s voice had wavered when he’d said those three damning words: “I hate you.” It hadn’t sounded angry; it had sounded defeated—as if those words were a surrender rather than an accusation.

Wriothesley had stood there like a statue then—silent and unyielding—even though every part of him had wanted to crumble at Neuvillette’s feet and to let him know why and what Wriothesley was doing. But Wriothesley hadn’t let him in—not then and not now—and perhaps that was what hurt most of all.

So, he got it. The confirmation of hate.

The words still echoed in his mind, sharp and unforgiving, like shards of glass lodged in his chest. He had seen it in Neuvillette's eyes—the disappointment, the accusation that cut deeper than any blade could. Wriothesley had wanted this reaction. No, he had planned for it, meticulously orchestrating every move to ensure that Neuvillette would turn against him. And now, standing in the aftermath of his own machinations, he could feel the weight of his success pressing down on him.

His plan succeeded.

The thought should have brought satisfaction—a bitter kind of triumph that came with knowing you had outplayed fate itself. After all, he had done what needed to be done to protect Neuvillette from himself, from the chaos Wriothesley's presence seemed to invite into his life. This was for the best, wasn't it? That was what he had told himself countless times as he laid the groundwork for this rift between them. But now... now he wasn’t so sure.

He should feel triumphant, vindicated even.

Wriothesley clenched his fists at his sides, his knuckles whitening as he tried to summon even a shred of that victory he had promised himself. He had won—he had gotten exactly what he wanted. So why did it feel like he was standing in the ruins of something irreplaceable? Why did every breath feel heavier, like his lungs were struggling against an invisible pressure? His jaw tightened as he fought to suppress the emotions threatening to surface.

But why did it hurt so much?

The pain was unlike anything he had ever endured before—it wasn’t sharp or fleeting but dull and constant, an ache that settled deep within him and refused to let go. It felt as though someone had carved out a piece of him and left a hollow void in its place, one that no amount of resolve or determination could fill.

Why did he want to fix their relationship so badly that it felt like a physical ache in his chest, a gaping wound that wouldn't heal?

Wriothesley exhaled shakily and pressed a hand against his chest, as if trying to physically hold himself together. The thought of losing Neuvillette entirely—of truly severing the bond they shared—was unbearable. He could barely admit it to himself, but the truth was there, staring him in the face: he didn’t just want Neuvillette’s forgiveness; he craved his presence, his warmth, his light. Without it, the world felt colder, darker—a shadow of what it once was.

He had left their chambers under the pretense to get some fresh air when the truth was far less dignified than what he presented to others. He wasn’t seeking fresh air or solace in nature—he was running. Running from the suffocating tension that filled their shared space like an unspoken storm waiting to break. Running from Neuvillette’s gaze that seemed to strip him bare and expose every hidden vulnerability.

Because he didn't think he'd be strong enough to pretend like he didn't care had he spent another minute next to Neuvillette.

Wriothesley’s composure had already been fraying at the edges back in their chambers; another moment spent near Neuvillette might have been enough to shatter it entirely. The way Neuvillette had looked at him—those eyes clouded with hurt and confusion—had been almost too much to bear. Pretending indifference in front of that gaze felt like trying to hold back a tidal wave with nothing but his bare hands.

He could not bear drinking in the sight of him, his scent, his very presence. It was a special kind of torture.

Yes, torture—that was exactly what this was. Not the kind inflicted by blades or chains but something far more insidious: emotional torment that gnawed at him from within, leaving him raw and exposed of being so close to the one you loved most and yet having to maintain a cold, uncaring facade.

Wriothesley’s lips twisted into a bitter smile as he mounted his horse in one fluid motion. Love could be cruel sometimes—a double-edged sword that offered both solace and suffering in equal measure. And right now? It felt like all suffering. His heart screamed at him to turn back—to run back into that chambers and beg for forgiveness—but his mind wouldn’t let him.

Besides, Wriothesley knew the last person Neuvillette wanted to see at the moment was him.

He gripped the reins tightly until his knuckles turned pale against the leather straps. He knew how deeply Neuvillette valued trust—and how deeply Wriothesley had betrayed that trust. So he'd give Neuvillette this space, this respite from his presence. It was all he could offer now: distance. A chance for Neuvillette to breathe without Wriothesley’s shadow looming over him.

This was his way of apologizing. Though no words were spoken aloud—no heartfelt confessions or pleas for forgiveness—this silent retreat was Wriothesley’s way of saying “I’m sorry.” It wasn’t enough—it would never be enough—but it was all he had.

Though, Neuvillette would never understand why Wriothesley did what he did; perhaps it was better that way.

Wriothesley rode further into the woods, his horse’s steady gait crunching over the thick carpet of fallen leaves while the sky became cloudier than ever, thick and dark. As he guided his horse deeper along the winding path, a strange unease began to settle over him—a prickling at the nape of his neck that made the fine hairs there stand on end.

He shifted in the saddle, his gloved fingers tightening slightly on the reins. It wasn’t any one thing he could point to—no sound beyond the rustle of leaves in the breeze, no movement but that of a startled squirrel darting up a nearby trunk—but still, the feeling persisted. It was as though unseen eyes were fixed on him, watching from just beyond the edge of his vision.

Discreetly, Wriothesley let one hand fall to his side, brushing back the edge of his jacket to find the concealed grip of his gun. His fingers curled around the cool metal,but he didn’t draw it yet; not while he was still uncertain. Instead, he kept it hidden, ready to act at a moment’s notice.

The attack came without warning.

A gunshot cracked through the air like a thunderclap, shattering the tranquil silence of the woods. Birds erupted from the treetops in a flurry of wings and panicked cries. Wriothesley’s horse reared slightly, its ears pinned back in alarm, but it didn’t throw him. The beast was as much a survivor as its rider, trained for moments exactly like this. With a sharp tug on the reins and a firm press of his heels, Wriothesley spurred it forward at a sudden gallop, narrowly dodging the bullet that whizzed past where they had been only seconds before.

“Steady,” he muttered under his breath, though whether he was speaking to himself or the horse wasn’t clear. His heart pounded against his ribs like a war drum, but his mind remained cold and calculating. He twisted in the saddle just enough to glance over his shoulder, catching sight of movement among the trees—a shadow darting between trunks, too fast and fleeting to identify.

Another shot rang out, but this time it wasn’t from his attacker.

Wriothesley’s gun barked in retaliation, the recoil jolting up his arm as he fired toward the source of the first shot. The sound was deafening in such close quarters, echoing off the surrounding trees like cannon fire.

The third noise was unmistakable—the wet, choking gurgle of someone struggling to breathe through blood. Wriothesley pulled back hard on the reins, bringing his horse skidding to a halt amidst a spray of dirt and leaves. Swinging one leg over the saddle, he dismounted quickly but cautiously, landing with a muted thud that barely disturbed the stillness now settling back over the woods.

Gun still in hand, he moved toward where he thought his assailant had fallen. Each step was deliberate and measured, boots sinking slightly into the soft earth. His sharp eyes scanned every shadow and hollow for signs of movement; his ears strained for even the faintest sound that might betray another hidden threat.

When he found the body, it was sprawled awkwardly on its back beneath a towering oak tree. The man’s chest rose and fell shallowly for only a moment longer before stilling entirely. Blood pooled beneath him in dark rivulets that soaked into the ground like spilled ink. His face—young but hardened by years of rough living—was frozen in an expression of shock, as though he hadn’t expected death to come so swiftly or so surely.

Wriothesley crouched beside him briefly to check for any identifying marks or clues—a tattoo on one wrist marked him as part of a local mercenary group known for taking dirty contracts against high-paying targets. It wasn’t surprising.

But then something clicked in his mind—something about this man’s build and clothing seemed familiar. He narrowed his eyes at the mud-spattered boots and coarse wool jacket worn over what looked suspiciously like stableman attire.

“No wonder,” he muttered aloud as realization dawned on him. Of course, this assassin hadn’t come from nowhere; he’d been hiding in plain sight all along. “You were waiting for me—back at the stables.”

The assassin had most likely been instructed to lure Wriothesley into the woods. It couldn’t have been random; the plans so far were too calculated for that. The dense thickets, the uneven terrain underfoot, and the heavy, suffocating silence of the woods ensured that no one would stumble upon him by accident. Whoever was pulling the strings—hiding behind layers of coin and secrecy—wanted Wriothesley to die far from prying eyes this time, where even the echoes of his struggle would be swallowed whole by the oppressive isolation.

The real cruelty of it lay not just in the act itself, but in what would follow. The assassin’s employer must have known that Wriothesley’s absence would send a ripple of panic through the crowd gathered for Neuvillette’s birthday celebration. A search party tearing through the woods, faces pale with fear and urgency, would leave everyone shaken to their core. Whispers would spread like wildfire: the very idea of his vulnerability was enough to sow doubt in even the most tough hearts.

But this wasn’t just about fear—it was about chaos. And chaos was a weapon sharper than any blade.

The rebels had grown desperate over the months, their patience worn thin as their plans crumbled time and again. They wanted more than Wriothesley dead; they wanted the kingdom itself to tremble beneath the weight of uncertainty. If their king could be hunted like prey, then surely no one else was untouchable. They believed that panic would open doors locked tight against them, that it would create cracks wide enough for their insidious ideologies to slip through unnoticed.

Unfortunately for them, they had underestimated their target yet again.

“Cowards,” he muttered under his breath, his voice low and edged with disdain. “They can’t even face me directly.”

Wriothesley emerged from the shadowed corner of the mansion just as the storm finally broke over the estate, rain hammering down in heavy sheets that blurred the edges of the sprawling grounds. The air was thick with the scent of wet earth and ozone, a sharp contrast to the coppery tang of blood that lingered faintly in the air around him. Draped over his arm like a discarded rag doll was the lifeless body of the would-be assassin who tried to kill him earlier.

Wriothesley moved with deliberate precision, his every step purposeful despite the slick gravel path beneath his boots. He kept to the shadows, his path carefully chosen to avoid even the possibility of prying eyes from within the mansion's glowing windows.

Behind the mansion, a discreet crew waited in practiced silence. As Wriothesley approached, they straightened slightly, their postures betraying both respect and unease. One man stepped forward to receive the body, his gloved hands steady but his eyes betraying a flicker of discomfort as they darted briefly to Wriothesley's impassive face.

"Another one?" the man muttered under his breath before biting down on whatever further comment threatened to escape. He glanced at his companions, who exchanged quick looks but said nothing.

Wriothesley’s icy blue gaze met theirs briefly, unreadable yet commanding enough to keep any questions at bay. "Dispose of it," he said simply, his voice low and clipped but carrying an authority that brooked no argument. The crew moved as one, their movements efficient and silent as they began wrapping the body in oilcloth. The faint rustle of fabric against flesh was almost lost in the sound of rain pounding against cobblestones.

Satisfied, Wriothesley turned on his heel without another glance, rainwater streaming off his coat as he strode toward the stables looming ahead like a sanctuary against the storm. His horse stood tethered nearby, steam rising faintly from its flanks where rain met warmth. The beast pawed at the ground impatiently as Wriothesley approached, its ears flicking forward in recognition and annoyance.

Before he could untie Pluto’s reins and lead him inside, two figures appeared from the side path leading to the mansion—a petite figure clutching an umbrella and another taller one shielding them both from the downpour. Sigewinne’s amber eyes found him immediately, her expression equal parts relief and exasperation as she quickened her pace to meet him. Of course she’d be the first to check on Wriothesley after any attempt to kill him.

"You’re too calm about this," she called over the rain’s din, tilting her head slightly so her hood didn’t obscure her vision entirely. Her voice had an edge to it—sharp enough to pierce through Wriothesley’s usual stoicism—but it was underpinned by genuine concern that softened its impact. "Do you even realize how close that bullet came?"

Lourvine followed close behind her, holding an umbrella aloft with one hand while juggling what looked like a satchel in the other. Her expression was far less restrained; irritation practically radiated off her as she caught up. "Matron is right!" she exclaimed, her voice rising above Sigewinne’s calmer tone like thunder following lightning. She jabbed a finger toward him accusingly before throwing her arms wide for emphasis. "That bullet missed you by inches! Inches!" She let out an incredulous huff and shook her head in disbelief. "And here you are acting like you’ve just been out for an evening stroll."

Wriothesley halted mid-stride and turned slowly to face them both, his towering frame casting long shadows across their smaller forms. His expression remained calm—almost unnervingly so—but there was a quiet intensity in his eyes that made both women pause for half a heartbeat.

"It is nothing," he said simply, his deep baritone voice steady and measured despite Lourvine’s escalating frustration. Yet beneath those three unassuming words lay an edge of steel—a quiet defiance that dared anyone to challenge him further.

Sigewinne opened her mouth as if to protest but stopped short when Wriothesley raised a hand in silent command. "They’ve been trying for months now," he continued evenly, his gaze shifting momentarily upward toward the storm-laden sky as though searching for answers among its turbulent clouds. Water dripped from his dark hair onto his brow but went unnoticed—or perhaps ignored—as he pressed on. "This is just another failed attempt."

"And what exactly do they want?" Lourvine interjected after a beat, her earlier fire dampened but not extinguished entirely.

Before Wriothesley could answer, Sigewinne stepped closer and spoke instead, her voice quieter but laden with meaning that made both companions lean in slightly despite themselves. "They want His Majesty to make this public," she murmured, her amber eyes searching Wriothesley's face for any sign of agreement or dissent. "To turn it into an outcry—a spectacle—so everyone knows their king is being hunted."

Lourvine gasped audibly beside them and tossed her head back dramatically before fixing Sigewinne with an incredulous stare. "And what’s wrong with that?" she demanded boldly despite knowing full well how precarious such questions could be when directed at someone like Wriothesley. "Shouldn’t people be made aware?"

"What’s wrong," Wriothesley replied patiently but firmly as he stepped closer to them both, "is that it plays directly into their hands." His shadow loomed over them then—not menacingly but with an undeniable weight that silenced any retort Lourvine might have been forming.

"If I admit there’s danger," he continued quietly yet with unwavering conviction, "if I—an outsider already viewed by many as illegitimate—show even a hint of fear..." He let those words hang heavy in the air before finishing softly but no less resolutely: "...the entire kingdom will spiral into chaos."

“I thought after Chevreuse dealt with the previous culprit,” Lourvine muttered at last. “They’d have learned not to mess with you again. I mean, how many times can you teach someone the same lesson before they finally get it?”

Wriothesley stood by the stable doors, his back to them, his broad shoulders tense beneath his long coat. He tilted his head slightly at Lourvine’s remark but didn’t immediately respond. The rain outside drummed against the wooden roof in relentless rhythm, a backdrop to the tension brewing in the air. Finally, after a pause that stretched just long enough to make Lourvine shift uncomfortably on her feet, Wriothesley replied with a faint trace of dry humor.

“Perhaps it’s because I never actually give them a real warning signal to begin with.”

His voice was calm, almost too calm, but there was a sharp edge beneath it—a blade concealed within a velvet sheath. He turned then, one hand resting lightly on the doorframe, his eyes flicking toward Sigewinne. The faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth did little to mask the weariness etched into his features.

Sigewinne exhaled slowly, her delicate hands clasped tightly in front of her as if trying to keep her composure from unraveling completely. The earlier frustration that had burned in her chest was now tempered into something quieter, more reluctant—but no less intense. She glanced up at Wriothesley through lowered lashes, her expression conflicted yet achingly sincere. Her lips parted as though to speak, but for a moment no words came out.

When she finally found her voice, it was soft yet carried an undeniable weight. “If it can’t be you,” she said softly, almost hesitantly, “then it’ll be the Prince next time.”

For a long moment, Wriothesley didn’t respond. He held her gaze steadily, his expression unreadable save for the faint tightening of his jaw. The rain outside seemed to grow louder in their silence, each drop striking like a distant drumbeat heralding an unseen threat.

“I know,” he said finally, his voice low but resolute—a quiet acknowledgment of both her fears and his own.

The conversation might have lingered there in uneasy stillness if not for the creak of wood as Wriothesley pushed open the stable doors wider. His boots echoed against the floor as he stepped inside—and abruptly stopped. He froze mid-step, his sharp eyes sweeping across the stalls with an intensity that instantly put Lourvine and Sigewinne on edge.

“Where is Neuvillette’s horse?” Wriothesley asked sharply, his voice cutting through the air like a whip. “She was here when I took Pluto out,” Wriothesley confirmed grimly, stepping further into the now-empty stall where Neuvillette’s mare should have been standing. His gloved hand brushed over the open latch on the gate—a detail that shouldn’t have been possible unless someone had deliberately unfastened it.

Lourvine exchanged a glance with Sigewinne before stepping forward, her boots crunching against stray bits of hay scattered across the floor. “You’re sure she didn’t get spooked and break loose? This storm could’ve—”

“No.” Wriothesley cut her off firmly without turning around. His hand tightened around the edge of the stall door as another low rumble of thunder rolled ominously through the sky. “Whoever took her knew exactly what they were doing.”

Sigewinne’s breath caught audibly at his words, and for an instant panic flashed across her face before she forced herself to think rationally—though her voice trembled slightly when she spoke again.

“If someone took the horse…” Her words trailed off as realization dawned on all three of them simultaneously. They all ran back toward the stable doors, and the rain greeted them in furious torrents as they stepped outside, instantly soaking through their clothes and plastering hair against their skin. But none of them so much as flinched or reached for their umbrellas forgotten by the stable wall; there wasn’t time for such trivialities now.

Their boots splashed through muddy puddles as they sprinted back toward the mansion in unison—three figures moving as one beneath the darkened sky. Lourvine quickly swept her gaze across the ground floor, her voice cutting through the tense silence like the crack of a whip. “Everyone, listen up! Has anyone seen His Highness?” Her demeanor visibly cracked under the weight of worry. Servants exchanged uncertain glances, their faces pale with unease, but no one spoke up, only shaking their heads in worry.

Meanwhile, Wriothesley and Sigewinne didn’t waste a second. They bolted up the spiral staircase that twisted through the heart of the estate, their hurried footsteps echoing against the cold marble steps. “He has to be here,” Wriothesley muttered under his breath, though the words sounded more like a desperate plea than a statement.

As they reached the upper landing, the first thing they noticed was chaos unfolding in the corridor. Neuvillette’s aging rottweiler, Charon, darted back and forth, his nails clicking frantically against the polished floors. His bark wasn’t his usual deep, commanding sound—it was high-pitched and broken, laced with distress. Sedene knelt beside him, her hands trembling as she tried to soothe the frantic dog.

“Sedene!” Wriothesley called out sharply as he approached, his voice a mixture of authority and panic. “What’s going on? Have you seen the Prince?”

Sedene turned her head sharply at his voice, her expression stricken. Her usually immaculate uniform was rumpled from her efforts to restrain Charon. “Your Majesty,” she began, her voice faltering. “I—I don’t know.” She shook her head vigorously as if trying to clear her thoughts. “I was tasked with looking after Charon all day. He was fine earlier—resting by the fire—but then he started whining out of nowhere. Then he bolted out of the room like this, barking and crying.”

She gestured helplessly at the dog, whose ears were pinned back against his head as he let out another mournful yelp. His tail wagged stiffly in agitation as though he were searching for something—or someone.

Sigewinne crouched down beside Charon and gently placed a hand on his quivering side. “It’s okay, boy,” she murmured softly, her voice soothing despite the tension in the air.

Meanwhile, Wriothesley’s jaw clenched as he straightened up abruptly. Without another word, he turned on his heel and strode toward their private chambers at the end of the hallway. He didn’t bother knocking—there wasn’t time for formality now—and pushed open the heavy door. The sight that greeted him made his heart plummet into his stomach.

The room was empty.

Completely and utterly empty.

The bed lay untouched, its crisp linens still neatly tucked in place as if no one had slept there at all. Neuvillette’s belongings emained exactly where they should be, yet their presence only heightened the suffocating absence of their owner.

The only other thing missing was Neuvillette’s coat.

Wriothesley stood frozen for a moment in the doorway, his broad shoulders stiff as he scanned every corner of the room for some sign—any sign—that Neuvillette was still here or had left willingly. But there was nothing. No note left behind on the desk. No overturned furniture to suggest a struggle. Just an eerie stillness that made his stomach churn.

“Neuvillette…” he whispered hoarsely under his breath, his throat tightening painfully around the name.

Behind him, Sigewinne appeared in the doorway. She peered inside cautiously before glancing up at Wriothesley with wide eyes. “He’s not here?” she asked softly though she already knew the answer.

Wriothesley shook his head slowly before running a hand through his dark hair in frustration. “No,” he muttered bitterly. “He’s gone.”

From somewhere down the hall, Charon let out another pitiful whine that echoed through the silence like a lamentation.

Sedene arrived moments later, clutching at her skirts as she caught up with them. “Your Majesty,” she began hesitantly. “Should we alert security? Search the grounds?”

“Not yet,” Wriothesley said firmly though there was a hard edge to his voice now—a barely contained storm brewing beneath his calm exterior. “We’ll search ourselves first.” He turned to Sigewinne and softened slightly when he saw how worried she looked. “Tell a few guards to meet me at the entrance of the woods. Stay discreet.” he instructed gently but firmly.

Sigewinne nodded without hesitation before glancing back toward Sedene and Charon. “What about them?”

Wriothesley hesitated for only a moment before replying decisively: “Sedene stays with Charon—keep him calm in case Neuvillette comes back or… something else happens.” He didn’t dare voice what that ‘something else’ might be but exchanged a grim look with Sigewinne that said enough.

As the rain intensified, fat droplets thudding heavily against the sodden earth, Wriothesley stood motionless at the edge of the woods, his broad shoulders squared against the onslaught. The gray sky above churned ominously, blotting out any trace of sunlight, while the relentless downpour turned the woods floor into a treacherous mire. His raincoat clung to him, wet and heavy, water pooling at the edges of his boots. Each breath he drew was sharp and cold, misting faintly in the frigid air. His jaw clenched tightly, a flicker of impatience crossing his otherwise composed features as he scanned the tree line. The guards arrived swiftly, their hurried footsteps squelching through the mud, their expressions a mixture of concern and tension. They halted before him, their hands reflexively gripping at sword hilts or lanterns, awaiting orders.

Wriothesley’s voice cut through the storm like a blade, commanding but tinged with urgency. “The Prince is missing,” he began, his words clipped and deliberate, as though speaking them aloud made the situation more dire. “He’s most likely left on horseback.”

A murmur rippled through the guards as they exchanged uneasy glances. One of them, a younger man with rain dripping from his helmet onto his pale face, dared to speak up. “Your Majesty, do you think—”

“I don’t think,” Wriothesley interrupted sharply, his eyes narrowing as he gestured toward the woods. “I know. He wouldn’t have gone far on foot in this weather.” His tone softened slightly as he glanced toward the woods with an almost imperceptible flicker of worry. “Half of you will scour the entrance and search away from the estate—cover the roads leading out. The rest will come into the woods with me. We’ll go on foot.”

Another guard hesitated before stepping forward, his brow furrowed in confusion. “Won’t horses be faster for covering ground, Your Majesty?”

Wriothesley’s head snapped toward him so quickly that several of the men instinctively flinched. His eyes burned like embers beneath his rain-soaked fringe as he took a deliberate step closer to the man who had spoken. “Do you want to die?!” he barked, his voice echoing harshly even over the relentless patter of rain.

The guard recoiled slightly, his face blanching under Wriothesley’s glare. A tense silence hung in the air for a moment, broken only by the rhythmic pounding of rain against leaves.

Realizing he had startled them all, Wriothesley exhaled deeply and raised a hand in apology. “I’m sorry,” he said more calmly, though there was still an edge to his voice. He ran a hand through his wet hair in frustration before continuing. “I didn’t mean to yell.”

His gaze swept over the assembled guards now staring at him with wide eyes, their loyalty tempered by a hint of trepidation. Wriothesley straightened his posture and spoke again, this time with measured authority. “What I mean is that it’s too dangerous to ride in this storm. The ground is unstable; one false step from a horse could mean broken legs—yours or theirs—and we can’t afford that right now.”

He paused for a moment, letting his words sink in as thunder rumbled ominously overhead. The guards nodded slowly in understanding. Seeing their resolve return, Wriothesley pressed on. “I know you all want to find Prince Neuvillette as quickly as possible. So do I,” he admitted, and for a fleeting moment, there was an unspoken emotion behind his words—something raw and deeply personal that he quickly masked.

“But,” he continued firmly, “we have strength in numbers. If anyone finds him—anyone—you are to fire your flare signal immediately and return to the mansion with him to find Matron Sigewinne. She is waiting in front of the East Wing entrance.”

The guards murmured their assent, their collective voices low but resolute despite the crackling tension in the air.

“Good.” Wriothesley turned toward the woods without another word, his coat snapping sharply behind him as an icy gust of wind swept through the clearing. He paused at the threshold of trees that loomed like specters in the storm’s dim light.

For just a second—a brief but telling moment—he hesitated as if bracing himself for what lay ahead. Then he stepped forward into the shadows of the woods, his boots sinking into wet leaves and mud with every determined stride. The guards followed close behind him without question or complain as they disappeared one by one into the oppressive darkness, spreading into every direction possible.

“Neuvillette…” he muttered under his breath, barely audible above the rain’s ceaseless drumming. It wasn’t just worry that tightened his chest—it was guilt too. Guilt that perhaps he should have noticed something earlier or done more to stop him before it came to this.

And now all that remained was hope—fragile yet unyielding—that they weren’t already too late to bring him back safely. The search had only just begun—but already it felt like time itself was slipping through their fingers faster than they could chase after it in this unforgiving storm.

Long after Wriothesley stormed out of their chambers, the door closing with a resounding thud that echoed through the silence, Neuvillette sat frozen in the same spot, his hands trembling as they clutched the edge of the finely carved oak table. He didn’t dare move at first, as if the weight of his own words had paralyzed him. The sound of his anguish filled the room, drowning out even the soft crackle of the fire in the fireplace.

The anger and frustration that had initially fueled their argument had long since dissipated, leaving a hollow ache in its place. At first, he had clung to his indignation, justifying his harsh words in his mind. But now, as the echoes of their fight reverberated in his memory, all he felt was regret. His mind replayed the moment over and over again like a cruel symphony he couldn’t silence—the sharpness of his voice as he accused Wriothesley of not caring about his late parents, the way Wriothesley’s expression had faltered for just a fraction of a second before hardening into something unreadable.

Neuvillette raised a shaking hand to cover his face, trying to shut out the image that haunted him: Wriothesley’s eyes, usually so steady and determined, filled with a flicker of pain so raw it made Neuvillette’s chest tighten painfully. How could he have been so blind? So cruel? The words had spilled out in the heat of the moment, but now they hung in the air like ghosts, impossible to take back. He whispered hoarsely into the empty room, “What have I done?”

He realized now, with gut-wrenching clarity, how deeply he had wounded Wriothesley. It wasn’t just about the words themselves—it was about what they implied. To accuse him of not caring about his parents was to dismiss an entire part of who Wriothesley was. And for what? Because Wriothesley rarely spoke about them? That wasn’t indifference; that was grief kept close to the heart. Neuvillette hadn’t even thought to ask—hadn’t taken the time to understand what lay behind that silence.

The guilt sliced through him like a blade. He thought back to Wriothesley’s quiet moments—the way his gaze sometimes lingered on nothing in particular, his jaw tightening as though he were holding back words he couldn’t bring himself to say. Neuvillette had always assumed it was just Wriothesley being stoic, composed as ever. But now he wondered: Had those been moments of loneliness? Of longing? And Neuvillette—wrapped up in his own troubles, his own insecurities—had failed to notice.

It was him who did not care about Wriothesley’s parents.

Neuvillette stood abruptly, pacing across the plush carpet as if movement might somehow soothe the storm raging inside him. The words he wanted to say—to apologize, to beg for forgiveness—tumbled through his mind in disarray. But alongside them came fear—sharp and unrelenting.

“What if he doesn’t forgive me?” Neuvillette whispered aloud, his voice cracking under the weight of that possibility. His steps faltered as he imagined Wriothesley’s face twisted in anger or worse—in disappointment. That thought alone made Neuvillette’s legs feel weak beneath him. He sank into an armchair by the fire, staring into its depths as though it might hold answers.

He pressed a hand against his chest where it ached most acutely. “How could I be so thoughtless?” he murmured bitterly. The flames danced before him but offered no warmth against the chill settling over him. “If he doesn’t want me anymore…”

The thought trailed off into silence because it was too unbearable to finish. What would he do if Wriothesley decided this was unforgivable? If this one moment of cruelty overshadowed everything else between them? And then another thought struck him—a darker one that made his stomach twist with dread.

His mother.

Neuvillette’s breath hitched as a wave of panic surged through him. If Wriothesley turned away from him completely—if this rift became irreparable—what would happen to her? She was already living in exile, her fate tethered precariously to Neuvillette’s ability to navigate their delicate situation. Without Wriothesley’s support—Neuvillette couldn’t bear to think of it.

“No,” he said aloud this time, gripping the armrests tightly as though anchoring himself against despair. “I can’t let it end like this.”

But even as resolve began to take root in him, doubt crept in alongside it. How could he face Wriothesley now? What could he possibly say that would make amends for what he’d done? Would Wriothesley even want to hear an apology?

The door loomed across the room like an insurmountable barrier between them—a silent reminder of how far apart they felt now despite being separated by only a few walls. Neuvillette closed his eyes and imagined stepping through it anyway.

He could almost see Wriothesley standing there on the other side: tall and imposing yet undeniably human in those rare moments when vulnerability broke through the cracks of his carefully constructed armor. He pictured himself approaching cautiously, voice trembling but sincere.

“Wriothesley,” he would say softly, unable to meet those piercing eyes at first but forcing himself to continue nonetheless. “I was wrong—so terribly wrong—to say what I did.”

In his mind’s eye, Wriothesley would remain silent at first—perhaps folding his arms across his chest or narrowing his eyes in that way he did when weighing someone’s sincerity. The thought made Neuvillette’s hands shake anew.

“I… I wasn’t thinking,” he would go on desperately. “I lashed out because I was angry—but that doesn’t excuse it. You didn’t deserve those words—they were cruel and unfair.” His voice would falter then because admitting fault wasn’t easy for him—but for Wriothesley’s sake, he’d push through.

“I know I’ve hurt you,” Neuvillette would add quietly after what felt like an eternity of silence between them. “And if you can’t forgive me right away—or at all—I’ll understand.” But even imagining saying those words made something inside him twist painfully because losing Wriothesley’s favor felt like losing a part of himself.

And yet… if there was even a sliver of hope—a chance that Wriothesley might still care enough to listen—then Neuvillette knew he owed it to both of them not just to apologize but also to try and understand what lay behind Wriothesley's grief—what shaped him into who he was today.

A moment later, a sudden gust of wind slammed against the window with such force that it rattled loudly in its frame, making Neuvillette flinch. The sound was jarring, like an ominous knock from nature itself, demanding attention. He turned sharply toward the window, his fingers tightening reflexively. For a moment, he hesitated, his pale eyes narrowing as they sought answers beyond the glass. Slowly, he approached the window and saw the sky had shifted dramatically. Where soft golden light had bathed the estate just minutes ago, an imposing darkness now loomed, swallowing the afternoon whole. Heavy charcoal clouds churned across the horizon, their edges tinged with an angry shade of purple. The air seemed charged with anticipation, and the distant rumble of thunder whispered warnings of what was to come. Neuvillette pressed his palm lightly against the cool glass, his expression pensive.

“This is… unusual,” he murmured under his breath. His voice was soft but carried a thread of unease. He studied the scene outside as if searching for some explanation in nature’s sudden fury. He’d always had a deep respect for the weather’s unpredictable moods, but this felt different—hasty, almost impatient.

Neuvillette straightened and exhaled slowly, his brows furrowing as new thoughts began to swirl in his mind. The welcome lunch with the guests—they’d been preparing for it all morning—seemed destined to be canceled now. A storm would make such formalities impossible. He nodded to himself, already imagining how to break the news tactfully to the staff and guests alike. But then his thoughts veered elsewhere—toward someone specific.

“Perhaps this gives me a reason…” he muttered to himself before trailing off. His lips pressed into a thin line as he considered what came next. Wriothesley.

The name lingered in his mind like a spark catching fire. Yes, he could use this change of plans as an excuse to seek him out; after all, it was only natural to discuss such matters with him directly. That’s what he told himself anyway. Yet even as he reasoned it out, there was something more urgent tugging at him—a subtle but persistent unease that refused to be ignored.

Determined now, Neuvillette turned from the window and left his chambers briskly. His long coat trailed behind him as he moved through the hallways of the mansion. He glanced around sharply, hoping to catch sight of Wriothesley’s tall frame or hear his distinct voice echoing somewhere nearby.

But there was nothing.

Neuvillette stopped one of the attendants—a young woman carrying a tray of tea—and asked her directly, “Have you seen His Majesty?”

The attendant blinked at him before offering a polite smile tinged with curiosity. “Yes, Your Highness,” she replied quickly. “I believe His Majesty left for a ride not too long ago. He mentioned something about getting some air.”

“A ride?” Neuvillette repeated, his voice tightening slightly despite his effort to sound composed. “In this weather?”

“He hadn’t returned yet when I last checked,” she added apologetically before bowing her head and hurrying along.

As she disappeared down the hallway, a cold knot of worry began to form in Neuvillette’s chest. He didn’t understand why it gripped him so tightly but something about today felt wrong. The storm brewing outside seemed almost sentient in its menace, and for reasons he couldn’t fully articulate, he suddenly felt an overwhelming need to act. His gaze flickered back toward one of the tall windows lining the hall. The storm clouds had thickened considerably in just a few minutes.

Tearing himself away from his thoughts he made his way toward the stables with long strides that echoed faintly against stone floors. When he arrived at the stables, he noticed immediately how eerily quiet it was inside. Normally bustling with stable hands tending to horses or chatting amongst themselves, today it felt abandoned save for the faint rustling sounds of restless animals shifting in their stalls.

“Strange,” Neuvillette muttered under his breath as he stepped inside and glanced around for any sign of life.

He called out once—“Hello? Is anyone here?”—but no one answered. Part of him found relief in this solitude; it meant fewer questions about what he was doing or why he was suddenly heading out into worsening weather.

Walking further into the stable, Neuvillette approached a familiar stall where his mare stood patiently. The creature lifted her head at his approach and nickered quietly in recognition. “Hey there, Enna,” he said gently, brushing a hand over her smooth neck as if seeking reassurance from her steadiness. Her large dark eyes met his own with what almost felt like understanding—or perhaps that was just wishful thinking on his part.

“I need your help,” Neuvillette continued softly as he began saddling her with practiced but still slightly uncertain movements. “We’re going to find Wriothesley… alright? You’ll help me bring him back safely.”

Enna snorted softly in response, shifting her weight slightly but standing still enough for him to finish preparing her for the ride ahead.

Once she was ready, Neuvillette led her out into the open air. Taking a deep breath to steady himself—and ignoring the nervous flutter in his stomach—he placed one foot into the stirrup and hoisted himself onto Enna’s back with more force than grace. It hadn’t been long since he’d learned how to ride properly; every movement still felt slightly awkward despite countless lessons drilled into him by patient instructors.

But now wasn’t the time for hesitation.

Gripping Enna’s reins firmly but gently, Neuvillette urged her forward toward the edge of the estate where dense woods waited beyond fences. “Hold on just a little longer,” Neuvillette whispered aloud—not sure whether he was speaking to Enna or himself—as they entered the forest path that would hopefully lead them closer to Wriothesley before it was too late.

Inside the woods, Neuvillette called for Wriothesley, his voice cutting through the dense, oppressive silence, edging into desperation as it echoed, unanswered, through the towering trees. The only reply was the low rustle of leaves stirred by a faint breeze, and even that seemed to die away quickly, leaving behind an almost unnatural stillness. The quiet wasn’t peaceful—it was stifling, like the wood itself was holding its breath.

He glanced down at his mare, her ears flicking nervously at the surrounding shadows. She pawed at the ground, her muscles taut beneath her glossy coat. For a moment, Neuvillette considered turning back to the mansion for help—surely someone there would know these woods better than he did. The thought lingered as he tightened his grip on the reins, but then a deafening explosion shattered the stillness. It wasn’t close, but it wasn’t far either—somewhere deep within the wood. The sound reverberated through the air, shaking Neuvillette’s composure.

Enna reared back with a terrified whinny, her wide eyes rolling in panic. "Enna! Calm down!" Neuvillette’s voice cracked as he tried to soothe her, but his words were swallowed by the raw energy of her fear. She bolted without warning, her hooves pounding against the damp earth as she plunged into the dark labyrinth of trees.

"Enna! Stop!" Neuvillette shouted, clutching at the reins with all his strength, but it was like trying to hold back a flood with bare hands. The mare’s wild gallop jolted him violently in the saddle, his teeth clenching as branches lashed at his face and arms. Each sharp sting added to his growing disorientation as the wood blurred into a chaotic tangle of blackened trunks and shifting shadows.

The deeper they went, the darker it became. The canopy above thickened until it choked out what little light remained from the overcast sky. Neuvillette’s heart pounded in rhythm with Enna’s frantic strides, his mind racing. Where is Wriothesley? What caused that explosion? He couldn’t shake the feeling that something was terribly wrong.

And then came the rain.

It started as a drizzle but quickly turned into a deluge—a cold, merciless torrent that stabbed at his skin like thousands of icy needles. Within moments, his clothes were soaked through, clinging uncomfortably to his body as water dripped from his hair into his eyes. The reins became slick in his hands, slipping through his fingers despite his desperate attempts to maintain control.

"Please," he murmured under his breath, though whether he was pleading with Enna or some unseen force of nature was unclear. "Please stop..."

Suddenly, Enna did stop—but not in the way he’d hoped.

The mare skidded to a halt, mere feet from the edge of a sheer cliff, her hooves sending loose rocks tumbling into the void below. Neuvillette barely had time to register what was happening before inertia hurled him forward out of the saddle. He hit the ground hard with a sickening thud and an audible crack that rung louder than even the storm around him.

Pain exploded through his leg like fire racing up his nerves. He gasped sharply, his breath hitching as he tried to move—tried to do anything—but every twitch sent fresh waves of agony shooting through him. His vision blurred with tears of pain and frustration as he lay sprawled in the mud, utterly at the mercy of the elements. The rain didn’t care about his suffering; it pounded relentlessly against him, turning the dirt beneath him into a cold, sticky mire. He craned his neck just enough to see Enna disappearing into the stormy darkness, her galloping form swallowed by shadows until there was nothing left but rain and wind.

He was left alone. Injured. Lost in this godforsaken wood.

Neuvillette tried again to move—to sit up or even just roll onto his side—but another sharp jolt of pain made him cry out involuntarily. He froze in place after that, too afraid of what further movement might do to him. Instead, he let his head fall back against the mud and stared up at what little sky he could see through the jagged canopy above. The rain blurred everything—the trees looked like smudged charcoal sketches against a gray wash of sky—but it didn’t blur how utterly abandoned he felt in that moment. A cold knot formed in his chest as reality settled in: no one knew where he was. No one would come looking for him anytime soon. If Wriothesley was out here somewhere too… well… they were both in serious trouble.

“Please be safe,” Neuvillette muttered weakly under his breath now, his voice trembling from both cold and guilt as he lay there motionless.

After a while, Neuvillette was finally able to regain a sliver of strength to move. With his entire body ablaze with pain, a searing ache radiating from his right leg that now refused to bear even the slightest weight, Neuvillette dragged himself forward inch by agonizing inch. His trembling hands clawed at the wet, uneven ground, fingers slipping over slick mud and jagged stones as he forced himself onward. The rain poured in relentless sheets, drumming against his hunched back and soaking through every layer of his clothing. The once-pristine coat he wore now clung to him like a leaden shroud, its sodden fabric heavy with water and cold as death itself. Yet, despite the oppressive weight and the chill that bit into his skin, he dared not remove it. The thought whispered in his mind—what if the storm claimed him faster without it? What if the icy rain seeped into his very bones and hastened his end?

Finally, after what felt like an eternity of torment, Neuvillette reached the base of a towering tree whose gnarled roots jutted out like skeletal hands grasping at the earth. He collapsed against its rough bark, feeling its texture scrape against his back through the drenched fabric of his coat. The tree offered little solace; its sparse canopy barely held back the deluge. Droplets still found their way through the gaps in the leaves, striking his face and pooling in the hollow of his collar. Each breath he took was shallow and ragged, misting faintly in the cold air as he stared blankly ahead.

For a long moment, he simply sat there beneath the tree, utterly motionless save for the involuntary shivers that wracked his frame. His mind was a storm of its own—chaotic and unrelenting—as despair clawed at the edges of his thoughts. What now? No one was coming for him. No one even knew where he was. This wood, so vast and indifferent, would likely be his grave. A pang of fear shot through him at the realization, but it was quickly drowned out by something far heavier—regret.

The image of Wriothesley’s face rose unbidden in his mind, sharp and vivid despite his exhaustion. He could see it so clearly—those eyes narrowing in hurt, that stoic expression faltering under the weight of Neuvillette’s cruel words. Words he hadn’t meant. Words spoken in anger, in frustration, without thought for their consequence. His chest tightened painfully as the memory replayed itself over and over again in his head.

Now, sitting alone beneath that tree with rain pouring down around him, Neuvillette could feel the full weight of those unsaid apologies crushing him. He buried his face in his trembling hands as tears began to spill freely down his cheeks, mingling with the rainwater already streaking his skin. Hot shame burned through him even as icy cold seeped into every corner of his body.

“I didn’t mean it,” he whispered hoarsely to no one but the howling wind and relentless rain. His voice cracked under the weight of emotion, barely audible over nature’s fury yet carrying every ounce of his anguish. “I didn’t mean any of it…”

But what did it matter now? He would die here—alone and unloved—and Wriothesley would go on believing those were Neuvillette’s true feelings. That he despised him. That he regretted every moment they’d shared.

“No,” Neuvillette choked out, shaking his head violently as if to banish the thought. Fresh tears spilled forth as sobs wracked his thin frame, each one tearing through him with brutal force. “No… please… I don’t want you to hate me.”

The words felt pitiful falling from his lips, their desperation stark against the backdrop of unyielding rain and shadowy woods. And yet they were all he had left—all he could cling to as guilt twisted like a knife in his chest. His hands fell limply to his sides as exhaustion took hold once more, leaving him slumped against the tree like a broken marionette. His breaths came slower now, each one shallower than the last as cold crept deeper into him.

“Wriothesley…” he murmured weakly, barely able to form the name that lingered always on his heart. His vision blurred—not just from tears but from fatigue—and for a moment he thought he saw something move amidst the trees ahead.

A trick of the light? A shadow cast by swaying branches? Or perhaps… someone coming for him?

He blinked hard, struggling to focus through his haze of pain and despair. “Wriothesley,” he called again, this time louder though still fraught with uncertainty. “Is that… you?”

But no answer came save for the ceaseless patter of rain and rustle of leaves in the wind.

Neuvillette’s head fell back against the tree trunk as hope slipped further from his grasp like water through cupped hands. He closed his eyes against both the rain and reality, whispering one final plea into the storm:

“I’m sorry… Please… forgive me.”

Chapter Text

The rain came down in relentless sheets, each drop striking the earth with a force that seemed to echo Wriothesley’s growing desperation. The storm was unyielding, a cold and merciless torrent that drenched him to the bone as he and the guards pressed deeper into the woods. The towering trees swayed violently under the wind's assault, their branches clawing at the sky like skeletal fingers. Every call of Neuvillette’s name was swallowed by the storm, the sound of his voice dissipating into the chaos.

“Neuvillette!” Wriothesley shouted again, his voice hoarse and raw, yet filled with urgency. His chest tightened with each unanswered cry, a gnawing fear creeping up his spine. The pounding of his heart felt almost audible, like a drumbeat urging him forward. It wasn’t just the idea of Neuvillette running away that unsettled him—no, it was far worse than that. What if Neuvillette had taken this path, unaware of the danger that lay ahead? The woods were treacherous, the path winding and slippery, and at its end loomed a jagged cliff that dropped mercilessly into oblivion.

His mind conjured the image unbidden: Neuvillette stepping too close to the edge, the wet ground giving way beneath his feet. The thought made Wriothesley’s stomach churn violently. Pushing it aside, he pressed on through the undergrowth, his boots squelching in the mud as rain continued to pour in heavy torrents.

“Keep searching!” he barked at the guards over his shoulder, though he barely heard his own voice above the downpour. “We have to find him!”

The rain blurred his vision, turning everything into a gray haze. His hair clung to his face in sodden strands, and water dripped from his chin and eyelashes. He wiped at his eyes impatiently but it did little good; the storm was unforgiving. And then he saw it—or rather, sensed it—the looming presence of the cliff up ahead. The air seemed colder here, heavier, as though warning him of the abyss beyond. His breath hitched as he slowed his pace, dread curling in his gut like a living thing. The thought struck him again like a blow: What if Neuvillette fell?

He froze mid-step, his body stiffening as icy terror washed over him. The image played vividly in his mind—a lifeless form crumpled at the base of the cliff, white hair stained crimson with blood… His legs felt weak beneath him as guilt surged through him like an undertow. If something had happened to Neuvillette—if he had fallen—it would be Wriothesley’s fault for not finding him sooner. It would be Wriothesley's fault for pushing him to the edge like that.

“No,” he muttered under his breath, shaking his head violently as though to dispel the thought. “No.” His hands curled into fists at his sides. He refused to believe it—not until he saw proof with his own eyes.

He turned sharply, scanning the area with renewed determination despite the rain stinging his face. And then—a glimmer of hope amidst the despair—he spotted something through the curtain of rain not far from the cliff’s edge. A figure slumped against a tree trunk, motionless except for the faint rise and fall of its chest.

“Neuvillette!” Wriothesley’s voice cracked as he shouted the name again, this time with a mixture of relief and panic. He broke into a run, his boots slipping on the muddy ground as he closed the distance between them.

When he reached Neuvillette’s side, what he saw made his heart clench painfully in his chest. The man was barely recognizable in this state—his long white hair matted with mud and streaked with blood from a gash on his temple. His once pristine clothes were torn and soaked through, clinging to him like a second skin smeared with dirt and grime. One leg jutted out at an unnatural angle, twisted grotesquely as though it had been snapped in two.

“Neuvillette,” Wriothesley breathed softly this time, his voice catching in his throat as though the mere act of saying the name might shatter the fragile silence. The sound hung in the air, barely audible over the relentless patter of rain. His knees hit the ground with a dull thud, uncaring of the cold seeping through his trousers as he knelt beside the prone figure.

He reached out hesitantly, his hand trembling mid-air as it hovered just above Neuvillette’s shoulder. He stopped short, fingers curling slightly as if afraid that even the gentlest touch might aggravate whatever unseen injuries lay beneath. His hesitation wasn’t just fear—it was guilt, gnawing at him like a persistent shadow. Why hadn’t he gotten here sooner? Why hadn’t he been there to prevent this?

Neuvillette’s body convulsed with violent tremors, each shudder seemingly wrung from the very marrow of his being. His pale skin was slick with rain and streaked with mud like a fragile canvas marred by careless strokes. Even in unconsciousness, his features were drawn tight with pain, his ethereal beauty now etched with lines of discomfort that deepened with every passing moment. The sight twisted something deep inside Wriothesley—a pang so sharp it felt like a blade pressing against his ribs.

“Damn it,” Wriothesley muttered under his breath, his voice rough with frustration and worry. He clenched his jaw tightly, forcing himself to steady his breathing as he scanned Neuvillette for any visible injuries. The rain had plastered white strands of hair to Neuvillette’s face, and Wriothesley reached out to brush them aside. His fingertips grazed skin that was so cold it might as well have been carved from ice.

Then, a flicker—so faint he almost missed it.

The barest flutter of movement caught Wriothesley’s eye, and his heart leapt into his throat. Neuvillette’s eyelids twitched once, twice, before they cracked open halfway. Those pale, otherworldly eyes were dulled, unfocused, their usual brilliance glazed over with exhaustion and pain.

“Neuvillette? Can you hear me?” Wriothesley asked urgently, leaning closer as though proximity alone could somehow pull him back from the brink. His voice softened a fraction, threading through the tension with a note of desperate hope. “It’s me.”

A faint sound escaped Neuvillette’s lips—a rasping whisper that barely held together. It was fractured and broken, yet unmistakable. “Wrio…”

The syllable was so faint it could have been carried away by the wind if Wriothesley hadn’t been so close. But he heard it—clear enough to send a jolt through him like lightning striking too close for comfort. Relief surged through him at hearing his name spoken aloud, but it did little to quell the storm of worry raging in his chest.

“I’m here,” Wriothesley said quickly, his voice firm but laced with unspoken emotion. He shrugged off his raincoat in one swift motion, not caring about the cold rain soaking into his shirt beneath. Wrapping the heavy fabric around Neuvillette’s trembling form, he pulled it tight against him as if it alone could shield him from the world’s cruelty.

As he moved to slide an arm beneath Neuvillette to lift him up, a sharp intake of breath hissed through Neuvillette’s teeth, followed by a strangled gasp that sliced through the air like a knife. His body jerked involuntarily at the motion, pain rippling through him in waves that left him even more drained than before.

“Sorry—sorry,” Wriothesley murmured hastily, freezing in place as though afraid any further movement might be too much for Neuvillette to bear. His voice cracked slightly under the weight of his own helplessness. “I know it hurts. Just—hold on for me, okay? I’ll get you out of here.”

Neuvillette didn’t respond this time; whether it was because he couldn’t or because he trusted Wriothesley enough to let go of consciousness again didn’t matter. His head lolled weakly against Wriothesley’s chest as if surrendering to gravity itself, lips moved faintly as if trying to say something more, but no sound came out. Within moments, his body went slack as unconsciousness claimed him once again.

After firing his flare gun, the sharp crack of the shot still echoing through the stormy skies, the guards immediately snapped into action. Their disciplined movements were swift, almost mechanical, as they pivoted on their heels and sprinted back toward Wriothesley and the looming silhouette of the mansion that stood stoically against the relentless rain. Water splashed up from the sodden ground with each hurried step, soaking their boots and uniforms, but none of them faltered. Their faces, illuminated briefly by the fading red glow of the flare, were etched with grim determination—eyes narrowed, jaws clenched. They were soldiers first and foremost, trained to respond without hesitation, but even so, unease flickered in their expressions.

There was no time for explanations—not now. Wriothesley’s mind raced as he pushed forward, every muscle in his body taut with purpose. The weight in his arms was both familiar and foreign; he had carried Neuvillette before but never like this. Never with such raw desperation clawing at his chest.

Unfortunately, not all of the mansion’s esteemed guests had obeyed the earlier instructions to remain indoors. A small cluster of nobles had gathered on the front terrace, their fine silks and tailored suits dampened by the steady drizzle. They had ventured out not out of defiance but curiosity—drawn by the unmistakable signal Wriothesley had fired moments ago. The rain seemed forgotten as they lingered beneath the soft glow of lanterns strung along the covered walkway, their idle murmurs now replaced by quiet confusion.

“What on earth is going on?” a young man in a sapphire-blue coat whispered to his companion, his voice barely audible over the patter of rain against stone. His gloved hands fidgeted with the golden chain of a pocket watch, an unconscious gesture betraying his unease.

“I haven’t the faintest idea,” replied a woman beside him, her parasol tilted just enough to shield her elaborate coiffure from the drizzle. Her sharp eyes scanned the approaching figures, narrowing slightly as she caught sight of Wriothesley’s unmistakable frame cutting through the gloom. “But whatever it is, it doesn’t look good.”

The group fell silent as Wriothesley came into view, his powerful strides relentless as he carried Neuvillette toward them. The light from the lanterns spilled across their faces, revealing expressions that shifted rapidly—from puzzlement to dawning alarm. Gasps rippled through the assemblage as they registered what—or rather who—he held in his arms.

“Good heavens,” an older woman exclaimed in a trembling voice, her hand flying to her pearl necklace as though clutching it might somehow steady her racing heart. Her wide-brimmed hat trembled slightly as she leaned closer to get a better look. “Is that…?”

“It can’t be,” another murmured, her words barely more than a breath. But then her gaze locked onto Neuvillette’s unmistakable features—the white cascade of his hair now matted with rainwater, his usually serene expression disturbingly vacant—and any doubt she harbored vanished in an instant. “It is him! Prince Consort Neuvillette! But why… why does he look like that? What happened to him?”

“What happened?” a man in a richly embroidered waistcoat hissed sharply, stepping closer only to freeze mid-step as Wriothesley’s piercing gaze swept over him without pause. There was no mistaking it—the King wasn’t merely concerned; he was furious. And that fury was directed at something far beyond any of them.

Wriothesley didn’t slow down. He didn’t offer explanations or assurances. His focus remained unyielding as he surged forward like a force of nature, his boots striking hard against the stone terrace with each purposeful step. The nobles instinctively drew back, parting like waves before him as his voice rang out—a command sharp enough to cut through the mounting tension.

“Move!” he barked. It was not a request; it was an order—a thunderclap that left no room for argument. The crowd obeyed without hesitation, their movements jerky and uncoordinated as they scrambled to clear his path. Yet even as they stepped aside, their eyes remained glued to him—unable to look away from the harrowing sight unfolding before them.

The King—normally so composed and unflappable—was utterly transformed. His dark hair clung to his forehead in wet strands; his jacket was disheveled and streaked with mud from where he’d knelt moments ago in desperation; his entire demeanor radiated urgency so palpable it seemed to electrify the very air around him. And then there was Neuvillette—the ethereal figure cradled in his arms like something fragile and precious yet heartbreakingly diminished.

“Do you see how pale he is?” one woman whispered frantically to her companion, her voice barely audible over the rain but trembling nonetheless with fear. “It’s unnatural… like all the life’s been drained out of him.”

“Poor thing,” another murmured sympathetically, though her wide eyes betrayed more fascination than genuine concern. “Do you think he’ll survive?”

“Shut up!” snapped someone else sharply—a younger man whose face had gone pale at the sight of Neuvillette’s lifeless form. He clutched at his companion’s sleeve as though grounding himself against what felt increasingly surreal.

Wriothesley didn’t hear their whispers—or rather, he refused to let himself hear them. His world had narrowed down to a single goal: getting Neuvillette inside where help awaited. Every second felt like an eternity slipping through his fingers; every breath he took seemed heavier than the last.

“Sigewinne!” His voice carried through the hallway as he burst through the East Wing’s entrance. His eyes darted around until they landed on Sigewinne—a petite yet commanding figure standing by the base of the staircase.

The moment she heard her name, Sigewinne turned sharply on her heels. Her sharp ears had already picked up on the commotion outside. “Right this way!” she said firmly, wasting no time with questions or hesitation. She gestured toward a narrow hallway just beyond the staircase that led to a makeshift infirmary room—a precaution she had insisted upon during large gatherings like tomorrow’s party.

Wriothesley followed her without question, his boots pounding against polished floors as Sigewinne led him toward a small but well-equipped room tucked away from prying eyes. Two more maids followed them from behind and inside, a nurse and a doctor were already waiting, alerted by the flare gun’s signal and prepared for anything that might come through that door.

As soon as they saw Wriothesley enter with Neuvillette in his arms, they sprang into action. The doctor stepped forward briskly. “Set him here,” he instructed, motioning toward a pristine white bed in the center of the room.

Wriothesley hesitated for only a heartbeat before carefully lowering Neuvillette onto the bed with more gentleness than anyone would have expected from someone of his stature. His hands lingered for just a moment on Neuvillette’s arm—a brief but telling gesture—as though letting go felt like surrendering control over something precious.

The medical team immediately surrounded Neuvillette, their hands moving with practiced precision as they assessed his condition. The nurse checked his pulse while Sigewinne opened a cabinet to retrieve an assortment of supplies—bandages, antiseptics, and vials filled with mysterious liquids that glinted under the fluorescent lights.

Wriothesley stood off to the side, his fists clenched tightly at his sides as he watched them work. His chest rose and fell with labored breaths, adrenaline still coursing through him even though there was nothing more he could do in this moment to help Neuvillette.

“Your Majesty,” Sigewinne said gently but firmly as she glanced over her shoulder at him. Her tone was professional yet tinged with empathy—a subtle reminder that she understood how difficult this must be for him. “We’ll take care of him now.”

For a moment, Wriothesley didn’t respond. His gaze remained fixed on Neuvillette’s face. Eventually, he exhaled sharply and nodded once. Without another word, he turned and left the room as quietly as someone of his imposing stature could manage. The door clicked softly shut behind him, leaving Sigewinne and her team to their work while Wriothesley paced just outside like a restless storm waiting to break.

Wriothesley couldn’t tell how much time had slipped by as he paced relentlessly outside the door. The rhythmic sound of his boots against the polished stone floor was both a comfort and a torment, a reminder of the passing seconds that felt like an eternity. His hands, usually steady and deliberate, now fidgeted restlessly at his sides, occasionally running through his damp dark hair or brushing the edges of water-soaked shirt. He wasn’t sure why he stayed so close—was it because he was waiting for Sigewinne to emerge with reassuring news about Neuvillette's condition? Or was it because some deep, gnawing fear anchored him there, whispering insidious what-ifs into his mind? What if something else happened? What if Neuvillette needed him?

The silence in the hallway was oppressive, broken only by the muffled patter of rain against the nearby windows. The storm outside mirrored the tempest within him. He didn’t know how to name what he was feeling—anxiety? Guilt? Helplessness? Perhaps all of them tangled together, pressing down on his chest until even his breaths felt shallow. But then, instead of Sigewinne stepping out from behind the door, there was movement at the far end of the hallway. Wriothesley turned sharply, his heart lurching in anticipation, though it wasn’t who he expected. It was Lourvine. Her swift, purposeful steps echoed as she approached.

“Your Majesty,” Lourvine greeted formally, her voice low but steady. She inclined her head slightly before continuing. “The guests have been escorted back to their chambers.”

Wriothesley’s eyes met hers, and though he said nothing immediately, his gaze carried an unspoken question. Seeing this, Lourvine glanced back only briefly before elaborating, her tone softening just enough to convey understanding. “We’ve told them nothing for now—not without your direct orders.”

He exhaled a shaky breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. “Okay,” he murmured, nodding almost absently. “Okay.” The word came out hollow, as if drained of all its meaning. His voice lacked its usual commanding weight; instead, it sounded fractured, distant. He wasn’t fully present—not in this moment, not in this hallway. His mind felt like it was moving through fog, unable to focus on anything except the closed door behind him and the turmoil it represented.

Lourvine studied him quietly for a moment before speaking again. “I assume you’d prefer we make arrangements to send the guests back home as soon as possible?” she asked cautiously.

Wriothesley blinked and looked at her as if seeing her for the first time. Her words seemed to ground him slightly, pulling him back to reality. “Of course,” he said after a beat of silence, straightening his posture slightly though his exhaustion still clung to him like a shadow. “We can’t host a party under these circumstances.”

“Understood,” Lourvine replied with a small nod. There was no trace of judgment in her tone—only efficiency and quiet reassurance. “I’ll see to it immediately. Shall we also prepare apology gifts for each guest?”

“Yes,” Wriothesley said quickly, almost too quickly. He rubbed the back of his neck as if trying to force himself to think more clearly. “You know what they like, don’t you?”

Lourvine gave a faint smile—almost imperceptible but enough to suggest she had everything under control even if he didn’t. “Each one of them,” she confirmed smoothly. “That leaves only one matter: what explanation would you like us to give for cutting the festivities short?”

For a moment, Wriothesley simply stared at her as if the question itself was incomprehensible. His mind spun in circles; every potential answer felt wrong or dangerous in some way. Seeing his hesitation, Lourvine pressed on gently but firmly. “If we were to inform them about… your assassination attempt,” she began carefully, choosing her words with precision, “they would understand. Such news would not lead to scandal—it would garner sympathy.”

“No.” The word came out sharper than he intended, slicing through the air with finality. He shook his head firmly this time, his jaw tightening as steel returned to his gaze. “No matter what happens, we cannot let those rebels get the attention they’re after. I won’t give them that satisfaction.”

Lourvine tilted her head slightly and waited patiently for him to continue.

“Tell them…” Wriothesley hesitated again, searching for something plausible yet inconsequential enough to divert suspicion. Finally, he settled on an idea and spoke with quiet resolve. “Tell them the prince had an unfortunate accident while riding his horse in the woods.”

“In this weather?” Lourvine raised an eyebrow ever so slightly—not in defiance but in careful consideration of how such a story might be received by others. “Would you not risk public opinion turning against both yourself and His Highness?”

“I’ll take that risk,” Wriothesley replied without missing a beat. His voice was firmer now—a glimmer of his usual authority returning despite the weariness etched into his features. “It’s better than letting anyone think this kingdom is unstable or vulnerable instead.”

“Understood.” Lourvine bowed her head once more before taking a step back to leave him alone with his thoughts again.

As she walked away down the corridor, Wriothesley turned back toward the door and resumed pacing—not because it brought him any comfort but because standing still felt unbearable. His mind replayed every detail of this afternoon over and over again until they blurred together into an indistinguishable haze of regret and unease.

And then came another being, moving toward him with a cautious, almost hesitant gait, its presence subtle yet impossible to ignore. A soft whine, barely louder than a whisper, broke the tense stillness of the hallway.

Wriothesley looked down, his eyes meeting the soulful gaze of Neuvillette’s ever-loyal dog. “Charon,” he murmured, the name leaving his lips like a quiet acknowledgment of something fragile and sacred. The dog’s large, expressive eyes seemed to hold an unspoken understanding as he nudged Wriothesley’s leg with his nose. Charon must have slipped away from his designated room amidst the commotion. Everyone else was too preoccupied to notice his absence but somehow, as if guided by an unerring instinct, Charon had made his way here, right to where he felt he was needed most.

A faint smile ghosted across Wriothesley’s face despite the weight pressing on his chest. He knelt down, his knees brushing the cold floor as he reached out to run his hand gently over Charon’s soft fur. “You always know where to find him, don’t you?” Wriothesley’s voice was low, almost a whisper, as though speaking any louder might shatter the fragile calm that had settled over them.

Charon responded in kind, pressing his nose firmly into Wriothesley’s trembling palm. Wriothesley could feel the faint tremor in his own hand as he stroked Charon’s head, the dog’s warmth grounding him in a moment that felt otherwise untethered.

“You’re worried about Neuvillette too, aren’t you?” he asked softly, his voice carrying a note of vulnerability that he rarely allowed to surface. Charon tilted his head slightly as if weighing the question before leaning into Wriothesley again, offering comfort in the only way he knew how. A low whimper escaped him—an unmistakable sound of sorrow and unease that tugged at Wriothesley’s heart.

He studied Charon for a moment longer, his brows knitting together in thought. “You don’t usually do this,” he murmured. “They say you’re shy… that you stick close to Neuvillette and avoid everyone else.”

Wriothesley didn’t know why the dog wasn’t scared of him, too. In fact, he didn’t know why he’d let Charon stay with Neuvillette after learning about his origin. He was, as expected, belongs to the old troops under Neuvillette’s father’s reign, and the fact he was found at Meropide meant he and his previous owner wandered close enough to Meropide where they had absolutely no business to. That alone should have alerted Wriothesley but then again, his owner was nowhere to be found, and this dog did nothing wrong anyway.

Wriothesley let out a heavy sigh, the sound filled with weariness and resignation. Rising slowly to his feet, he placed a hand on the door handle and glanced down at Charon once more. “They’re still treating him,” he said gently but firmly. “You can go in there, but don’t bother them right now, alright? Let them work.”

Charon didn’t move at first but simply looked up at Wriothesley with those mournful eyes that seemed to understand far more than they should. After a beat, Wriothesley relented with a small nod and opened the door just wide enough for Charon to slip through. “Alright,” he muttered under his breath. “Remember, don’t get in their way.”

The dog padded forward cautiously, each step deliberate as though aware of the significance of where he was headed. True to form, Charon kept his distance from the medics inside the room, choosing instead to settle himself quietly in a corner where he could keep watch without interfering.

Wriothesley hesitated at the doorframe for a moment before closing it behind him with a soft click. For all his stoicism and strength, something about this moment felt unbearably fragile—like glass teetering on the edge of shattering. He leaned against the door for a second longer than necessary, letting out another breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

It was only then that he realized: Charon had been looking at him the entire time he’d stood there by the door.

Neuvillette had a dream, one that felt as vivid as memory itself. It dragged him back to a time long buried beneath years of carefully maintained composure. He was a boy again, small and trembling, locked in the cold, damp shed at the edge of his family’s sprawling palace. For two weeks, he had been left there, discarded like an unwanted thing. The days wore on and his throat grew raw, the cries turned into quiet whimpers. Hunger gnawed at his stomach, and thirst made his lips crack and bleed. His only company was the occasional scuttling of rats across the floor, their beady eyes gleaming in the dim light as they watched him from the shadows.

And then, on the last day of his punishment, she came. His mother. Her silhouette appeared in the doorway like a vision from some long-forgotten dream. She swept into the shed with a grace that seemed out of place in such a wretched setting. Her perfume—a delicate blend of lavender and rose—overpowered the stink of filth and fear. She didn’t say anything at first, her lips pressed into a thin line as she took in the sight of him: her son, broken and crumpled on the floor.

He couldn’t say anything, too choked with tears and shame to form words. Instead, he flung himself into her arms, clutching at her as though she were the only thing tethering him to life. She held him tightly, stroking his matted hair and murmuring soothing words he couldn’t fully comprehend but desperately needed to hear.

In his dream, Neuvillette saw himself lying on her bed later that night. The room was warm and bathed in soft candlelight that danced across the ornate furnishings. His mother sat beside him with a basin of water and clean cloths. Her hands were steady but gentle as she cleaned the wounds on his back, each touch stinging yet strangely comforting.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered at one point. “I should have stopped him... I should have protected you.” Her eyes glistened with unshed tears, but she blinked them away quickly as if unwilling to let him see her weakness. Neuvillette wasn’t sure if it was part of his memory of something that only exist in this dream.

In his dream now, he blinked—and suddenly she wasn’t there anymore. Instead, Wriothesley sat by his side. The image was jarring yet oddly soothing; the man’s strong presence filled the room with an air of grounded stability. Wriothesley’s expression was unreadable at first—his dark brows furrowed slightly as he looked down at Neuvillette—but then it softened into something tender.

“You’ve been through worse,” Dream-Wriothesley said softly, his voice deep and steady like a river carving through stone. “And you’ve survived every time.”

Neuvillette tried to respond in the dream—to ask why Wriothesley was here or if this moment was real—but before he could form a single word, everything dissolved.

He was pulled away from the dream abruptly.

Neuvillette’s eyelids fluttered open sluggishly as reality came rushing back in fragmented pieces. The sterile scent of antiseptic filled his nostrils; harsh fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead. His body felt heavy—weighted down by fatigue and pain that radiated from somewhere near his side. He shifted slightly against sheets and winced when even that small motion sent discomfort rippling through him.

A name slipped from his lips before he was even fully conscious: “Wrio…” It was barely more than a breathless murmur—a soft plea born from some half-remembered intersection between dream and waking life.

His head turned weakly on the pillow as if searching for something—someone—but instead of finding warm human hands or familiar eyes filled with concern, his fingers brushed against coarse fur.

Blinking slowly to clear his vision, Neuvillette’s gaze focused on Charon sitting loyally beside him on a chair. The dog’s large frame was a comforting presence against the stark sterility of the room. His intelligent eyes seemed to study Neuvillette closely as if assessing whether his master was truly awake or still caught somewhere between dreams.

“Ah... Charon,” Neuvillette exhaled softly after a moment of disoriented silence. The corners of his lips curled into a faint smile despite the lingering haze of exhaustion and pain clouding his mind.

Charon wagged his tail gently but didn’t move from his vigilant post near the bedside. There was something almost regal about how he sat—his posture straight yet relaxed—as though guarding Neuvillette not just from physical threats but from whatever ghosts lingered in his mind.

Neuvillette reached out tentatively with one trembling hand; every movement felt like wading through molasses thanks to both weakness and the IV drip connected to his arm. But Charon didn’t seem to mind how slow or unsteady Neuvillette’s touch was; he leaned into it anyway when those pale fingers finally made contact with his head.

“Have you been waiting for me?” Neuvillette murmured quietly as he stroked Charon’s fur in slow, deliberate motions meant more to reassure himself than anything else. His voice wavered slightly—not from physical strain but from something deeper: an emotion tied intricately to both gratitude and guilt. Charon tilted his head slightly at those words as if understanding them on some instinctive level beyond language.

The quiet hum of the room was broken by a calm yet firm voice. “Your Highness, please don’t push yourself too much right now.” Sedene’s words carried an almost maternal concern as she stepped into view, her hands clasped neatly in front of her. Her polished demeanor betrayed nothing of the worry that flickered momentarily across her face when Neuvillette turned to look at her.

He tilted his head slightly, taking in the scene around him. Sedene stood a few feet away with her usual composed grace, but there was an unmistakable tension in her posture—her shoulders just a touch too stiff, her hands holding onto each other a bit too tightly. By the window sat another maid, her expression carefully neutral as she watched over him with quiet vigilance. Across the room, Matron Sigewinne busied herself at a small table cluttered with vials and equipment. She moved with practiced ease, measuring out doses of medicine with deft precision.

Sigewinne glanced over her shoulder as she worked and offered him a reassuring smile that reached her bright eyes. “You’ll be fine,” she said warmly, her voice gentle but firm. “But it’s going to ache for a while now that the adrenaline has run out. Please, just rest for now. Someone will be here at all times if you need anything.”

Neuvillette nodded faintly but couldn’t shake the creeping unease settling in his chest. His gaze roamed across the room again, taking in its unfamiliar sterility. The realization struck him fully now: they had put this room together hastily, likely as an emergency measure after… after what happened.

“Matron…” He hesitated for a moment before continuing, his voice quieter now but laced with urgency. “Where is—”

“His Majesty is unharmed,” Sigewinne interrupted gently but firmly before Neuvillette could finish voicing the question that burned in his mind. She turned to face him fully now, meeting his gaze with unwavering steadiness. “In fact,” she added with a small smile meant to reassure him, “he was the one who found you and brought you back.”

A sharp breath escaped Neuvillette’s lips as relief washed over him like a tide retreating from shore. So he was not imagining it? It was really Wriothesley who found him in the woods. His chest felt lighter at those words—though only slightly—as another concern quickly surfaced in his mind. “And Enna?” he asked, almost immediately regretting how weak his voice sounded. “Is Enna okay?”

Sigewinne’s expression softened further as she approached his bedside with measured steps. “Enna is a smart mare,” she assured him kindly. “She found her way back to the stables shortly after you returned.”

Neuvillette exhaled deeply this time—a long sigh that seemed to expel some of the weight pressing down on him. He closed his eyes briefly before opening them again to meet Sigewinne’s gaze. “So… no one is injured?” he pressed cautiously.

She nodded firmly. “No one,” she confirmed with quiet certainty.

“I’m glad,” Neuvillette murmured, leaning back against the pillows propped behind him. The tension in his shoulders eased slightly as he allowed himself to relax—for now.

Charon let out a soft huff and nudged Neuvillette’s hand gently with his nose, as if sensing his master’s lingering unease. Neuvillette smiled faintly once more and resumed stroking the dog’s head in slow, comforting motions.

But even as he lay there trying to focus on Charon’s quiet companionship and Sigewinne’s reassurances, fragments of memory began to resurface—flashes of rain-soaked paths and panicked shouts mingling with the sound of hooves pounding against wet earth. There was still so much he didn’t remember clearly about what had happened… but one thing remained certain: Wriothesley had been there.

He continued to stroke Charon’s fur gently, his fingers gliding through the creature’s silken coat, finding fleeting comfort in the rhythmic motion. The room was quiet except for the soft scratching of claws against the chair as Charon adjusted himself, leaning into Neuvillette’s touch. Neuvillette’s pale eyes followed Sigewinne, who worked deftly at the small table nearby. When she turned back toward him, her expression was calm but intent. “This will help ease the pain,” she said softly, her voice soothing and measured as though she were speaking to a frightened animal.

Neuvillette nodded faintly, too preoccupied to respond verbally. He watched with detached fascination as she pushed the needle into his wrist. The sharp pinch barely registered—his mind was elsewhere, a distant fog clouding his thoughts. His gaze drifted down to his hand, covered in meticulous layers of gauze and bandages. It was only then, as he stared blankly at his own fingers shifting beneath the wrappings, that something struck him like an icy jolt to his chest.

His brows pinched together, and his lips parted slightly in alarm. “Where is my wedding ring?”

Sigewinne froze mid-motion, her amber eyes snapping up to meet his pale ones. “Pardon?” she asked, blinking in confusion.

“My wedding ring,” he repeated firmly, his voice rising just enough to betray the panic bubbling beneath his otherwise composed demeanor. He flexed his fingers experimentally, as though willing the missing band to materialize out of thin air. “Did you not take it off while tending to my wounds?”

Sigewinne’s brow furrowed in thought before she turned toward the two maids stationed by the door. Both women exchanged quick glances before Sedene stepped forward hesitantly.

“No, Your Highness,” Sedene said carefully, her tone deferential but tinged with concern. “You weren’t wearing it when you returned. We assumed… we thought perhaps you left it behind before you departed.”

The words hit him like a hammer to the chest. His eyes widened in horror as he replayed her statement in his mind. Not wearing it? How could that be? He never removed it–it was as much a part of him as the very blood in his veins. His throat tightened as fragmented memories of the incident surfaced: the chaos, the horse rearing back, his body hitting the ground with bone-jarring force. Had it slipped off then? Was it lost somewhere in the dirt and debris?

“I didn’t—” His voice cracked slightly, raw with emotion as he struggled to form coherent words. “That wasn’t my intention.” He looked around desperately at the three figures in the room—Sigewinne and the maids—his expression now marred with something close to pleading desperation. “You must believe me… I would never misplace it on purpose.”

The room fell into an uneasy silence, broken only by the faint tick of a clock on the wall and Charon’s low whine at Neuvillette’s distress. Sigewinne shifted uncomfortably where she stood, her lips pressing into a thin line as though unsure how to respond. The maids exchanged uneasy glances but said nothing. That silence—pregnant with pity and doubt—was deafening to Neuvillette.

It hit him like a tidal wave then—the realization of how this must appear to everyone else in the room. He had argued with Wriothesley before the incident. Then he had vanished without word or explanation, only to return hours later injured and without the one physical symbol of their union: his wedding ring. Surely, anyone observing this sequence of events would draw only one conclusion—that he had attempted to flee.

“I did not attempt to escape,” Neuvillette said abruptly, his voice trembling but resolute as he broke the suffocating silence. “At all.” He sat up straighter, as though willing himself to project conviction even as dread coiled tighter around him like a serpent’s grip.

Still, no one responded immediately—not Sigewinne nor Sedene nor the other maid whose name escaped him at that moment. Their silence was neither accusatory nor forgiving; it was simply… there. And yet it was enough—it spoke volumes more than any words might have. They didn’t believe him—or worse—they pitied him too much to say so aloud.

His heart sank lower than he thought possible, threatening to pull him into some dark abyss where he could drown in shame and fear. He swallowed hard against the lump forming in his throat and tried again, his voice softer this time but no less desperate.

“I would never…” His hands clenched weakly into fists over Charon’s fur before relaxing again as pain flared through his bandaged palm. “That idea—it would never cross my mind.”

But even as he said it—pleaded it—he could feel tears welling unbidden in his eyes, hot and stinging against his cold skin. His deepest fear had taken shape before him: failure. His only duty in this marriage was to play the role of a perfect and dutiful husband—to maintain peace for Wriothesley’s sake and ensure that neither he nor those he cared about suffered under Wriothesley’s watchful eye.

And now? Now he had failed even at that simple task. He had returned injured—a burden—and worse yet, he had given everyone reason to question his loyalty to Wriothesley and their union itself.

Tears broke free from their fragile dam, streaming down his cheeks in silent torrents despite his best efforts to contain them. He bit down on his lower lip hard enough to taste copper but still couldn’t stop himself from crying openly. Sigewinne gasped softly and rushed forward instinctively while Charon let out another low whine, nudging closer against Neuvillette’s side. The maids followed suit hesitantly but hovered just out of reach, unsure whether their presence would help or worsen matters.

“Your Highness,” Sigewinne began gently, placing a hand on his uninjured arm in what she hoped was a comforting gesture. “Please don’t upset yourself further—your injuries–”

But Neuvillette barely heard her over the sound of blood rushing in his ears and the suffocating weight of guilt crushing down on him. He didn’t respond—not with words nor even acknowledgment—until eventually exhaustion overtook him entirely. He slumped back against the pillows limply, tears still staining his pale cheeks even as sleep claimed him at last.

"Have you ever wondered why you'd never known His Highness other than Crown Prince Neuvillette?"

Baron Caspar often asked… 'interesting' question lately. And while Wriothesley had agreed to help him and others, sometimes he couldn't help but wonder if they really wanted him as their co-conspirator, or they simply wanted to milk as much information about Neuvillette as possible from him. 

Wriothesley, seated across from him at the long mahogany table, paused mid-sip of his tea, brows furrowing slightly as if the idea had only just surfaced in his mind. "I can't say I haven’t," he replied slowly. "But now that you mention it… it is odd, isn't it?"

"Odd doesn’t even begin to describe it,"

"His investiture preceded our introduction, so there's that." Wriothesley added, his voice tinged with dry amusement. He reached for his cup of tea again but didn’t drink from it immediately. Instead, he swirled the liquid absently, watching the way it caught the firelight. "Yes, I suppose that’s an explanation—if you don’t think about it too hard."

"At three years old," Callas interjected, his voice soft but laced with incredulity. "He was three years old when they named him Crown Prince."

Wriothesley raised an eyebrow and let out a short laugh, a sound that was both bitter and bemused. "A child barely out of swaddling clothes declared heir to the throne. If that doesn’t make you wonder about the King’s motives, I don’t know what will." Wriothesley set down his cup with deliberate care and leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the table. "You know," he said, his voice quieter now but no less intense, "a decision like that isn’t made lightly—not by any ruler worth their salt."

Historically, the royal family of Fontaine was anything but the non-confrontational type. From the very inception of the kingdom, their legacy had been steeped in intrigue and rivalry, where the idea of a serene transfer of power was as foreign as a winter rose blooming in midsummer. The opulent halls of the royal palace, with their towering stained glass windows depicting scenes of past glories, bore silent witness to centuries of whispered plots and fervent clashes. Even now, if one stood in the Hall of Succession, they could almost hear the echoes of raised voices and the glint of steel unsheathed in desperation.

This was how it always was in Fontaine: heirs presumptive clawing their way toward an uncertain future while their parents observed in calculating silence. The title wasn’t something handed down gently like an heirloom brooch; it was wrested away through cunning, strength, and sheer determination. For generations, siblings turned on one another like wolves vying for dominance over the pack. Extended family members—cousins twice removed or uncles long estranged—often entered the fray as well, each convinced that they held some claim to glory.

Even when there wasn’t open conflict, there were always whispers: rumors swirling like autumn leaves caught in an invisible wind. Servants spoke in hushed tones about poisoned goblets and sabotaged carriages; courtiers exchanged knowing glances over veiled insults at grand banquets. Yes, Fontaine’s royal family thrived on conflict—on watching their kin fight tooth and nail for survival and supremacy. They believed it forged strength; only those who endured could truly deserve to rule. And so it went: generation after generation locked in this relentless cycle where love and loyalty were often sacrificed on the altar of ambition. To outsiders looking in through gilded gates or reading tales of courtly splendor in faraway lands, Fontaine might seem like a realm of fairy-tale grandeur. But within those glittering walls lay a truth far darker—a kingdom built not just on power but on pain and perseverance—a legacy written not only in ink but also in blood spilled by its own kind.

"Maybe the King simply adored him—but not in a way that makes sense to people like us."

"I’ve always assumed it had little to do with affection," Wriothesley responded after a moment’s silence. His voice took on a pensive edge as he leaned back once more, folding his arms across his chest. "There’s a rumor—one you’ve likely heard before—that neither the King nor Queen ever intended to have another child after Neuvillette."

Callas frowned slightly, their lips pressing into a thin line. "And you believe that?"

“I did,” Wriothesley admitted with a shrug, though his casual gesture did little to mask the weight behind his words. His tone was even, but there was a flicker of something more—something unresolved—lurking beneath the surface. “For a time. It made sense—if Neuvillette had no siblings to contend with for the succession…” He trailed off, letting the unspoken implications hang in the air like an unanswered accusation. His blue eyes narrowed slightly, as if scrutinizing a distant memory. “Well,” he continued after a moment, “it would certainly make things simpler. Choosing an heir presumptive has always been a way to divide the court and parliament when it suits the sovereign’s purposes.” His lips curled into a faint, humorless smirk, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

"Sometimes division is necessary—strategic, even—but looking at current politics? No," Wriothesley murmured. "His Majesty must have realized he can’t afford to split the court."

“You sound certain,” Callas ventured cautiously. “But what I do know is this: the King’s grip on power is slipping. And when a man feels that slip..." He paused, his sharp eye narrowing. "...he tightens his hold on whatever he can still control."

“And you think that’s why some patriarchs refuse to step down? Why they cling to their titles even when their bodies are failing them?”

“Exactly,” Callas replied. "Think about it. They're not just clinging to power for themselves—they're trying to protect their heirs. Sending them away from Fontaine isn't just exile; it's strategy. They’re buying time, trying to figure out how to survive under His Majesty’s corruption without losing everything."

"So they send their children away," Wriothesley murmured softly, almost to himself. "Away from their homes... their families… all because they’re afraid of what might happen if they stay."

“Afraid?” Callas’ laugh was bitter, sharp enough to cut through the room’s oppressive atmosphere. “No.” He shook his head slowly, his expression hardening like granite. “Fear is too simple an explanation for what drives these men. This isn’t just about survival—it’s about control. If they leave their heirs here in Fontaine, under the King’s watchful eye...” His voice dropped lower, almost a growl now. “...they risk losing them entirely.”

A tense silence settled between them once more before Wriothesley broke it with a weary sigh. He stood and walked over to the window, resting one hand against its cool surface as he gazed out at the city below. The sprawling streets of Fontaine were suddenly shrouded in mist and rain; their usual vibrancy dulled under the weight of political unrest that seemed to seep into every corner.

“And yet you’re not worried about Navia.”

“You and I both know no one can touch that girl.”

Wriothesley chuckled as he returned to his seat. “Fair enough.”

“And then there are places like Elynas,” Callas suddenly continued quietly but with an edge that demanded Wriothesley’s attention. "No lord dares claim it anymore—not because they don’t want to but because His Majesty won’t allow it, under the excuse that the claim had to go through the Queen’s approval, as the person who actually inherit it. That land..." He gestured vaguely toward the horizon as if Elynas were just beyond reach. "...it’s too valuable—too rich in resources—for him to risk anyone else gaining control over it."

And then there was Meropide. The duchy His Majesty loved to hate yet couldn’t seem to get rid of. For years it served royal family’s purposes. Fontaine needed somewhere to send its sinners—its unwanted—and Meropide became that place. But over time, Meropide grew stronger—more self-sufficient—because those sinners didn’t just waste away like the royal family expected them to. The sheer manpower alone already outnumbered anything the King had left at his disposal.

“Even without all of that,” Callas said slowly, “division in court remains something His Majesty avoids.”

Wriothesley nodded solemnly before speaking again: “Because division creates opportunity—opportunity for opposition... opportunity for someone like Lord Arlecchino and her House of Hearth.”

“If she starts taking an interest in our court politics,” Callas concluded, “then even this coup we’re planning won’t stand a chance."

Wriothesley didn't respond then, his angular features taut with thought as he let out a slow, measured breath. The kind of breath that spoke of restraint, as though he were holding back something far heavier than mere words. “Simplicity wasn’t what the King was after.” The room fell silent for a beat. The kind of silence that stretches thin and taut, pulling at the edges of one’s nerves.  “And yet,” he went on grimly, his voice hardening like steel tempered in fire, “it became clear soon enough that keeping Neuvillette safe wasn't exactly high on the King’s list of priorities either.” He shook his head slowly, almost imperceptibly, as though trying to dispel some lingering shadow of disbelief. 

“No… Naming him Crown Prince wasn’t about protection—it was about power.” Callas leaned forward slightly now, his gaze sharpening like the edge of a blade drawn from its sheath. “Consolidation of power.” After a moment of silence, Callas spoke again. “Did you ever…” The question began tentatively, wavering like a flickering candle flame against the chill of Wriothesley’s resolve. “Did you ever tell him this? What you think?”

Wriothesley’s reaction was immediate and visceral—a tightening of his jaw so sharp it looked as though it might crack under the strain. His gaze slid away from Callas', drifting toward one of the tall windows lining the room. For a moment—just a moment—it softened him; his furrowed brow smoothed ever so slightly; even his eyes carried a fleeting glimmer of something gentler. Regret.

“Of course not,” he said at last, his voice quiet but unyielding—a stone dropped into still water. “Why would I?” He turned back to Callas then, meeting his gaze with an intensity that could cut through glass. “It would destroy everything he’s ever believed in—everything he’s ever been taught to trust.” The corners of his mouth twitched downward in something that wasn’t quite a frown but came close enough to one that it left no room for misinterpretation.

There was silence again, but this time it felt different. Less tense, perhaps—though no less fraught with meaning.

“You’re curious, aren’t you?” Callas asked finally, breaking the quiet with a question that felt less accusatory and more… knowing.

“To some extent,” Wriothesley admitted. "I don’t want to break the illusion for Neuvillette because it’s also a shell he uses to protect himself.” His words were careful now—not hesitant exactly but deliberate, as though each one had been weighed and measured before leaving his lips. “But I wonder…” His voice trailed off briefly before he picked up again with renewed resolve. “I wonder if there’s a way to get him out of there safely.”

“That’s where our goals align, isn’t it?” His tone had shifted again—calmer now but no less resolute. “Your people want to bet on him and put him on the throne immediately.” A faint scoff escaped him then—not unkind but undeniably skeptical nonetheless—as though he couldn’t quite believe anyone would be so bold or reckless as to gamble with something so precarious. “And I…” He stopped short for half a second before continuing with quiet determination. “…I want to make sure the entire process will be safe for him.”

As he finished speaking, Wriothesley straightened up once more in his seat, folding his arms across his chest in that familiar stance of guarded defiance that seemed so intrinsic to who he was. And yet… there was something else there too—a vulnerability hidden beneath all those layers of armor that hinted at just how deeply this matter weighed on him.

Callas smiled faintly—a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes—and tilted his head slightly as if studying them anew. "Good," he said simply before leaning forward once more so that only inches separated them. His next words were spoken barely above a whisper: "Because I am also curious. What card does the Queen have to push the King into making that decision?"

"I’ve wondered that myself," Wriothesley admitted after another pause, his voice taking on an almost confessional tone. "What could she possibly hold over him? What leverage does she have that no one else does?"

"I have a theory… Her bargaining card… is also her liability."

After he was moved from the infirmary, Neuvillette spent several more days confined to his chambers, the weight of his injuries pressing him into stillness as much as the concern of those around him. Bandages wrapped tightly around his body served as a constant reminder of his recklessness. His right leg refused to work for him at all, and the fever that raged through him after hours spent in the relentless rain left him pale and weak. The air in the room seemed heavy, scented faintly with medicinal herbs and the lingering dampness of the rain that kept returning day by day that had caused all this trouble.

When he was awake, he often found solace in simple distractions. A book rested on his lap more often than not, its pages dog-eared from restless reading. His free hand moved rhythmically over Charon’s thick fur, and the dog, ever perceptive of Neuvillette’s condition, had abandoned his usual habit of resting his head on Neuvillette's arm. Instead, Charon sat dutifully by his side, his eyes watching his master with quiet understanding. The animal’s presence was a balm to Neuvillette’s frayed nerves, and he occasionally murmured soft words to Charon, as though the dog could share in the weight of his thoughts.

It was one such quiet evening when a knock echoed through the room, breaking the monotony. Neuvillette’s head turned sharply toward the door, a flicker of surprise crossing his face as a familiar voice followed the sound.

“Neuvillette,” Wriothesley called gently from the other side. “It’s me. May I come in?”

The words hung in the air for a moment, heavy with hesitation. Neuvillette’s heart gave an involuntary flutter—a mix of hope and dread swirling together. He shifted against the pillows with a wince, trying to prop himself up despite the sharp sting radiating from his ribs.

“Y-yes,” he finally replied, his voice soft but steady enough to carry. He straightened as much as he could manage without causing himself further pain. “Please, come in.”

The door creaked open slowly, revealing Wriothesley standing in the doorway. The kingly figure looked almost reluctant as he stepped inside, his usual commanding demeanor softened by what seemed to be genuine concern etched across his face. His dark clothing was damp at the hems, suggesting he might have braved some lingering drizzle to be here.

“Your Majesty,” Neuvillette greeted formally but with warmth, dipping his head slightly in acknowledgment.

Wriothesley’s eyes swept over him quickly but thoroughly, taking in the bandages and pale complexion with a tightness in his jaw that betrayed his emotions. “Do you feel better?” he asked quietly.

Neuvillette nodded once, though his movements were restrained by pain. “I'm improving,” he said softly. Before either man could say more, Charon stirred at Neuvillette’s side. The dog rose to his feet and padded toward Wriothesley, stopping just short of him to scrutinize the visitor with unblinking eyes. There was no hostility in Charon’s stance—only a protective awareness that seemed to assess whether Wriothesley posed any threat to his master. After a few seconds passed, Charon turned and ambled toward the corner of the room, lying down quietly to give them space.

Neuvillette watched this interaction with faint amusement but quickly sobered when Wriothesley turned back to him. The king took a step closer to the bed before speaking again.

“Your Majesty,” Neuvillette began hesitantly, only for Wriothesley to raise a hand to stop him.

“I sincerely apologize,” Wriothesley said abruptly, his voice low and laden with regret. His gaze didn’t waver from Neuvillette’s face as he continued, each word deliberate. “I never intended to put you in such a stressful situation. I let my emotions get the better of me—something I swore I wouldn’t do when it came to you.” He paused briefly, taking a deep breath before adding, “I promised I would never harm you… and yet here we are.”

For a moment, Neuvillette was struck silent by the raw honesty in Wriothesley’s tone. He opened his mouth to respond but faltered as guilt pricked at him like needles under his skin.

“You didn’t harm me,” Neuvillette said quickly, shaking his head for emphasis despite the ache it caused. “This—” he gestured vaguely toward his bandaged body “--this was my own doing. I overestimated myself… fell from my horse… and caused unnecessary trouble for everyone.”

His attempt at brushing off the incident only seemed to deepen Wriothesley’s frown. The silence that followed stretched long enough for uncertainty to creep into Neuvillette’s expression.

“I…” Neuvillette began again but trailed off when Wriothesley reached into his pocket and pulled out something small—a ring box. The sight of it made Neuvillette blink in confusion.

“I have something for you,” Wriothesley said softly as he flipped open the lid of the box to reveal its contents: a gold band set with a delicate blue gem that caught the light beautifully. “I was informed that your ring was lost somewhere in the woods.”

Neuvillette stared at it for several seconds without speaking. The intricate simplicity of the design took him aback—not only because it was beautiful but because it carried so much meaning in its quiet elegance. His mind raced with questions: How had Wriothesley arranged this so quickly? Why had he gone out of his way after everything that had happened between them?

“May I?” Wriothesley asked, breaking through Neuvillette’s reverie.

Swallowing hard against the lump forming in his throat, Neuvillette nodded slowly and extended his bandaged hand toward Wriothesley. He watched intently as Wriothesley slid the ring onto his finger with utmost care, avoiding pressure on any injured areas.

“I wasn’t trying to run away,” Neuvillette blurted out suddenly, unable to bear Wriothesley misunderstanding him any longer. His voice trembled slightly but carried conviction. “I didn’t throw my ring away either–I swear it. I went looking for you because… because I was worried you wouldn’t return before the rainstorm.”

Wriothesley's lips curved into the faintest hint of a smile and he nodded once in acknowledgment. “Thank you for your concern,” he said simply.

“I mean it,” Neuvillette pressed on desperately.

“I know,” Wriothesley replied gently.

For a moment, neither man spoke further—until Neuvillette broke the stillness again with words that had been weighing heavily on him since their last argument.

“I said things I shouldn’t have,” he admitted quietly, lowering his gaze toward his lap in shame. “Hurtful things… things I didn’t mean.”

Wriothesley remained silent but attentive—his posture open yet still carrying an air of restraint—as though giving Neuvillette all the space he needed to continue.

“It wasn’t fair of me,” Neuvillette added after another pause. His voice dropped even lower as he confessed, “Especially what I said about your parents…”

At this admission, Wriothesley inhaled sharply—not out of anger but something closer to pain that flickered briefly across his features before being carefully masked again.

“I wouldn’t blame you if you disliked me for it,” Neuvillette finished softly.

Wriothesley shook his head slowly as though he were brushing away not just Neuvillette’s words but also his own lingering doubts. His expression remained composed, yet there was an unmistakable flicker in his eyes—something tender, laced with regret. When he finally spoke, his voice was steady, but an undercurrent of bittersweet emotion wove through his words like a subtle lament. “If anyone deserves blame here… it’s me,” he began, his gaze unwavering as it settled on Neuvillette, “for keeping you away from your own parent.”

“I think…” Neuvillette began softly, his voice faltering before he steadied himself. “I think it’s probably for the best.” He looked down again, this time at his own hands, which clenched together tightly as though trying to hold back the emotions threatening to spill over. “After this incident, I realized how careless I am. And had I tried to contact my mother when I couldn't even take care of my own problem… I would’ve caused her so much trouble.” His throat tightened as he forced the next words out. “I should’ve trusted your judgment better. I’m sorry, Your Majesty. I will not ask for anything ever again.”

Wriothesley’s brow furrowed at that last statement. A faint sigh escaped his lips as he crossed the room with slow, purposeful steps and took a seat in the chair beside Neuvillette’s bed. He leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on his knees and clasping his hands together.

“You should ask if you still want something,” Wriothesley said after a moment of silence, his tone calm but insistent. “Asking is good. Questioning is good.” His gaze softened as he regarded Neuvillette with an almost fatherly concern. “It means you still have a conscience.”

Neuvillette blinked at him, momentarily caught off guard by the unexpected wisdom in those words. He opened his mouth to respond but found himself at a loss. What could he say? That he had been too afraid to ask for anything because he didn’t want to disappoint anyone? Because he didn't want it to harm his mother in any way possible? That the idea of voicing his desires felt selfish? 

“Neuvillette,” Wriothesley said again, “there’s something I need to ask you.” He straightened up slightly, his gaze now intent and searching. “But you have to promise me one thing: when you decide to answer, it has to be your decision–not an answer you think will benefit other people first.”

Neuvillette tilted his head slightly, confusion flickering across his features. “I promise,” he replied cautiously, though he wasn’t entirely sure what Wriothesley meant by that.

Wriothesley nodded once before leaning back in his chair and folding his arms across his chest. His next words came with deliberate care, as though he had rehearsed them countless times in his mind before saying them aloud. “Would you like to spend your recovery at Elynas?”

Neuvillette’s eyes widened slightly at the mention of the name. “Elynas? My mother’s estate?” The surprise in his voice was evident.

“Yes.” Wriothesley’s tone was measured and even. “It’s away from prying eyes, and it’ll be a nice change of scenery for you. You can take as many attendants and staff as you need to make yourself comfortable.” He paused briefly before adding, “Currently, the estate has no lord overseeing it, so the court has been managing it to some degree—but that only means the mansion is empty and all yours to use.”

For a moment, Neuvillette didn’t respond. The suggestion was undeniably tempting—he had always been curious about his mother’s duchy but had never dared to inquire too deeply about it. Yet something about Wriothesley’s offer gave him pause. If the king wanted him to stay hidden away at Elynas during his recovery… didn’t that mean the rumors about turmoil in their marriage were worse than he thought?

“Is the rumor that bad?” Neuvillette asked hesitantly, searching Wriothesley’s face for any sign of hesitation or evasion.

Wriothesley exhaled softly through his nose—a sound that was neither quite a sigh nor quite a laugh—and leaned forward again. “It will become sour for a while,” he admitted, meeting Neuvillette’s gaze directly. “But it’s nothing you should worry about.”

Neuvillette frowned slightly as he considered this response. After a moment’s thought, he shook his head with quiet determination. “I am grateful for the offer, Your Majesty,” he said carefully, each word carrying the weight of thought behind it. “But I think I will stay at Palais Mermonia.”

Wriothesley raised an eyebrow at that but said nothing immediately, waiting instead for Neuvillette to explain further. “It’s not that I don’t appreciate your concern,” Neuvillette continued earnestly. “But wouldn’t the rumors disappear sooner if I stayed by Your Majesty’s side?” His voice grew firmer as he spoke, conviction replacing hesitation. “Please allow me to take responsibility for my own actions. The sooner I can help you make people forget this incident… the better it will be for both of us.” He hesitated briefly before adding softly, almost to himself, “I also want to return to normalcy as soon as possible.”

Wriothesley regarded him silently for a long moment before nodding once in agreement. “Okay,” Wriothesley said finally. His tone was calm but carried an undertone of approval. “I understand.” He rose from his chair and then suddenly added, “The doctor said you can handle traveling after a couple more days of rest,” he continued matter-of-factly. “I’ll send someone back to Palais Mermonia today to make arrangements for your return—to ensure everything is set up to accommodate your current condition.” He paused briefly before adding with a faint smile tugging at one corner of his lips, “But before that happens… do you mind if she comes here first? To ask your preferences?”

Neuvillette blinked at him in mild surprise before nodding slowly in agreement.

“Thank you,” Wriothesley said softly, his voice carrying a weight that made the simple words feel far more significant. His broad shoulders shifted as he turned toward the door, his stride purposeful—yet just before crossing the threshold, he hesitated. Slowly, his head turned, and his gaze sought Neuvillette’s. For a moment, their eyes locked in a silent exchange. Wriothesley’s expression was inscrutable, but there was something in the way his dark brows softened, in the faint downturn of his lips, that hinted at a tenderness he refused to voice. The look lingered for a heartbeat longer than it should have—a look that seemed to say far more than words ever could.

“Rest well, Neuvillette,” Wriothesley murmured at last, his tone uncharacteristically gentle.

Neuvillette’s chest tightened, a dull ache spreading through him as if his heart had been caught in a vice. He watched Wriothesley’s figure with a mixture of confusion and longing. What was this all about? This strange, unspoken language between them—these signals that Wriothesley kept giving him, only to pull away just as Neuvillette thought he understood? The usurper was gentle and kind in ways that didn’t align with the cold reality of their arrangement. Why did he speak with such care? Why did he look at Neuvillette as though he mattered?

Their marriage was a sham, nothing more than a calculated political move to stabilize Wriothesley’s reign. Neuvillette had always known that—had accepted it. He was a pawn in this game, useful only as long as he served his purpose. And yet…

Yet Wriothesley treated him as though he were more than that. As though there was something genuine beneath the façade. Why did Wriothesley keep giving him this signal, like he liked Neuvillette too?

The question burned on Neuvillette’s tongue, but fear held it back. Fear of hearing an answer he wasn’t ready for.

Instead, he called out hesitantly, “Your Majesty.”

Wriothesley paused mid-stride, turning slightly to glance over his shoulder.

“Thank you for the ring,” Neuvillette said at last, his voice quieter now, almost uncertain. It wasn’t what he truly wanted to say—what he truly wanted to ask—but it was safer this way. Safer than risking everything by voicing the storm of emotions swirling inside him. “I promise I will take good care of it.”

Wriothesley’s lips curved into a faint smile—brief and fleeting, like sunlight breaking through heavy clouds only to vanish again. “Don’t mention it,” he replied simply.

But then, as if compelled by some invisible force, Wriothesley added, “That’s not your birthday present, of course.” His tone was casual enough, but there was an edge to it—a hesitation that betrayed him. “You’re still free to ask me for something you actually want.”

For a moment, silence stretched between them like a taut string ready to snap. Neuvillette could see the flicker of regret in Wriothesley’s eyes—an unspoken apology for what couldn’t be undone. The last time Neuvillette had dared to ask for something… it had ended disastrously. A request denied. A wound that still hadn’t healed.

What else could he possibly want now? More than to speak to his mother again? A token of freedom? No—those thoughts felt hollow compared to the ache in his chest.

What Neuvillette wanted most… was Wriothesley’s heart.

But even as the thought surfaced, he pushed it away bitterly. That was impossible. Foolish. Wriothesley’s heart belonged to no one—it never could. Still, he couldn’t bear to let this moment slip away entirely unanswered. “Your Majesty,” Neuvillette began delicately, “you mentioned there is no lord overseeing Elynas.”

Wriothesley tilted his head slightly, curiosity flickering in his eyes as he waited for Neuvillette to continue.

“Would it be permissible…” Neuvillette hesitated for half a breath before pressing on with quiet determination. “If I looked after it? At least until Your Majesty finds someone worthy to inherit it?”

Wriothesley blinked once, then twice, as if caught off guard by the request. Slowly, his expression shifted from surprise to something softer—something almost resembling pride. “Of course you can,” he said finally.

Neuvillette felt a swell of relief and… something else entirely. Gratitude? Hope? Whatever it was, it left him feeling unsteady. Wriothesley lingered for just another moment longer before turning fully toward the door again. But before stepping out into the corridor beyond, he paused once more.

“You’ll do well,” Wriothesley said quietly without turning back around. The words were simple—but they carried weight. An unspoken trust. An acknowledgment of something deeper.

And then he was gone—leaving Neuvillette with the quiet hum of his own thoughts. Neuvillette exhaled shakily and glanced down at the ring on his finger—the one Wriothesley had given him earlier that evening. It gleamed softly in the light—a delicate band etched with intricate marbles of the gem that seemed almost alive under close inspection. Like the sea circling around his finger. He traced the design absently with his thumb as emotions churned within him—confusion and longing warring with caution and restraint.

Why did this man—the one who held him captive within gilded walls—make him feel so much?

Chapter Text

Neuvillette finally returned to Palais Mermonia, the faint echo of his wheelchair wheels gliding over the polished floors softly reverberating through the vast corridors. The light filtering through the towering stained-glass windows painted shifting patterns of cerulean and gold on the ornate rugs, a kaleidoscope of color that seemed almost too bright for his weary eyes after the long journey. As he entered his chambers, a faint furrow touched his brow, his gaze sweeping across the room. Something felt different.

The bed, which once stood as a regal centerpiece with its intricate canopy and heavy velvet drapes, had been replaced. In its place was a simpler yet no less elegant design—lower to the ground, with smooth edges and a soft headboard upholstered in pale blue fabric. It was clear that great care had been taken to ensure it would be easier for him to manage while he remained partially confined to the wheelchair. A shadow of surprise crossed his noble features, his lips parting slightly as Sedene wheeled closer to help Neuvillette inspect it.

His study area had undergone subtle but deliberate changes as well. The desk, previously a towering structure of dark oak with ornate carvings of waves, had been swapped for one with smoother lines and adjustable height. A chair with supportive cushions was neatly tucked underneath. The arrangement of bookshelves had also shifted, their contents carefully curated so that the volumes he most frequently referenced were within easy reach. Neuvillette ran his fingers along the edge of the desk, his touch lingering as he absorbed the thoughtful alterations.

Everything Wriothesley had promised to oversee during Neuvillette’s recovery had been done with meticulous attention to detail. Every adjustment spoke not only to practicality but also to an understanding of Neuvillette’s needs and dignity. He exhaled softly, his expression softening into something akin to gratitude. “He truly thought of everything,” Neuvillette murmured under his breath, though there was no one immediately present to hear him.

Charon padded into the room behind him, the rhythmic clicking of claws on stone punctuating the silence. The dog’s gait was slower than usual, and his tail wagged weakly as he approached Neuvillette’s side. Concern flickered in Neuvillette’s eyes as he glanced down at Charon.

“You’re still feeling unwell from the journey, aren’t you?” Neuvillette asked gently, reaching down to scratch behind Charon’s ears. The dog leaned into his touch but let out a low whine in response.

Another maid who had been quietly arranging fresh flowers in a vase nearby stepped forward, her hands clasped respectfully in front of her apron. “Your Highness,” she began softly, “if you’d like, I can take Charon to another room so he can rest properly.”

Neuvillette hesitated for a moment, his hand still resting on Charon’s head. But seeing the tired droop of the dog’s ears and the way his eyes looked duller than usual, he gave a reluctant nod. “Very well,” he said quietly. “But please ensure he’s comfortable.”

The maid curtsied and extended her hand toward Charon, who followed her with slow steps after casting one last glance at Neuvillette. The sight tugged at Neuvillette’s heart more than he cared to admit. Just then he realized the maid wasn’t scared of Charon at all, unlike most of the staff. Come to think of it, she wasn’t really his maid before, either, right? 

Before he could dwell on it further, Jacquetta entered the chambers briskly yet gracefully, carrying a small stack of papers tucked neatly under one arm. Her presence was as poised as ever—her sharp gaze assessing him briefly before she offered a polite bow.

“Your Highness,” she greeted him with professional warmth. “I trust your journey back was tolerable?”

“As tolerable as can be expected,” Neuvillette replied with a faint smile. His voice carried its usual calm authority but lacked some of its usual strength—a subtle reminder of his current state.

Jacquetta nodded knowingly before stepping closer and setting the papers down on the newly adjusted desk. “While you were away,” she began, her tone efficient but not unkind, “we made progress on several ongoing matters. I’ve compiled summaries here for your review.”

Neuvillette gestured for her to continue as he adjusted his position in the wheelchair slightly.

She continued with measured precision and as she spoke, Neuvillette listened attentively, occasionally nodding or interjecting with brief questions for clarification. When Jacquetta finished her summary, Neuvillette leaned back slightly in his wheelchair and regarded her thoughtfully. “Would it not be difficult for you to go back and forth?” he asked after a moment's pause. “Our office is quite far from here.”

Jacquetta allowed herself a small smile—one that conveyed both reassurance and determination. “Not at all, Your Highness,” she replied smoothly. “We’ve temporarily relocated our operations to the suite directly across this room for ease of communication.”

Neuvillette blinked in mild surprise before lowering his gaze slightly. “I’m sorry for the inconvenience this must have caused,” he said quietly.

Jacquetta’s expression softened ever so slightly—a rare glimpse of empathy beneath her professional demeanor. “There is no need for apologies, Your Highness,” she assured him gently. “Our priority is ensuring your recovery without compromising our work.”

At that moment, Sigewinne appeared at the doorframe holding a tray laden with herbal tea and small biscuits. “I’d suggest you focus on resting first,” Sigewinne said firmly yet kindly as she set the tray down on a nearby side table. Her frame belied her commanding presence when it came to matters of health. “Your staff is more than capable of managing things in the meantime.”

Jacquetta nodded in agreement as she gathered her papers once again. “I will inform you before we finalize any major decisions,” she added reassuringly.

Neuvillette inclined his head in acknowledgment before allowing himself a small sigh of relief. “Very well,” he said simply.

With that final exchange, Jacquetta excused herself gracefully from the room while Sigewinne busied herself arranging the tea set just so—her movements precise yet soothing in their rhythm.

As Neuvillette watched her work silently for a moment longer than necessary, an unfamiliar sensation stirred within him—a tentative hope that perhaps this chapter of recovery would not be as isolating or burdensome as he had feared.

Another knocked on the door, and someone entered the chambers. “This is Chauve,” Sedene announced with a slight gesture of her hand. “He will be stationed right outside the door if Your Highness needs anything.” Her tone softened slightly as she turned her attention to Neuvillette, who had been quietly observing the young guard. Sedene’s watchful eyes lingered on Chauve for a brief moment before continuing, “Of course, Kiara and I will remain here at all times.”

Neuvillette shifted his gaze to the guard in question. Chauve was a wiry young man with sharp features that betrayed both nervous energy and steadfast determination. His armor gleamed faintly in the soft light filtering through the chamber’s tall windows, though his posture lacked the rigid formality one might expect. Instead, he seemed eager—almost too eager—to prove himself worthy of standing so close to royalty.

“Your Highness,” Chauve said quickly, bowing his head low enough that a lock of hair fell loose across his forehead. His voice was steady but carried an unmistakable undertone of reverence.

Before Neuvillette had a chance to respond, Sigewinne chimed in with her characteristic cheerfulness. “Chauve here helped find Your Highness that day.” Her words were light and almost sing-song, but they landed with the weight of genuine admiration. She beamed up at him, clearly pleased to share this detail.

The compliment brought a faint flush to Chauve’s cheeks. He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly, his free hand tightening briefly around the hilt of his sword as if searching for something to anchor him. “Ah, Matron, that’s—well—” He stumbled over his words before letting out a sheepish chuckle. “It’s my duty, after all. Honestly, I didn’t do much…” His voice trailed off as he glanced hesitantly at Neuvillette, whose inquisitive expression seemed to demand elaboration. “In fact,” Chauve added hastily, “I got yelled at by His Majesty.”

The room seemed to still for a moment as Neuvillette’s brow furrowed slightly. He tilted his head just enough to suggest concern rather than disapproval, but the shift in his demeanor did not go unnoticed by anyone present.

“No—no! Not in a bad way!” Chauve stammered, his eyes widening in alarm as he realized how his words could be misinterpreted. “I mean… well, it wasn’t really yelling either, more like… scolding? Advising? Ah—” He paused and took a deep breath, willing himself to speak more clearly. “I asked something stupid before the search. Something that could’ve put people in danger if we’d gone through with it. His Majesty was furious—rightfully so—but even then…” Chauve’s voice softened as his gaze dropped to the polished floor beneath him. “Even then, I could tell he wasn’t angry for himself. He was angry because he wanted us to be safe… even when finding Your Highness was clearly all that mattered to him.”

There was an unspoken weight behind those words that hung in the air like a fine mist. Neuvillette’s expression remained unreadable for a moment longer before softening into something gentler—something closer to gratitude than judgment.

“Come to think,” Sedene interjected, her voice tinged with reluctant curiosity as she folded her arms across her chest, “I’ve never seen His Majesty raise his voice at anyone.” Her lips pressed into a thin line as though admitting this fact left her slightly uneasy.

“Ah, well,” Chauve said with a nervous laugh, scratching at his temple now. “I don’t recommend it—it’s not something you want to experience twice.” He gave a lopsided grin that faded almost immediately as he realized how flippant his words sounded. “But—uh—I wasn’t complaining!” he added quickly. “He… he sent everyone on the search party for immediate checkups afterward and gave us three days of paid leave.”

“Three days?” Sigewinne repeated with an approving nod. “That sounds like him.”

“I see,” Neuvillette said quietly, his voice carrying just enough warmth to reassure Chauve that no offense had been taken. “I hope you are well and made good use of your time off.”

Chauve hesitated before replying, shifting his weight from one foot to the other as if embarrassed by what he was about to admit. “Actually… some of us didn’t even leave.” He gave an apologetic shrug before meeting Neuvillette’s gaze directly. There was no trace of deceit in his earnest eyes—only the quiet conviction of someone who believed they had done what was right. “Except for those who went home to see their kids or spouses, most of us stayed behind and went back into the woods.”

“The woods?” Sedene repeated sharply, her tone laced with disapproval. “You mean without orders?”

Chauve flinched but held his ground. “Yes,” he said simply. Then, glancing back at Neuvillette: “We were looking for Your Highness’s missing ring.”

A flicker of surprise crossed Neuvillette’s face—a subtle widening of his violet eyes followed by an almost imperceptible parting of his lips. But just as quickly as it appeared, it vanished again beneath the composed mask he so often wore.

“I’m sorry we couldn’t find it,” Chauve continued earnestly. There was no self-pity in his voice—only genuine regret for having failed in what he clearly saw as an important task.

“No problem,” Neuvillette replied softly after a pause. He inclined his head slightly toward Chauve in acknowledgment. “Your effort alone speaks volumes.”

Chauve let out a small sigh of relief but then straightened abruptly as if remembering where he stood—and who he stood before. “And uh…” He glanced nervously between Sedene and Sigewinne before lowering his voice conspiratorially. “Please don’t tell His Majesty about it—I’m afraid I’ll get scolded again if he finds out we were working during our days off.”

Sigewinne giggled behind her hand while Sedene rolled her eyes with faint exasperation.

“I’m sure he wouldn’t mind,” Neuvillette said with a soft smile that reached all the way to his eyes this time—a rare and fleeting expression that seemed to light up the room in its sincerity. “Thank you for your help, Chauve. And… I apologize for causing trouble for everyone.”

The young guard blinked at him as though startled by such humility coming from someone so far above him in station. For a moment, he didn’t seem to know how to respond. Then he bowed again—deeper this time—and murmured quietly but fervently: “It was no trouble at all, Your Highness.”

Later that evening, after the maids had quietly departed, having served Neuvillette his dinner on polished silver trays, Sigewinne entered with her usual quiet grace. The soft rustle of her skirts against the stone floor was the only sound accompanying her arrival, a whisper of movement that seemed to blend seamlessly with the subdued ambiance of the room. The air was tinged with the faint aroma of herbs and ointments, carried in by her presence, a scent that had become synonymous with her care.

Neuvillette sat upright in his bed, his posture composed yet betraying a subtle weariness in the set of his shoulders. His gaze followed her as she approached, her hands already deftly unpacking the neat bundle she carried. Layers of gauze, small vials filled with tinctures, and a delicate pair of scissors glinted under the warm light. Each item was placed on the low table beside him with careful precision, as though this ritual were as sacred to her as any prayer.

Sigewinne’s expression remained serene and unreadable as she began her work. Kneeling beside him, she reached for his arm with a softness that spoke volumes—a touch that was both professional and profoundly human. Unwrapping the old bandages, she revealed the wound beneath, red but clean, its edges neatly stitched. Her brow furrowed ever so slightly in concentration as she examined it, her small hands moving with practiced ease to cleanse the area before applying fresh salve.

Neuvillette watched her closely, his pale eyes tracing every motion. There was something calming about her presence—something steadfast and unshakable. Yet tonight, curiosity stirred within him, bubbling just beneath the surface. He hesitated for a moment, unsure whether to give voice to his thoughts, but finally broke the silence.

“Matron,” he began, his voice soft yet tinged with an uncertainty. The single word hung in the air for a heartbeat before he continued. “What was it like… when His Majesty was still a duke?”

Sigewinne paused mid-motion, her fingers briefly hovering over the fresh dressing she’d just secured. Her eyes flicked up to meet his, steady and thoughtful but revealing nothing immediately. For a moment, it seemed as though she might dismiss the question entirely, but then she resumed her work with measured calm.

“What was it like?” she echoed gently, as if tasting the weight of his words before committing to an answer. Her tone held no surprise at his inquiry—only a quiet patience that invited him to elaborate if he wished.

Neuvillette leaned back slightly, his gaze turning toward the fireplace as he searched for the right words. “I mean…” He hesitated again before exhaling softly. “Has he always been this way? Kind to his employees? Considerate?”

Sigewinne’s hands stilled once more as she reached for a small vial of medicine. She uncorked it carefully, the faint pop breaking the silence like a subtle punctuation mark. The amber liquid within caught the firelight as she tilted it into a dropper, measuring each drop with meticulous precision before handing it to Neuvillette.

The question still hung in the air, delicate yet probing, like an uncertain ripple across still water. Neuvillette’s violet eyes flickered as he brought the vial to his lips and swallowed its contents. The bitterness of the medicine barely registered; his focus was entirely on Sigewinne now. She had been at Palais Mermonia long before he even existed—a living memory of eras past—and though he rarely indulged in personal inquiries, something about Wriothesley’s enigmatic nature compelled him today.

Sigewinne tilted her head slightly, her expression softening into one of mild amusement. A faint smile played on her lips as she set aside the empty vial and folded her hands neatly in front of her. “The situation at Meropide is slightly different from the rest of Fontaine,” she began carefully, picking her words like one might select fragile glass ornaments from a shelf. “So I can’t really say he had ‘employees’ there in the traditional sense.” Her amber eyes glimmered with something unreadable—perhaps nostalgia, perhaps something more elusive—as she leaned back slightly, as if preparing to give a measured answer.

“When His Majesty was still a duke,” her voice low but steady, “he was not so different from how he is now. Though perhaps… there was a great weight upon him then. A kind of restlessness from being unable to let go of something.”

“Restlessness?” he prompted gently.

Sigewinne inclined her head slightly, her gaze drifting toward the shadows cast by the firelight on the far wall. “Yes,” she said after a moment’s pause. “He wouldn’t cradle anyone,” Sigewinne continued slowly, letting the words settle as if testing their weight before adding more, “but he also wouldn’t actively lead people to a cliff’s edge. Does that make sense?”

Neuvillette blinked, momentarily caught off guard by the cryptic metaphor. He turned the phrase over in his mind, trying to extract its essence. “So… you’re saying he isn’t someone who coddles others? But he doesn’t abandon them to their fate either?” His brow furrowed slightly as he spoke, his voice tentative yet thoughtful.

Sigewinne chuckled softly—a sound so light it was almost musical—and nodded. “Exactly,” she affirmed gently. “He’s not one to hold someone’s hand and guide them every step of the way. That’s not who he is.” Her gaze grew distant for a moment, as though she were peering back through the corridors of time. “But if someone made an honest mistake or found themselves in trouble? He’d be there. Quietly, without fanfare, but there all the same.”

Neuvillette considered this, his expression softening as he mulled over her words. “I suppose that does sound like him,” he murmured after a pause. He glanced down at his hands, the new wedding ring Wriothesley gave him adorned his gloveless hand. “He is a good leader.”

Sigewinne’s smile widened ever so slightly, though there was a flicker of something wistful in her eyes now. “Good leaders aren’t always easy to understand,” she said quietly, almost as if speaking more to herself than to him. “But they have a way of leaving their mark on those who follow them.”

Neuvillette looked up sharply at that, curiosity sparking anew within him. “Did he leave his mark on you?” The question tumbled out before he could stop himself, and once spoken, it felt impossible to take back.

For a moment, Sigewinne didn’t answer. She simply regarded him with a calmness that bordered on maternal affection—a steadying presence amidst the storm of his uncertainty. Then she chuckled again, this time with a hint of mischief that lit up her face.

“You know,” she said lightly as she maneuvered, though her eyes gleamed with sincerity, “sometimes kindness looks different depending on where you stand. He carried himself with purpose even then—always striving to do what was just and fair—but there were times when one could see it… that sense of longing for something beyond duty.” She glanced back at Neuvillette then, offering him a faint smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Perhaps that is why he has always treated those under his care with such kindness. He understands what it means to bear burdens.”

“And you?” he asked quietly, his gaze never leaving hers. “Did you feel that kindness when you first came into his service?”

Sigewinne’s smile softened into something more genuine this time—a fleeting glimpse of warmth that transformed her otherwise composed demeanor. “His Majesty has always been kind,” she replied simply. “But kindness is not simply given; it is earned through trust and understanding.” Her voice grew even softer as she added, almost as an afterthought, “It is not always immediate… but it is always genuine.”

Neuvillette nodded slowly, absorbing her words like drops of rain soaking into parched earth. For a moment, neither spoke further—the only sounds were the crackling fire and the distant murmur of wind outside.

Sigewinne had come to Palais Mermonia as a young nurse. She had arrived in the company of Neuvillette’s mother’s physician, who had accompanied the Queen when she left her estate to marry Neuvillette’s father. Neuvillette had watched her from the shadows of a grand doorway his entire childhood and over the years, Sigewinne outlived his mother’s doctor, continuing her work within the palace with an almost invisible grace. She was never one to draw attention to herself; instead, she moved through their lives like a gentle breeze—soothing, constant, and often overlooked. She was there when Neuvillette fell ill during a particularly harsh winter, sitting by his bedside with a damp cloth to cool his fevered brow. She was there when his mother’s health started to wane, her presence a quiet comfort during long nights filled with whispered prayers and muffled weeping.

When Sigewinne eventually left Palais Mermonia to assist Wriothesley at Meropide, Neuvillette told himself he was happy for her. Yet, he couldn’t entirely mask the pang of loss that struck him as he watched her pack her few belongings into a modest carriage. And so she left, leaving behind an emptiness that Neuvillette hadn’t fully acknowledged until much later.

Now, as he reflected on those moments, doubt began to creep into his thoughts like an unwelcome intruder. Could it be that Sigewinne hadn’t truly felt at home here? Had they failed to offer her the same warmth and kindness that Wriothesley and Meropide seemed to provide so effortlessly?

Finally breaking the silence once more, Sigewinne rose gracefully to her feet and began gathering her supplies. “You should rest now,” she said gently but firmly, placing a final clean cloth over his wound before stepping back. “The body heals best when given time and peace.”

Neuvillette offered her a faint smile of gratitude as he shifted slightly on his bed, already feeling some of the tension in his body begin to ease under her care. “Thank you,” he murmured sincerely.

Because of his injuries, Neuvillette found himself surrounded by a small army of healers and specialists. Matron Sigewinne had been a constant presence, her gentle demeanor a soothing balm amidst the chaos of recovery. But now, in addition to her and the royal physician who oversaw his overall well-being, an orthopedic specialist had been summoned specifically to address the troubling injury to his leg.

The orthopedic, a meticulous woman with sharp eyes and an air of authority, was currently examining Neuvillette's leg with critical precision. Her hands moved expertly, pressing gently here, testing the joint there, as she spoke in a calm yet firm tone. “Your Highness,” she began, straightening up and removing her gloves with a practiced flick of her wrists, “the progress on your leg is promising. However,”—she paused as if weighing her words carefully—“you must exercise patience. Overexertion could undo the progress we’ve made.”

Neuvillette nodded solemnly, though inwardly he bristled at the thought of being confined further. “What do you recommend, Doctor?” he asked, his voice steady but edged with a hint of weariness.

The doctor’s expression softened slightly, recognizing the frustration behind the question. “You may begin using crutches to move around within shorter distances,” she said, gesturing toward the polished set leaning against the wall. “However, for anything beyond that—a stroll through the palace gardens or attending longer meetings—I advise bringing the wheelchair for now.”

Neuvillette’s lips pressed into a thin line. The idea of relying on a wheelchair still tugged at him, but he knew better than to let it interfere with his recovery. If he truly didn’t want to become an inconvenience, then he should recover as soon as possible. “I understand,” he said after a moment, his tone measured.

The doctor offered an encouraging smile. “This is all temporary, Your Highness. With diligent treatment and adherence to physical therapy, you should be able to walk unaided within a month or two—perhaps with only the assistance of a simple cane by then.”

“That is reassuring to hear,” Neuvillette replied, inclining his head in gratitude. “Thank you for your guidance.”

After the orthopedic took her leave, the royal physician entered the room with a purposeful stride. His tall frame cast a shadow across the room as he moved toward Neuvillette, the late afternoon sunlight streaming through the high arched windows catching the glint of the silver embroidery on his dark navy coat. In one hand, he carried a small satchel of medicines, its leather worn but well-kept, a testament to years of careful use. Tucked under his other arm were several meticulously organized charts, their corners crisp and uncurled, suggesting a man who valued precision above all else.

He paused briefly as he reached the bedside, his sharp eyes—an intense shade of grey that seemed to notice every detail—sweeping over Neuvillette with a practiced yet genuine concern. A warm smile softened his otherwise stern features, and he inclined his head slightly in greeting. “Your Highness,” he said, his voice steady and imbued with respect, but not so formal as to feel distant.

Neuvillette, seated upright in bed with an air of composed dignity despite his evident fatigue, inclined his head in return. "Doctor Moreau," he replied.

The physician set the satchel down on the ornate walnut table nearby with a quiet thud and began arranging his tools and charts with deliberate efficiency. As he worked, Moreau spoke again, this time flipping through the neatly organized pages of his notes with deft fingers. “How are you feeling today?” he asked, turning toward Neuvillette once more. His tone was gentle but probing, inviting honesty without demanding it.

Neuvillette hesitated for a moment, his gaze dropping to the patterned rug beneath the bed before meeting Moreau’s eyes again. “I have felt… better,” he admitted carefully, his voice carrying the weight of someone unaccustomed to revealing vulnerability. “There is a heaviness in my chest that lingers still.” He paused, glancing toward Sigewinne, who stood nearby with her usual calm attentiveness. “Though I must say that Matron Sigewinne’s care has been most thorough.”

At this, Sigewinne straightened slightly, her frame radiating quiet pride. “He’s been very cooperative—most of the time,” she added with a teasing smile, folding her hands neatly in front of her. “But he hasn’t been sleeping well these past nights.”

Moreau raised an eyebrow at this revelation and turned back to Neuvillette with a look of mild reproach tempered by understanding. “Is that so?” he remarked thoughtfully as he retrieved a stethoscope from his satchel and moved closer to examine him. “Your Highness, rest is paramount for recovery. You cannot expect your body—or your mind—to mend itself without proper sleep.”

Neuvillette offered a faint smile tinged with self-awareness. “I am aware,” he murmured as Moreau leaned forward to press the cold metal disc against his chest. The slight flinch at the chill was barely perceptible but did not escape Moreau’s notice.

“Deep breaths,” Moreau instructed gently. Neuvillette complied without complaint, drawing in long breaths that made his shoulders rise and fall beneath the fine linen shirt he wore.

As Moreau listened intently to the cadence of Neuvillette’s breathing and heartbeat, Sigewinne stepped closer to provide her report. Her voice was clear and precise but carried an underlying warmth that revealed how deeply she cared for her patient. “His Highness’ appetite has been… inconsistent,” she began delicately, glancing at Neuvillette as though seeking permission to speak candidly about him in his presence. When he gave her a small nod of assent, she continued. “There are days when he eats only enough to sustain himself out of obligation rather than need. And while there has been some improvement in his energy levels since we returned to Palais Mermonia a week ago, they remain lower than I would like.”

Moreau nodded thoughtfully as he withdrew the stethoscope and noted down several observations on one of his charts. His handwriting was quick but elegant, each letter flowing seamlessly into the next—a reflection of both his intellect and discipline. “Your findings align with my own suspicions,” he remarked after a moment’s pause, setting down his pen before addressing Neuvillette directly once more.

“Your Highness,” he said earnestly, meeting his patient’s gaze with unwavering sincerity, “the symptoms you describe—the heaviness in your chest, the fatigue—they suggest more than mere physical ailment. I suspect there may be an emotional or mental strain compounding your condition.” He gestured subtly toward Sigewinne as if to acknowledge her earlier insight into Neuvillette’s restless nights.

Neuvillette held Moreau’s gaze for a long moment before exhaling softly—a sound that carried both resignation and relief. “You may not be wrong,” he admitted quietly but firmly, as though speaking the words aloud gave them weight they had not possessed before.

Moreau regarded him with a mixture of compassion and resolve. “Then let us address it together,” he said simply but decisively. “For now, however”—he gestured toward one of the vials in his satchel—“I will prepare something to ease your breathing and help you rest tonight.”

Neuvillette nodded then reclined against the pillows propped behind him. Though his posture appeared relaxed, there was no mistaking the vulnerability etched across his refined features—a faint crease in his brow, the slight downturn at the corners of his mouth betraying his unease. His pale eyes flitted between Sigewinne and Moreau as if unsure whether to feel grateful or guilty for their efforts. For all his composure, there was a part of him that struggled with being cared for so attentively. It was a rare thing for someone in his position to allow himself such indulgence—even rarer still to accept it without feeling as though he were imposing on others.

The room settled into a quiet rhythm, each sound weaving together into a soothing symphony. The clinking of glass vials as Moreau measured out precise amounts of liquid echoed faintly alongside the gentle rustle of parchment charts being shuffled aside on a nearby desk. Sigewinne hummed softly under her breath as she labeled a completed flask, her melody blending seamlessly with the steady ticking of an ornate clock mounted above the marble mantelpiece. Its gilded hands moved with an unhurried elegance, marking time as though it too shared in the deliberate calmness of the scene.

After another round of quiet exchanges with Moreau about dosage adjustments and preparation techniques, Sigewinne excused herself with a cheerful wave. “I’ll be back shortly!” she promised before disappearing down the corridor, her footsteps light and quick.

Moreau turned his full attention back to Neuvillette as he approached the bedside once more. He set down his tools carefully before addressing him with professional detachment softened by genuine concern. “Aside from your leg injury—which is healing remarkably well I’ve been told—you’ve made an excellent recovery overall,” he said, his tone warm yet measured.

Neuvillette let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. The tension in his shoulders eased slightly at the physician’s words, though he maintained his usual stoic demeanor. “That’s reassuring to hear,” he replied quietly, his voice tinged with relief.

“You may resume your usual schedule,” Moreau continued as he scanned over his notes one final time. His sharp eyes flicked up briefly to gauge Neuvillette’s reaction; when satisfied that there was no sign of objection or undue strain, he nodded approvingly before setting aside the clipboard. “However,” he added pointedly, “I must insist you finish this final batch of medication.” He gestured toward a small vial filled with amber liquid and several neatly wrapped packets on the side table beside them.

Neuvillette inclined his head in acknowledgment, ever composed despite the slight flush that crept across his cheeks at being reminded of his responsibilities yet again. “I will adhere to your instructions,” he assured Moreau solemnly.

The physician regarded him thoughtfully for a moment before speaking again in a gentler tone. “Is there any other concern about your health that you would like to discuss?”

There was a pause—a momentary flicker of hesitation that passed over Neuvillette’s face like a shadow crossing over still water. His gaze dropped to his lap where his hands rested loosely—one still bandaged from his injuries—and for a moment it seemed as though he might dismiss the question altogether. But then he cleared his throat softly and spoke again, each word deliberate and carefully chosen.

“This is... not related to my accident,” he began haltingly, as though testing each syllable before committing to it fully. “But there is something I’d like to inquire about.”

Moreau remained perfectly still, giving no indication that he found the sudden shift in topic peculiar or unwelcome. His years of experience had taught him that patients often hesitated before broaching sensitive subjects—and that silence could be more encouraging than any spoken reassurance.

Neuvillette’s pale gaze flickered upward briefly before darting away again, settling somewhere around Moreau’s shoulder rather than meeting his eyes directly. When he finally continued speaking, his voice was quieter—almost hesitant—but carried an undercurrent of determination nonetheless.

“I was wondering if it would be possible to check... my ability to sire children.”

Moreau didn’t flinch or betray even the faintest trace of surprise at the unusual request. Instead, he tilted his head slightly as though considering how best to respond. His expression remained calm—kind even—as he studied Neuvillette’s face for any further clues about what might have prompted such a question.

“I see,” he said finally, his tone carefully neutral but not devoid of warmth.

Neuvillette shifted slightly under the weight of that simple acknowledgment, clearly feeling compelled to explain further despite how exposed he already felt. “I’ve heard it can take more... effort for some people,” he said quickly, almost defensively—as though preemptively warding off any judgment that might come his way. “And I wonder if it’s something that can be determined beforehand?”

Moreau nodded slowly, his expression thoughtful but reassuring. “There are ways to assess that sort of thing,” he replied evenly, choosing his words with care so as not to add unnecessary discomfort to an already delicate conversation. “If you’re agreeable, I can speak with Matron Sigewinne about preparing what we’ll need for such an examination.”

“Yes,” Neuvillette said quickly—perhaps too quickly—before catching himself and softening his tone. “That would be appreciated,” he added more quietly.

Moreau offered him an encouraging smile as he began gathering up his tools once more. “There’s no need for embarrassment over such matters,” he said kindly but firmly. “It’s better to seek clarity than let uncertainty weigh on you.”

Neuvillette allowed himself a small nod at those words—a silent acknowledgment that perhaps seeking answers was indeed preferable to carrying unspoken doubts in solitude. Or so he thought.

At the grand Opera Epiclese, the air buzzed with an electric anticipation, the kind that only accompanies the debut of something entirely new and wholly extraordinary. The theater, a masterpiece of arched ceilings and gilded balconies, was packed to the brim with eager spectators. Velvet curtains framed the stage, their deep crimson hue glowing softly beneath the flickering light of countless chandeliers. Tonight, the spotlight belonged to Furina, the actor turned playwright whose works always seemed to toe the line between divine inspiration and human folly. Once again, she had stolen the show with a tale equal parts tragic and grotesque—a story of a merman who defied prophecy only to meet his doom at the hands of his own son who ate him. The son, in a horrifying twist, turned his father’s loyal followers into the wood and sails of a ship, bartered his father’s jewel-like tears for human legs, and rose to wreak havoc on the world above.

Though it was a brand-new play—never before seen or performed—the tickets had sold out within hours of being announced. Whispers of Furina’s genius had spread like wildfire through Fontaine’s elite circles, and now every seat in the house was filled. Among those fortunate enough to secure a ticket sat Count Cazan, a young nobleman whose tailored suit and polished demeanor suggested wealth beyond measure but whose restless fingers drumming against his knee betrayed an unease he couldn’t quite shake.

As the second act reached its crescendo—a moment of tension so thick it seemed to press down on the audience like a physical weight—a sudden crackle of thunder echoed through the theater. It was part of the play, of course, and nonetheless Cazan frowned, glancing around, when he felt the faint shift of movement beside him. Someone had slipped into the empty seat to his right—an odd occurrence given that no one ever arrived this late, especially not during such a pivotal moment in the performance.

Curiosity got the better of him. Turning slightly, he caught sight of a man settling in—a figure cloaked in subtle mystery. A hat cast shadows over his face, while a pair of glasses perched on his nose seemed almost out of place amidst his otherwise unassuming attire. Yet there was something familiar about him, something that tugged at Cazan’s memory until—

“Are you enjoying the play?” The man’s voice was low but carried an unmistakable authority, each word laced with calm self-assurance.

Cazan stiffened as recognition hit him like a tidal wave. Beneath that clever guise lay none other than KIng Wriothesley himself—the man many whispered about in hushed tones: ruler, tactician, enigma. The realization sent a jolt through Cazan’s chest, his pulse quickening.

“Your Majesty,” he managed to say, his voice barely above a whisper as he inclined his head respectfully.

“Please,” Wriothesley interrupted with a slight wave of his gloved hand, “don’t make a scene. We wouldn’t want to distract from the play now, would we?” His gaze remained fixed on the stage as if nothing were amiss, though there was an almost imperceptible smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “This is my favorite part.”

Cazan swallowed hard and nodded quickly, sinking back into his chair as if trying to disappear into its plush upholstery. His mind raced with questions—why here? Why now? But Wriothesley’s attention remained riveted on the stage as if he hadn’t just shattered Cazan’s composure with his sudden presence.

For several long minutes, they sat in silence save for the murmurs and gasps from other theatergoers reacting to the drama unfolding onstage. Then, as casually as if they were discussing the weather, Wriothesley leaned slightly closer and asked, “How’s your father?”

The question struck like lightning. Cazan hesitated for a fraction too long before replying, “He’s… doing better.” His tone carried an attempt at nonchalance, but there was no mistaking the faint tremor beneath it. He forced himself to meet Wriothesley’s unwavering gaze for just a moment before looking away again.

The rumors surrounding Count Cazan had been unavoidable as of late—whispers that his father’s sudden illness had conveniently paved the way for his meteoric rise as head of their family. Some even hinted at foul play. And though no accusations had been made outright, Cazan knew better than anyone how dangerous speculation could be when left unchecked.

“I’m glad to hear it,” Wriothesley replied smoothly, though there was something inscrutable in his tone that made Cazan’s skin crawl.

Before he could think too deeply about it, Cazan added almost conversationally, “And His Highness? Is he well?”

“Yes. But I need to unwind a little bit, you know. The unexpected incident was quite a hassle that I had to deal with.”

“I hope… I hope everything is well on your end too.”

Wriothesley nodded faintly but didn’t respond right away. Instead, he tilted his head slightly as though considering something far more important than pleasantries. Then came another unexpected shift in the conversation. “Madeline,” Wriothesley said suddenly.

The name hung in the air between them like an unspoken accusation—or perhaps an invocation. Cazan blinked in confusion before realizing what he meant. “My mother?” he asked cautiously.

“The ship you restored last year,” Wriothesley clarified without looking at him. “Your father named it after her—a wedding gift.”

Cazan felt his throat tighten as dread began to creep up his spine like cold fingers trailing along vertebrae. He said nothing but clenched his hands into fists where they rested on his lap.

“It must have been quite meaningful to your family,” Wriothesley continued calmly, still watching the stage with an air of detached interest. “A symbol of love and legacy… or at least it was.” His tone darkened just slightly as he added, “I imagine your father would’ve been heartbroken to know how it was used.”

Cazan froze completely now—his breath stuck somewhere between inhale and exhale—as Wriothesley turned toward him for the first time that evening. Though half-hidden by shadows and spectacles, those piercing eyes seemed to cut straight through him like shards of glass.

“You don’t need to confirm or deny anything,” Wriothesley said softly but firmly—a predator who knew exactly when and how to strike. "We’ve already traced back every factory that hired your little ‘services.’ Illegally discharging oil waste into Fontaine’s waters under everyone’s noses? Ingenious… if it weren’t so utterly reckless.”

Cazan opened his mouth as if to protest but thought better of it when he saw Wriothesley raise one eyebrow ever so slightly—a silent warning not to test him further.

“You’re probably wondering why I bothered coming here myself instead of delegating this,” Wriothesley continued after letting silence hang heavy between them for several beats too long. “And truthfully? You’re not wrong—it is beneath me.” His lips curved into something resembling amusement but colder somehow—a smile devoid entirely of warmth.

“But sometimes,” he murmured almost absentmindedly as applause erupted around them signaling intermission had begun—“it’s worth stepping down from one stage… just to remind someone who truly holds all their strings.”

Cazan realized then and there that he was, utterly and completely, screwed. His heart pounded like a war drum in his chest, the gravity of his situation crashing down on him with suffocating weight. The opera house had turned into a cacophony of sound—the rising swell of the orchestra was now drowned out by the panicked murmurs and whispers of the audience, who were blissfully unaware of his intentions mere moments ago. His mind raced. He had to move. Now.

Deciding to risk it all, he sprang from his seat in one sudden, frantic motion, the legs of the chair scraping loudly against the polished floor. Gasps erupted around him as heads turned, startled by his abrupt movement. Without hesitation, he bolted toward the stage, pushing past a stunned usher who stumbled backward into a row of seats. The handgun he’d smuggled in earlier—a calculated but desperate gamble—was already in his clammy hand. He fired a single shot into the air, the sharp crack echoing like a thunderclap against the domed ceiling of the Opera Epiclese.

The crowd froze for a heartbeat, their collective breath sucked away in stunned silence. Then chaos erupted.

Screams tore through the grand hall as realization set in—the gunshot wasn’t part of tonight’s performance. Women clutched at their pearls as men rose instinctively to shield them. Chairs toppled over, hats scattered to the floor as people scrambled for any exit they could find. The once-orderly aisles turned into rivers of disarray, flowing chaotically toward safety. A young boy cried out for his mother amidst the sea of frightened faces.

Cazan barely registered the pandemonium behind him; his focus was singular—escape. But as his foot hit the bottom step leading to the stage, something caught his eye. He glanced back toward his seat and felt a jolt of disbelief course through him. Wriothesley, calm as a statue carved from marble, remained seated amidst the bedlam surrounding him. His gaze was steady, unflinching—a predator watching its prey with unnerving confidence.

“What the hell are you doing?” Cazan hissed under his breath, though he knew Wriothesley couldn’t hear him over the noise.

Before he could process further, another movement in his peripheral vision snapped his attention forward again. From across the theater, Dame Clorinde sprang into action like a coiled spring released. Her elegant gown swirled around her legs as she leapt over a toppled chair and sprinted toward him with astonishing speed for someone in heels. Her expression was fierce, resolute—a woman who had no intention of letting him get away.

“Damn it,” Cazan muttered through gritted teeth. The walls were closing in fast, and he had no time to think.

Desperation clawed at him like a wild animal as an idea—half-formed and reckless—took shape in his mind. His eyes darted toward Furina, who stood center stage in her elaborate costume, looking every bit the tragic heroine she was portraying tonight. She hadn’t moved yet, frozen in place like a porcelain doll caught mid-performance.

Cazan lunged forward and grabbed her arm roughly, yanking her closer to him with enough force to make her stumble slightly on her heels.

“Stay still,” he growled lowly into her ear, pressing the cold barrel of the gun against her temple for emphasis. “Or I swear—”

“Mademoiselle!” Clorinde’s voice rang out sharply above the chaos as she closed in on them, but before anyone could react further, Furina moved.

In one fluid motion that seemed almost too quick for reality, she twisted her wrist free from Cazan’s grip with surprising strength. Her slender fingers closed around his wrist like an iron vice, forcing it downward until the gun clattered to the floor with a metallic thud that reverberated across the stage.

Cazan barely had time to process what was happening before Furina’s other hand came into view—the sword she carried for her role gleamed under the bright stage lights, its blade impossibly close to his throat. She held it with practiced ease, her grip steady despite the trembling chaos around them.

“Going somewhere?” she asked coolly, her voice calm and cutting like frostbite. Her lips curled into a faint smirk that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “It’s real, you know,” she added conversationally when she felt him shift slightly beneath her hold. “But if you’re feeling brave—or stupid—you’re welcome to confirm that yourself.” Her tone was mocking now, daring him to test her resolve. “Go on. My grip’s not that strong.”

Cazan froze. For a moment that stretched unbearably long, he considered it—considered throwing one last desperate punch or wrestling free from her grasp. But before he could act on any of those thoughts, Clorinde vaulted onto the stage with all the grace of an avenging angel.

“Enough,” Clorinde barked as she reached them. She wasted no time securing Cazan’s arms behind his back in one swift motion that made him wince audibly.

Furina stepped back gracefully but kept her sword angled ever so slightly toward Cazan’s chest—a silent reminder that she could finish what she started if necessary.

Meanwhile, guards flooded into the opera house like black-clad shadows, their presence bringing some semblance of order to the chaos below. They began directing frightened theatergoers toward the exits with calm efficiency while murmurs rippled through those who remained: whispers about bravery and danger intertwining like threads in an unfinished tapestry.

Once the opera house was emptied, the air within its vast chamber seemed to shift, growing quieter with each departing footstep. The applause and murmurs of the audience had long since faded into the corridors, and now only a haunting stillness lingered. Most of the actors had already retreated backstage, their hurried voices muffled somewhere in the labyrinthine halls behind the velvet curtains. Yet, on the stage itself, beneath the dimming glow of the chandeliers, one figure remained: Furina.

She stood alone at center stage, her delicate form framed by the towering set pieces that loomed like silent sentinels. The faint sound of her heels clicking against the polished wood echoed faintly as she paced in tight circles, her sword still clutched loosely in her hand. Though fake, its craftsmanship was impeccable—ornate engravings ran along its hilt, and under the dim light, it gleamed like finely tempered steel. She exhaled deeply, allowing her shoulders to slump for the first time that evening. The brave façade she had worn moments ago now melted away, leaving behind a young woman who could finally afford to let her guard down.

The silence didn’t last long. From the shadows beyond the wings came a measured stride, boots striking the floor with calm precision. Wriothesley emerged from the gloom, his imposing figure cutting a sharp contrast against the softness of Furina’s presence. His tailored coat swept behind him as he approached, his expression unreadable but his steps purposeful. He stopped a few paces from her, his eyes scanning her briefly before speaking.

“Thanks for your help, Mademoiselle,” he said in his deep baritone voice, laced with both gratitude and a touch of amusement.

Furina turned at the sound of his voice, her silver hair catching what little light remained on stage. For a moment, she said nothing, simply fixing him with a look that was equal parts exhaustion and exasperation. Then, with a dramatic sigh that seemed almost theatrical in itself—befitting of Fontaine’s greatest actress—she threw up her hands in mock frustration.

“That surprised me!” she exclaimed, her voice rising an octave as she whirled to face him fully. “Do you have any idea how nerve-wracking that was? I thought for sure he’d see through my bluff!” Her sword-hand gestured animatedly as she spoke, and though she tried to maintain an air of indignation, there was an unmistakable tremor of relief in her tone. She looked down at the prop sword she still held and gave it a half-hearted wave before letting it fall limply to her side.

Wriothesley’s lips quirked upward into a subtle smile. “Nonsense,” he replied smoothly, folding his arms across his chest. “Who’s more convincing than you? If Fontaine names anyone else as its greatest actor this generation, I’ll personally have them arrested for fraud.”

Furina rolled her eyes at his teasing but couldn’t entirely suppress the slight upward twitch of her own lips. She tilted her head back dramatically, one hand pressed against her forehead as if swooning. “Flattery will get you nowhere with me, Your Majesty.” she quipped, though her voice betrayed just a hint of satisfaction at his words.

Still holding onto that playful air, she straightened and fixed him with a more serious look. “But… is he really the one?” she asked after a pause, her tone softening as curiosity replaced her earlier bravado. “The culprit behind the Petrichor incident?”

Her question hung in the air between them like an unresolved chord. When Clorinde had first approached Furina with the plan to use today’s performance as bait for their suspect, Furina had agreed readily enough—after all, it was just another role to play. But seeing King Wriothesley here tonight made her wonder if there was more to this case than she’d originally been told.

Wriothesley nodded once, his gaze steady and unwavering. “Yes,” he confirmed simply. “Count Cazan is our man—or at least part of it.” His tone carried a weight that left little room for doubt.

Furina frowned slightly at his choice of words: part of it. She opened her mouth to press further but stopped herself. Whatever larger web of intrigue Wriothesley was navigating, it was clear he wasn’t about to share all its details here and now.

Instead, he continued matter-of-factly: “We’ve closed off all access roads leading to Opera Epiclese as of now. If you’re planning on leaving soon…” He trailed off briefly before gesturing vaguely toward one of the side exits. “…you’ll need to take another route.”

Furina nodded slowly in understanding but couldn’t resist adding a touch of sarcasm as she replied: “Ah yes, because walking through dark woods at night sounds so much safer.”

Wriothesley raised an eyebrow at her remark but didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he inclined his head slightly in farewell. “Then if you’ll excuse me,” he said formally before turning toward the direction where Clorinde had disappeared earlier with their prisoner.

For a moment, Furina watched him go without moving, biting her lower lip thoughtfully as she considered everything that had transpired tonight. Then, with a small shake of her head—as if dismissing whatever thoughts threatened to linger—she adjusted her grip on her sword and began walking toward another exit herself.

As they left the stage through opposite sides, their footsteps echoed faintly in unison before fading into silence once more.

It took Clorinde less than an hour with Cazan before she emerged from the dimly lit, impromptu interrogation room tucked away in the labyrinthine halls of Opera Epiclipse. The air inside had been stifling, heavy with the tension of unspoken truths and the sharp tang of desperation. Yet, despite her best efforts, she had learned nothing of value. Her stride was brisk, her heels clicking against the polished marble floor as she approached the hallway where Wriothesley, Chevreuse, a stoic guard, and a Marechaussée phantom were waiting. Their postures straightened as she appeared, though Wriothesley’s discerning gaze lingered on her face for only a moment before he spoke.

“How was it?” he asked, his voice even but laced with expectation. His eyes searched hers for any glimmer of success, but the slight downturn of her lips and the furrow in her brow told him everything he needed to know. Still, he waited for her response.

Clorinde exhaled sharply through her nose, a sound caught somewhere between frustration and resignation. “Pointless,” she replied bluntly. “His father isn’t leverage. He knows the man is too far gone to be useful to anyone—let alone to Your Majesty.”

Wriothesley’s expression darkened, his jaw tightening ever so slightly as he processed her words. “So even his father can’t be used as a bargaining chip,” he murmured, more to himself than to anyone else.

Chevreuse, who had been leaning casually against the wall, straightened and folded her arms across his chest. “It stands to reason,” she mused, her tone thoughtful yet edged with cynicism. “If the man’s practically a corpse, you can’t exactly drag him into court and expect him to testify against his son. And even if we could… well, it’s not exactly a strong move politically.”

Wriothesley sighed deeply, pinching the bridge of his nose as if trying to ward off an impending headache. His voice was quieter this time, tinged with frustration. “His clients won’t talk either,” he admitted. “They’d rather I seize every last coin they have than betray any information about their benefactor.”

Clorinde tilted her head slightly, her sharp eyes narrowing as if she were piecing together a puzzle in her mind. “That tells us something in itself,” she said slowly. “Their silence… it’s not loyalty. It’s fear. Whoever is backing them has them terrified enough that losing everything feels like the safer option.”

“That fear,” Wriothesley added grimly, “might just confirm what we’ve suspected all along—that Northland Bank has had its claws in this operation for quite some time now.”

Chevreuse let out a low whistle, shaking her head in disbelief. “The question is why,” she said after a moment. “If they wanted influence here, they could’ve just bought their way straight into the last court. Why go through all this trouble when Fontaine was already ripe for manipulation back then?”

The hallway fell silent as the weight of that question hung in the air. Slowly, all eyes turned toward Wriothesley. His expression was unreadable at first, his piercing gaze fixed somewhere in the middle distance as he considered their words. He didn’t need to be reminded of how vulnerable Fontaine had been before his reign began less than a year ago. Corruption and greed had seeped into every corner of the kingdom like rot, leaving it brittle and exposed to outside forces.

“It’s not hard to imagine why,” he said finally, his voice low but steady. “Before I froze the treasury, money flowed freely among the nobles—dirty money that funded their excesses and their schemes alike. The rebels… they’re desperate for resources now that their fraudulent dealings have been cut off under my rule. If they’ve turned to Northland Bank for aid, it’s because they see no other option. Though, I wouldn’t be surprised if they’ve been aiding Fontainian nobles even long before that.”

Clorinde crossed her arms over her chest, her gaze sharp and unwavering. “Northland Bank—and by proxy, the Harbingers— see opportunity,” she concluded. “They’re not just funding these people out of generosity—they’re investing in chaos. Just like they did with other nations.”

Wriothesley nodded grimly. “Cazan might only be a pawn in all this,” he admitted, “just like Dougier was before him. They’re small players in a much larger game.”

Chevreuse let out a low, thoughtful hum, her lips curling into a faint, almost wry smile. “So,” she murmured. “What’s our next move?”

For a moment, Wriothesley didn’t answer. His gaze drifted past Chevreuse and toward the frosted window behind her, where streaks of rain slid down in jagged patterns, distorting the view of the dimly lit street outside. The faint glow of the gas lamps flickered like distant fireflies. When he finally spoke, his voice was steady and clear, cutting through the quiet tension like a blade through silk. “Nothing.”

Chevreuse blinked at him, her brows furrowing deeply as disbelief flashed across her face. For a heartbeat, she simply stared at him, certain she must have misheard. Then her lips parted, and incredulity spilled out before she could stop it. “Nothing?” The word came out sharper than she intended, almost accusatory. “That’s your plan? Nothing? What about—oh, I don’t know—finding out who tried to kill you again?”

Wriothesley’s lips twitched into the ghost of a smirk, though it lacked any real humor. He reached up and absently adjusted the dark leather glove on his left hand, flexing his fingers as though testing its fit. “Eh,” he said with a nonchalant shrug that only fueled Chevreuse’s frustration. “That could’ve been anyone—a henchman looking to score points with their boss or some two-bit mercenary with lousy aim.” He waved a gloved hand dismissively, as though swatting away an irrelevant detail. “We’re not here to get sidetracked by my assassination attempts—those are practically routine at this point. We’re here to narrow down suspects in the oil spill case.”

Chevreuse’s mouth fell open slightly before snapping shut again, her expression shifting from disbelief to something closer to exasperation, while Clorinde just sighed as if she’s so used to Wriothesley’s nonchalance when it came to his own wellbeing. She straightened up but crossed her arms tightly over her chest, a defensive gesture that belied just how much his cavalier attitude grated on her nerves. “Routine? Really?” she said dryly, arching one finely shaped brow at him. “Most people don’t consider brushing with death a routine, Your Majesty.”

He chuckled softly at that—a low, gravelly sound that hinted at genuine amusement despite the grim subject matter. “Well,” he replied with an easy shrug that only seemed to infuriate her further, “I’m not most people.”

Chevreuse rolled her eyes heavenward as if seeking divine patience before pinning him with another pointed stare. “Fine,” she said sharply. “But not even a conversation with Lord Arlecchino? We’ve been talking about the Harbingers and Northland Bank, and no one has brought up her name yet?”

He turned toward them both then, his expression calm but resolute. “I’m not going to confront Lord Arlecchino unless I absolutely have to,” he explained firmly. “The last thing I want is for her to think I consider myself their enemy outright.”

“But…” Clorinde started to interject before catching herself.

“But,” Wriothesley continued with a faint smirk tugging at one corner of his mouth, “that doesn’t mean we can’t cause a little… disruption.”

Chevreuse arched an eyebrow suspiciously. “What kind of disruption are we talking about here?”

Wriothesley’s smirk widened into something resembling a grin as he looked directly at Chevreuse. “I need you to spread some rumors over at Fleuve Cendre,” he said casually.

“Rumors?” Chevreuse repeated slowly.

“Think of it as crafting a good plot—like one of those books you’re always reading.” Wriothesley’s tone was light now but carried an undercurrent of strategic intent.

Chevreuse groaned dramatically but couldn’t quite hide the faint curl of amusement on her lips. “You want me to lie?”

“Call it creative storytelling,” Wriothesley corrected with a shrug. “Clorinde can help if you don’t know what to say.”

“What kind of story are we telling?” Clorinde asked curiously.

Wriothesley’s expression hardened slightly as he answered: “Make them believe today’s incident wasn’t about me confronting Cazan—it was about someone from Northland Bank demanding more than these rebels could pay back.”

Chevreuse whistled again but nodded slowly. “That’ll rattle them all right,” she admitted.

“At the very least,” Wriothesley said quietly, his voice filled with quiet determination, “it’ll make them think twice before making their next move.”

For the first time since his accident, Neuvillette was finally allowed to read a newspaper. The crisp rustling of the pages felt oddly unfamiliar beneath his fingertips, as though even the texture of the newsprint had changed in his absence. Everyone had been trying to distract him from the news during his recovery. He hadn’t missed their efforts—the sudden influx of books, Charon ‘accidentally’ slipped through the slightly open door into the chambers, each gesture had been transparent, though well-meaning. Neuvillette had not pressed them for answers; he understood exactly why they were shielding him. The truth was likely grim, a narrative he wasn’t yet ready to confront.

But today marked a shift. There wasn’t a single piece dissecting his accident or casting aspersions on its cause. The headlines still touched on his recovery—polite updates that spoke of his resilience rather than probing into private matters—but there was nothing inflammatory or accusatory, especially towards his marriage. Instead, it seemed something far more sensational had captured the public’s imagination. His gaze settled on the bold headline sprawled across the front page:

COUNT CAZAL DISRUPTS OPERA EPICLESE PERFORMANCE – ALLEGED ATTACK ON MADEMOISELLE FURINA FOILED BY DAME CLORINDE.

His brow furrowed as he read on, each detail painting a scene more bizarre than the last. Count Cazal, a man whose name stirred faint recollections in Neuvillette’s memory, had apparently stormed the stage during one of Mademoiselle Furina’s performances a couple of days before. According to witnesses, he had appeared frantic—his movements erratic and wild—as he charged toward the soprano mid-aria armed. The audience had erupted into chaos, gasps and shouts filling the grand hall like an unscored cacophony.

“Count Cazal,” Neuvillette said aloud, tasting the name as though it held some elusive secret. He glanced up at Sedene, who lingered nearby. “Do you recall much about him?”

Sedene tilted her head thoughtfully, her eyes narrowing in concentration. “He’s not someone I’ve encountered often,” she admitted after a moment. “But I do remember hearing that he was once quite close to your late cousin.”

“Yes...” Neuvillette’s voice trailed off as memories surfaced like fragments of a forgotten melody. He could picture Count Cazal now—a younger man then, with sharp features and an almost too-bright smile that bordered on unsettling. His cousin had spoken of him often, describing him as brilliant but temperamental, prone to bouts of melancholy that could shift into fits of exuberance without warning.

“Do you think it was madness?” Sedene asked carefully, her tone devoid of judgment but heavy with implication.

Neuvillette didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he returned his focus to the article, absorbing every word about Clorinde’s intervention. She had subdued Cazal swiftly with the help of Furina—and without injury—but even she had reportedly looked unsettled by the Count’s incoherent ramblings afterward.

“It does seem manic,” Neuvillette finally said, his voice tinged with both sadness and unease.

Neuvillette’s quiet contemplation was interrupted by a soft, deliberate knock on the door of his chamber. The sound carried a rhythm that felt intentional, its gentle echo piercing through the tranquil silence of the room. He blinked once, slowly, eyes shifting from the light on his bedside table to the door across the room. His expression shifted into one of mild surprise—a delicate furrow forming between his pale brows.

From beyond the door came a familiar voice, low and steady. “Neuvillette, it’s me,” it said simply. Wriothesley. There was a brief pause, just long enough for the words to settle in the air before he added, “May I come in?”

Neuvillette’s hand paused mid-movement, his fingers lingering over the edge of the newspaper resting on his lap. The faintest flicker of confusion crossed his features. Of all people, Wriothesley’s presence was unexpected. The man had no shortage of responsibilities, particularly in the wake of recent events—the chaos that had unfolded after Neuvillette’s… incident. It had left ripples throughout Palais Mermonia, ripples that Wriothesley had been tirelessly smoothing over with his usual composure and diligence. For him to appear here now felt almost incongruous, as though an essential piece of this intricate puzzle had been misplaced.

Neuvillette tilted his head slightly, his hair catching the light as he considered the possibility that he’d misheard. After all, Wriothesley hadn’t stepped foot into these chambers since their return to the palais. He hesitated too long, allowing silence to stretch uncomfortably between them until a soft cough broke through his reverie. Sedene stood nearby, her eyes flicking between Neuvillette and the door with quiet expectancy.

With a quiet inhale, Neuvillette straightened his posture and gave Sedene a small nod—a silent instruction that needed no further elaboration. She moved with practiced grace, the train of her dark uniform whispering against the polished floor as she approached the door. Her hand wrapped around the ornate brass handle, and she pulled it open just enough for the visitor to step inside.

The figure that emerged seemed both commanding and unassuming at once—a paradox wrapped in dark fabrics and quiet confidence. Wriothesley entered with measured ease. His dark hair was slightly tousled by the evening breeze, strands falling just out of place in a way that made him seem more approachable than usual—couldn’t fully mask the weariness etched into the fine lines around his eyes.

“Good evening,” Wriothesley greeted, his voice warm but restrained, accompanied by a faint smile that didn’t quite reach those tired eyes. His gaze swept briefly over Sedene and the other attendants visible beyond the threshold—Kiara and Chauve among them—before he addressed them with polite authority. “If you’ll excuse us.”

There was no sharpness in his tone, but it carried an undeniable weight nonetheless—a command cloaked in courtesy. Sedene hesitated for only a fraction of a second before she inclined her head in acknowledgment, gesturing for her colleagues to withdraw with a subtle movement of her hand. The shuffle of footsteps faded down the corridor as Wriothesley stepped further inside and gently closed the door behind him.

Neuvillette observed him closely from where he sat on the edge of his bed, his gaze searching for answers in Wriothesley’s expression before either of them spoke again. Though his own face remained composed—serene as a still pond—there was a flicker of something deeper beneath those eyes.

“Your Majesty,” Neuvillette began softly, inclining his head slightly out of habit rather than necessity. His voice carried its usual calm timbre but held an undercurrent of curiosity as well as caution. “Do you require anything?” The question was carefully chosen, its formality acting as both a shield and an invitation for explanation.

Wriothesley’s lips quirked upward ever so slightly—not quite a smile but enough to soften some unspoken tension between them. He raised one hand quickly yet gently to halt Neuvillette mid-motion as he instinctively began to rise from the bed.

“There’s no need for that,” Wriothesley said firmly but kindly, shaking his head just enough to emphasize his words without seeming dismissive. He strode further into the room with purpose, glancing briefly around before settling on a chair near Neuvillette’s bedside. With deliberate care, he dragged it closer—the legs scraping lightly against the floor—and seated himself comfortably within arm’s length of where Neuvillette sat.

“Your doctor,” Wriothesley began after a moment’s pause, folding his hands loosely together as he rested them on one knee, “mentioned earlier today that I should visit you this evening.”

Neuvillette blinked once, slow and deliberate as though processing not just Wriothesley’s words but their implications as well. His lips parted slightly before closing again without sound.

“Did… did you have a separate appointment with him?” Wriothesley pressed gently when no response came immediately.

“Yes.” The admission came quietly after another pause; Neuvillette’s voice softened further still as though reluctant to share more than absolutely necessary.

Wriothesley leaned back slightly in his chair but kept his gaze steady on Neuvillette’s face—watching intently for any sign that might reveal what lay beneath those guarded features.

“It seems,” he continued after another beat of silence passed between them like unspoken understanding taking root in fertile ground, “that he believed it would be best for me to hear what was discussed.” His tone shifted then—less formal now but still careful—as if treading lightly over fragile ice. “Do you mind if I stay?”

For a moment longer than either man intended or expected, silence lingered heavy between them again—not awkward but weighted nonetheless with emotions neither seemed quite ready nor willing to name aloud yet.

Neuvillette’s fingers twitched faintly against the edge of the blanket draped across his lap—betraying some nervous energy and internal conflict brewing beneath layers upon layers of control leading quietly from within rather than boldly from without like others might choose instead. Finally meeting Wriothesley’s gaze fully once more—a gesture both vulnerable yet resolute somehow simultaneously—he shook his head just barely enough movement necessary to signal agreement nonverbally.

“Thank you,” Wriothesley said, his voice low, gruff, and strangely vulnerable. His gaze flickered briefly toward Neuvillette, as if testing the waters of his reaction, but the man didn’t respond. Instead, Neuvillette remained still, his eyes fixed on some indeterminate point on the far wall, lost in thought or perhaps deliberately avoiding Wriothesley’s gaze.

The silence that followed was thick and oppressive, filling the room like an unwelcome guest. Neither man spoke, their breaths the only sound breaking through the tension. Wriothesley shifted in his seat, leaning forward slightly, his elbows resting on his knees as he laced his fingers together. The weight of unspoken words pressed heavily on his chest, but every time he opened his mouth to speak, the words seemed to dissolve before forming.

Neuvillette’s posture was rigid, almost statuesque. His hands rested neatly on his lap, fingers intertwined with a composure that betrayed nothing of what he might be feeling. Yet there was a tightness to his jaw, a slight furrow between his brows that hinted at an inner turmoil he refused to let show.

Finally, Wriothesley broke the silence. His voice cut through the quiet like a blade, calm and measured but charged with an undercurrent of something deeper—something darker. “Someone tried to kill me the day you got into an accident.”

The words landed like a thunderclap in the otherwise still room. Neuvillette’s head turned sharply toward him, his pale violet eyes narrowing with a mix of alarm and disbelief. For a moment, it seemed as though he might speak, but no words came. Instead, his gaze searched Wriothesley’s face intently, as if trying to decipher whether this was some cruel jest or a grim truth.

Wriothesley didn’t flinch under the scrutiny. He leaned back in his chair now, one arm draped casually over the backrest as though he hadn’t just dropped a bombshell into their conversation. But his calm demeanor was betrayed by the way his other hand clenched into a fist against his thigh.

“What?” Neuvillette finally said, his voice barely above a whisper but laced with concern. “What do you mean someone tried to kill you? Again” The formal restraint in his tone cracked just enough to reveal a flicker of genuine worry beneath it.

Wriothesley gave a mirthless chuckle, shaking his head as if the absurdity of it all amused him in some twisted way. “It failed anway.” he replied, meeting Neuvillette’s gaze head-on.

Neuvillette’s expression darkened almost imperceptibly—a subtle shift that only someone who knew him well might notice. “And you’re just telling me this now?” he asked, his tone sharper than intended.

“Well,” Wriothesley shrugged with feigned nonchalance, “it didn’t seem like the right time before. You were lying unconscious in a bed, after all.”

Neuvillette’s lips pressed into a thin line as he absorbed this information. His hands tightened slightly on his lap, and for a moment, his usual composed façade seemed dangerously close to cracking. “You could have died,” he said quietly, more to himself than to Wriothesley.

“I didn’t,” Wriothesley replied simply, as though that fact alone absolved him of any need for further explanation or concern. His expression remained composed, but suddenly there was a flicker of something—perhaps regret or hesitation—in his steely eyes. “I think Enna was spooked by the gunshot,” he continued, his voice steady yet deliberately low, as if speaking louder might disturb some fragile balance in the room. He paused for a moment, his gaze drifting to Neuvillette’s face, studying every subtle shift in his expression. “It makes sense when you consider how well-trained she is otherwise. That horse wouldn’t have bucked for anything less than fear.”

The words hit Neuvillette like a cold wind slicing through his chest. His lips parted slightly, but no sound emerged at first. His mind reeled backward, retracing the fragmented memories of that day—the way Enna had reared up so suddenly, her movements wild and chaotic where they were usually poised and graceful. He remembered the jarring sensation of being thrown before he could even comprehend what was happening. The pain had been sharp and immediate, but it was the confusion that lingered in his mind like a shadow. Now, Wriothesley’s revelation added a sinister new layer to it all.

“A gunshot?” Neuvillette finally murmured, his voice softer now, almost hollow as he tried to process the implications. His hands tightened imperceptibly on the blanket, betraying the tension coiling within him. “That… is awful,” he added after a pause, though even as he spoke, he seemed to be searching for something more to say—something that could make sense of the chaos now unraveling before him.

Wriothesley leaned back slightly in his chair, crossing one leg over the other with a practiced ease that belied the heaviness of their conversation. His posture was deceptively relaxed, but there was a sharpness in his gaze that suggested he was already several steps ahead in piecing together the puzzle. “I have a theory,” he began slowly, deliberately. His voice carried a measured calmness that only made his words feel heavier. “About why they’re so eager to kill me—and how they were able to get so close.” He let the statement linger for a moment before adding with a trace of bitterness, “I suspect it wasn’t a coincidence. Someone from outside Fontaine may have been trying to take advantage of the situation.”

Neuvillette’s throat tightened as he swallowed hard against the unease rising within him. He didn’t want to ask the next question; it felt sharp-edged and treacherous, like stepping onto thin ice over dark waters. But he couldn’t stop himself from voicing it anyway. “Take advantage of… what exactly?” His voice faltered slightly before he added hesitantly, almost as if testing the weight of the word on his tongue, “The… coup?”

The word fell between them like a heavy curtain being drawn across the room, casting everything in a darker light. Wriothesley’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly at the mention of it. His outward composure remained intact—his shoulders squared and his expression unreadable—but there was no mistaking the tension that rippled just beneath the surface. After a pause that seemed to stretch impossibly long, he finally responded, his voice quieter now but no less resolute. “It appears so.” The admission carried more than just information; it carried guilt.

Neuvillette studied him carefully, his pale eyes narrowing slightly as if trying to peer past Wriothesley’s stoic exterior into whatever storm brewed beneath it. For all of Wriothesley’s outward strength and calm demeanor, there was something else there—something softer and sadder lurking in the corners of his soul.

“Will we be…” Neuvillette hesitated again, his voice faltering as he struggled to give shape to the fear gnawing at him from within. “…at war?”

“No,” Wriothesley said firmly without hesitation, cutting through the rising tension like a blade. There was no room for doubt in his tone—it was an answer given not out of hope but certainty.

Neuvillette blinked at him, caught off guard by both the abruptness and confidence of Wriothesley’s response. Before he could question further, Wriothesley shifted gears entirely. “Are you familiar with the Goblet of Solomon?” Wriothesley asked suddenly, his tone taking on an almost conversational ease that felt jarring against the backdrop of their grim discussion.

Neuvillette blinked again at the unexpected shift but nodded slowly. “It’s… it’s a goblet that each nation possesses,” he replied cautiously, speaking as though reciting from memory while simultaneously searching Wriothesley’s face for some hint as to where this line of thought might be leading. “A physical representation of the binding rule that forbids any of the seven nations from waging war against one another.”

“Exactly,” Wriothesley said with a faint nod of approval that carried just enough weight to feel genuine without being condescending. He leaned forward slightly then, resting an elbow on one knee as he spoke with renewed focus. “Each nation entrusts its ordained minister with its protection. For Fontaine, it’s currently under Pastoress Focalors’ watch.”

His tone shifted subtly then—lighter and tinged with irony—as he added with a small smirk tugging at one corner of his mouth, “As long as we have it, no other nation can declare war on us. Funny when you think about it—how much faith people place in something so symbolic.”

Neuvillette tilted his head slightly at that last remark, considering it carefully even as unease continued to churn within him like storm-tossed waves against an unyielding shore.

“But…” Neuvillette began hesitantly, the weight of his thoughts pressing against his tongue as if they might choke him. His mind raced ahead, unbidden, to the darker possibilities that lurked at the edges of his imagination. He could feel the words trembling on the precipice of his lips, reluctant to take shape but impossible to ignore. “…that doesn’t mean it stops all threats entirely.” His voice wavered just slightly. “If they can’t go to war with us directly—”

“Then they’ll find another way,” Wriothesley interjected smoothly, finishing the sentence as though he had plucked the thought directly from Neuvillette’s mind. There was no hesitation in his tone, no uncertainty—only a quiet, deliberate calm that carried an undercurrent of something sharper, something colder. It was the kind of calm that could slice through steel. His gaze didn’t falter as he spoke, the weight of his words settling between them like a leaden fog. “They’ll let us destroy ourselves instead.”

The room seemed to grow colder with those words, as if the very air had recoiled at their grim truth. Neuvillette felt a shiver trace its way down his spine, a chill that lingered far too long and settled heavily in his chest. The idea of civil war clawed at his thoughts—a nation tearing itself apart from within, its people turning on one another until only ashes remained. The image was unbearable, vivid in its cruelty. His pulse quickened, and he clenched his hands into fists at his sides as though anchoring himself against the tide of fear rising within him.

“That’s…” he began, but the words faltered on their way out, stumbling over the enormity of what had just been said. His throat tightened painfully, and he swallowed hard against it.

“But I won’t let that happen,” Wriothesley cut in firmly, his voice slicing cleanly through Neuvillette’s growing panic like a blade dispelling shadows. There was nothing soft about his tone now—it was resolute, unyielding. He leaned forward slightly, his piercing gaze locking onto Neuvillette’s with startling intensity. It was as though he were reaching into the depths of Neuvillette’s soul and anchoring him there, pulling him back from the brink.

“I’ll make sure your people never have to face that kind of chaos—not while I’m here,” Wriothesley continued, each word carrying the weight of an oath sworn in blood.

Neuvillette blinked, momentarily stunned by the ferocity of Wriothesley’s conviction. There it was again—that quiet determination that seemed to radiate from him like heat from a forge. Even after everything—the coup that had shaken Fontaine to its very core, the bloodshed that had stained their history forever—Wriothesley had not faltered in his resolve to protect the nation he now ruled. He had taken the crown not out of greed or ambition but for reasons that still eluded full understanding.

“You…” Neuvillette’s voice softened almost to a whisper as he searched Wriothesley’s face for answers to questions he hadn’t yet found the courage to ask. “You just want to help people… don’t you? That’s why you took the crown.”

For a moment, Wriothesley didn’t respond. His features remained impassive, a mask of composure honed over years of navigating treacherous waters. But something flickered in his eyes—something fleeting and almost imperceptible, like a shadow passing over glass before vanishing entirely.

Neuvillette watched him closely, his thoughts spiraling into questions that begged for answers. Why? Why had Wriothesley felt compelled to seize power so violently? Why had he believed it was necessary? And more disturbingly: Was there something—or someone—that had prevented him from helping others before?

The question slipped out before Neuvillette could stop it, carrying on a wave of curiosity and doubt too strong to suppress: “Does that mean they weren’t helped by my father?”

The air between them shifted instantly—subtly but unmistakably. Wriothesley stiffened ever so slightly at the mention of Neuvillette’s father, a reaction so faint that it might have gone unnoticed by anyone else. But Neuvillette saw it. He saw how Wriothesley’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly and how his fingers curled against the armrest of his chair in a gesture so restrained it seemed almost practiced.

Before Wriothesley could speak—or perhaps choose not to—there came an abrupt knock at the door.

“The doctor is here,” Sedene announced from the other side, her voice muffled but clear enough to break through the charged atmosphere.

The interruption shattered whatever fragile understanding had been building between them like glass striking stone. Both men turned toward the door almost simultaneously, their expressions shifting back into carefully composed masks as though putting armor back on before battle.

“Let him in,” Wriothesley called out after a brief pause, his voice steady once more.

The door was slowly swung open, and Doctor Moreau stepped over the threshold, his boots making barely a sound against the polished marble floor. His expression was a mask of calm precision, every feature carefully arranged, but to the discerning eye, it was perhaps too studied—like an actor stepping onto a stage. He inclined his head deeply in a bow, his coat sweeping behind him with the motion. Each movement was deliberate, his respect palpable but measured.

“Good evening, Your Majesty. Your Highness,” he said, his voice low yet clear, each syllable carefully enunciated. There was a weight behind his words—not overtly ominous, but enough to make Wriothesley’s spine stiffen slightly, as though anticipating an invisible blow.

Wriothesley returned the greeting with a curt nod, his sharp blue eyes narrowing ever so slightly as he gestured for Moreau to step further inside. “Doctor,” he acknowledged tersely, his tone neutral but edged with quiet authority. His gaze remained fixed on the man, scrutinizing every detail: the faint sheen of sweat along Moreau’s brow despite the coolness of the chamber; the subtle tremor in his fingers as they clutched a worn leather folio. It wasn’t fear exactly—no, this was something else. Tension. Hesitation. A reluctance to speak but an even stronger compulsion to fulfill a duty. Wriothesley knew that look all too well—it was the face of someone about to deliver unwelcome news.

As Moreau stepped further into the room, he cleared his throat softly, a nervous habit betrayed by the slight rasp in the sound. He adjusted his grip on the folio, fingers lingering on its brass clasp before finally speaking again. “I… thank you both for agreeing to meet with me on such short notice,” he began, his voice steady but lacking its usual confident cadence. His eyes darted briefly toward Neuvillette—just long enough for Wriothesley to notice—before quickly shifting back to address him directly.

Wriothesley followed Moreau’s fleeting glance and turned his head slightly toward Neuvillette, who sat perched on the edge of the bed. The prince looked smaller than usual, as though he were trying to shrink into himself. His pale hands rested tightly in his lap, fingers intertwined so forcefully that his knuckles had turned white. His shoulders were hunched slightly forward, and his white hair fell in soft strands around his downturned face. He didn’t meet Wriothesley’s gaze; instead, his violet eyes remained fixed firmly on the floor beneath them as if it might offer some kind of escape or solace.

The light caught on Neuvillette’s profile, illuminating a faint flush that crept up from his neck to stain his cheeks with color—not the rosy hue of embarrassment but something far heavier and more complicated. Shame perhaps… or guilt. 

Moreau shifted uncomfortably under Wriothesley’s unwavering scrutiny before continuing carefully, as though treading on thin ice. “Earlier this week,” he said slowly, “His Highness requested… certain tests be conducted in our laboratory.” He paused briefly, as though weighing whether to elaborate further before choosing his next words with painstaking care. “A fertility test.”

The words landed heavily in the room, slicing through its stillness like a blade. For a moment, there was silence—a silence so profound it felt almost oppressive.

Wriothesley’s expression barely changed save for a slight widening of his eyes—a subtle reaction but one that betrayed just how caught off guard he was by this revelation. His gaze flicked back to Neuvillette instinctively, searching for answers in the prince’s downcast face. But Neuvillette didn’t move; he remained frozen in place like a statue carved from marble, save for the faint rise and fall of his chest as he breathed shallowly.

Wriothesley exhaled quietly and turned back toward Moreau instead. “And you’ve called us here tonight because you have those results,” Wriothesley stated rather than asked, his tone steadier now but edged with a quiet intensity that left no room for evasion.

Moreau hesitated—a mere fraction of a second—but it was enough for Wriothesley to notice and for tension to coil tighter in his chest like a wound spring. Finally, Moreau nodded and opened his folio with careful precision. The faint rustle of parchment filled the air as he retrieved a single sheet of paper and glanced down at it briefly before speaking again.

“The results…” Moreau began again before faltering slightly under Wriothesley’s piercing stare. He swallowed hard and forced himself to continue despite the growing weight in his chest. “The results indicate that Prince Neuvillette… is infertile.”

The words hung in the air like lead weights, heavy and immovable.

Wriothesley blinked once—twice—as if trying to process what he’d just heard. His sharp features remained impassive at first, but beneath the surface, emotions churned violently: confusion giving way to disbelief; disbelief bleeding into anger—not at Neuvillette but at fate itself for dealing such an unjust hand.

From the bed came a barely audible sound—a sharp intake of breath—as Neuvillette flinched visibly at Moreau’s pronouncement. Slowly—hesitantly—he raised his head just enough for Wriothesley to catch sight of those violet eyes shimmering with unshed tears.

“I…” Neuvillette began weakly before trailing off again as though unable—or unwilling—to find words that could bridge this chasm between them.

Wriothesley exhaled sharply, for a moment, he simply stared at the doctor as though trying to process what he’d just heard. His mind raced—infertile? That couldn’t be right. His initial shock quickly gave way to a storm of questions and emotions: confusion, concern for Neuvillette, and an underlying frustration that this had been kept from him until now.

Moreau shifted slightly under Wriothesley’s intense gaze but held firm as he began to explain further. “The lab results show significant abnormalities,” he said clinically, though there was an undertone of sympathy in his voice. “It appears to be due to congenital factors—something hereditary or perhaps developmental during early life. Unfortunately…” He paused briefly, as if searching for gentler phrasing before continuing. “…it’s not something that can be reversed or treated.”

Wriothesley’s jaw tightened at those words, but he forced himself to remain composed. He turned once more to Neuvillette, who had yet to speak or even lift his gaze again from where it remained fixed on the floor. The prince’s hands were clasped tightly in front of him now, his knuckles white with tension. His usually serene features were clouded with emotion—a mixture of guilt and inadequacy that cut through Wriothesley’s initial frustration like a knife.

“Neuvillette…” Wriothesley’s voice softened as he reached out instinctively, placing a hand gently on the prince’s shoulder. But Neuvillette flinched almost imperceptibly at the touch, shaking his head without looking up.

“I’m sorry,” Neuvillette murmured finally, his voice barely above a whisper but thick with emotion. “I should have told you sooner… I just…” He trailed off, swallowing hard as if struggling to find the right words—or perhaps struggling not to break altogether.

Wriothesley felt an ache bloom in his chest at seeing Neuvillette like this—so vulnerable and weighed down by something beyond either of their control. He wanted to say something reassuring, something that would ease the burden clearly crushing him—but what could he say? Words felt wholly inadequate in moments like these.

Instead, Wriothesley turned back to the doctor once more, clinging to practicality as a way of grounding himself amidst the emotional turmoil swirling around them both. “Is there truly nothing that can be done?” he asked firmly, though there was a faint edge of desperation buried beneath his otherwise measured tone.

The doctor shook his head regretfully. “No treatments exist for this particular condition,” he admitted solemnly. “I’m deeply sorry.”

Another heavy silence followed those words as Wriothesley absorbed their finality. He glanced at Neuvillette again—who now seemed impossibly far away despite sitting mere inches from him—and felt an overwhelming urge to close that distance somehow.

“Thank you, Doctor Moreau,” Wriothesley said, his tone clipped yet courteous. He inclined his head slightly, a subtle nod of dismissal. “You may leave.”

The doctor hesitated for the briefest of moments, his hands fidgeting with the worn leather strap of his medical bag. His sharp eyes seemed to flicker between the two men, lingering a fraction too long on Neuvillette as if silently assessing his state one last time. “Excuse me, Your Majesty. Your Highness,” he murmured, bowing low with a practiced deference before stepping back. The soft creak of his polished boots against the floor echoed faintly in the heavy silence as he retreated. The door clicked shut behind him, leaving the room oppressively quiet.

Wriothesley exhaled slowly through his nose, and his gaze shifted deliberately from the closed door to the figure seated on the edge of the bed. His eyes softened as they fell upon Neuvillette, while the other man sat stiffly, his back unnaturally straight as though held upright by sheer willpower alone. The delicate fingers curled into the folds of his robes, clutching at the fabric with a desperation that belied his otherwise composed posture. His knuckles stood out starkly against his alabaster skin, their whiteness a sharp contrast to the deep indigo hue of his attire. It was as though he needed to anchor himself—physically tethering his emotions before they spiraled out of control.

Wriothesley leaned forward slightly in his chair, the leather beneath him creaking softly under his weight. The movement was deliberate, slow enough not to startle but purposeful enough to close some of the distance between them. He rested his forearms on his knees, broad hands clasped loosely together as he studied Neuvillette’s face with quiet intensity.

“Neuvillette,” he said softly, breaking the stillness that hung in the air like an unspoken question. His voice carried a rough edge, gravelly yet tempered with concern—a stark contrast to the authoritative tones he so often wielded in court. “Are you okay?”

The words hung between them for a moment, suspended in the fragile quiet of the room.

Neuvillette’s lips parted as though to respond immediately, but no sound emerged at first. Instead, he drew in a slow, measured breath through his nose, his chest rising and falling almost imperceptibly beneath the layers of silk and brocade. His gaze remained fixed downward, refusing to meet Wriothesley’s piercing blue eyes. The weight of whatever he carried seemed too great for him to lift just yet.

“I apologize,” he whispered finally, each syllable trembling on the edge of breaking like glass under strain.

Wriothesley’s brow furrowed deeper at those words. “Apologize?” he echoed gently but firmly, leaning closer still. There was no anger in his tone—only confusion laced with quiet urgency as though trying to unravel a knot that had suddenly appeared between them. “For what?”

Neuvillette’s shoulders tensed visibly at the question, and for a moment, it seemed as though he might retreat further into himself. But then he lifted one hand from where it gripped his robes and pressed it lightly against his temple, fingertips brushing over his hair as if willing away an invisible ache.

“For being…” He paused again, searching for the right word but finding none that could adequately encompass what churned within him. Instead, he let out a small sigh—fragile and resigned—and shook his head minutely. “For being… this” His voice cracked faintly on the last word, betraying just how deeply it pained him to admit even that much. Defected. That was the word he wanted to say.

“This?” The words hung in the air, and Wriothesley’s brows creased in confusion. “Why are you apologizing for it?” he asked gently, though there was a firmness to his tone that urged Neuvillette to continue.

Neuvillette’s eyes flicked upward, the movement almost imperceptible, his lashes trembling as they rose just enough for his gaze to lock with Wriothesley’s. For one fleeting moment, their eyes met, and in that instant, a torrent of unspoken emotions passed between them—fear, shame, and a vulnerability so raw it seemed to strip Neuvillette bare. But just as quickly as it happened, his gaze darted away again, retreating to the safety of the polished marble floor beneath them. The silence stretched taut between them like a drawn bowstring, vibrating with unsaid words.

His lips parted slightly, ready to form the beginnings of an explanation. But no sound came. They closed again, pressed into a thin line as though he were physically holding back whatever storm brewed inside him. His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, his hesitation palpable. When he finally spoke, the words tumbled out in a rush, uneven and halting as if they had clawed their way out of him against his better judgment. “I won’t be able to give you an heir.”

The confession hung in the air like a heavy mist, thick and suffocating. Neuvillette’s voice had been steady enough at first, but by the time the last syllable left his mouth, it wavered—a tremor betraying the effort it had taken to say those words aloud. His shoulders dipped ever so slightly under the weight of what he had just admitted. Though he tried to maintain some semblance of control, Wriothesley could see through the cracks in his armor: the slight quiver in his hands that rested tensely on his lap, the faint hitch in his breath as though he were bracing for impact.

Across from him, Wriothesley froze. The usually unshakable man blinked once, then again, disbelief flashing across his face like a sudden lightning strike. He leaned back in his chair as though physically recoiling from Neuvillette’s words, only to straighten immediately after as if trying to regain control of himself. His brows furrowed deeply, creating sharp lines of confusion and concern on his otherwise strong features.

“What—” His voice faltered for a moment before he caught himself. He blinked again, shaking his head slightly as though to clear it before leaning forward once more. “Do you… Do you honestly think that’s your job? That your worth is tied to this?”

His tone was incredulous yet gentle, each word carefully measured to reflect both his frustration at the notion and his desire to understand where such an idea had come from. His gaze bore into Neuvillette with an intensity that demanded answers—not out of anger but out of genuine care.

Neuvillette didn’t dare lift his head; instead, he stared down at the intricate patterns on the floor beneath their feet as though they might offer him some escape from this moment. When he spoke again, his voice was softer now, barely above a whisper yet laden with resignation. “You’re the king,” he murmured, each word slow and deliberate as if speaking them aloud solidified their truth. “You need an heir, Your Majesty.”

The formality of the title stung Wriothesley more than it should have—it was a barrier being erected between them when none had existed before.

Neuvillette continued hesitantly after a brief pause that felt like an eternity. “And my biology…” He exhaled shakily, visibly struggling to keep his composure. “It prevents me from carrying your child.”

The admission came with visible pain; Neuvillette’s jaw tightened as though speaking those words had cost him something vital. Yet he forced himself onward despite the anguish etched into every line of his face.

“But I should’ve been able to give you a child of royal blood if I sire one,” he added after another agonizing pause. His voice cracked ever so slightly on the word ‘should’ve’, a crack that echoed the guilt threatening to consume him whole. “And now—” His breath caught again before he finally looked up for just a fraction of a second, meeting Wriothesley’s gaze with eyes that glistened faintly. “So—if you need to find someone else—”

“Stop.” Wriothesley’s voice cut through Neuvillette’s sentence like a blade—not harshly but firmly enough to command attention. He straightened further in his seat before reaching out across the space between them. His hand hovered for just a moment before settling gently atop one of Neuvillette’s clenched fists.

“Don’t you dare finish that sentence,” he said softly but with no less conviction than if he had shouted it from the rooftops. His thumb brushed against Neuvillette’s hand in an absentminded gesture of comfort as he continued. “You think I care about any of that? About heirs or bloodlines or… or whatever nonsense you’ve convinced yourself is important?”

Neuvillette flinched slightly at the touch but didn’t pull away; instead, his body seemed to deflate ever so slightly under Wriothesley’s words—as though some part of him wanted desperately to believe them but couldn’t quite manage it.

Wriothesley leaned even closer now until there was barely any distance between them. His eyes softened with something akin to pleading as he tilted his head slightly to catch Neuvillette’s gaze once more.

“You think I chose you because of what you could give me?” he asked quietly but earnestly. “Because if that’s what you’ve been telling yourself all this time…” He trailed off briefly before shaking his head again with an exasperated sigh. The sharp sound of Wriothesley’s chair scraping against the polished floor cut through Neuvillette’s words like a blade. The king rose abruptly from his seat, his expression twisting into one of raw frustration and disbelief.

“Do you think I would ever do that?” Wriothesley said, his voice rising slightly—not in anger but in sheer exasperation at how deeply Neuvillette misunderstood him. His hands clenched into fists at his sides before he quickly forced himself to relax them; the last thing he wanted was for Neuvillette to misinterpret his frustration as anger directed at him.

“Do you really think,” Wriothesley continued after a moment’s pause, his tone softening but still edged with urgency, “that I would take a concubine just so I could have a child with your blood?”

He took a step closer to the bed and Neuvillette flinched slightly at Wriothesley’s intensity, his slender frame seeming even smaller under scrutiny. Despite himself, he trembled faintly where he sat, and that single tremor sent a pang of guilt shooting through Wriothesley’s chest. Realizing he had come on too strong, Wriothesley immediately softened further. He crossed the remaining space between them and dropped to one knee beside the bed—a gesture so uncharacteristic of a king that it startled Neuvillette into looking at him directly for the first time since their conversation began.

“Neuvillette,” Wriothesley said gently, his voice a low ripple of warmth that carried both patience and concern. His steady gaze, so often sharp with authority or softened by wit, now brimmed with something raw—an unguarded earnestness that seemed to speak louder than words ever could. He tilted his head slightly, as if trying to catch Neuvillette’s downcast eyes in his own, coaxing him out of the storm brewing within. “Listen to me.”

He reached out slowly, deliberately—his movements careful, like one approaching a skittish animal. His fingers brushed against Neuvillette’s trembling hand before settling over it, firm but not oppressive. The touch wasn’t meant to console in a fleeting way; it was an anchor, solid and grounding, as though Wriothesley’s very presence could siphon away the tremors of doubt that wracked Neuvillette.

“I would never ask that of you,” Wriothesley murmured, his tone resolute yet tender, each word weighted with conviction. His grip on Neuvillette’s hand tightened just slightly—not enough to hurt but enough to feel real, tangible. “It’s horrendous even to imagine.” He leaned forward marginally, their proximity closing as though he could shield Neuvillette from the torment of his own thoughts. “Do you hear me?” he asked softly but insistently, his voice unwavering. “Never.”

Neuvillette’s breath hitched audibly at those words, the sound fragile and unsteady in the quiet space between them. His shoulders sagged under the invisible burden he carried—one that seemed impossibly heavy despite being unseen. For a moment, he didn’t respond; the silence stretched taut like a thread on the verge of snapping. When he finally spoke, his voice was little more than a whisper, cracked and uneven at the edges.

“But…” The single syllable hung in the air like a ghost, barely audible yet laden with despair. He paused again, swallowing hard as though forcing himself to continue past the lump in his throat. “You’ve given me so much responsibility as a consort already—so much more than I deserve…” His pale eyes flickered upward hesitantly, catching Wriothesley’s for the briefest of moments before darting away again like a guilty child caught in a lie. “…And yet I’ve fulfilled none of my duties as your spouse.”

His words faltered toward the end, each one growing quieter until they were almost swallowed entirely by the weight of his shame. His free hand curled into a tight fist against his thigh, nails biting into his palm as though punishing himself for voicing such inadequacies aloud. “If not this…” Neuvillette’s voice wavered again before dissolving into an almost inaudible murmur. “…Then I don’t know what else I can offer you.”

For several agonizing seconds, he seemed suspended in some abyss of self-recrimination, caught between wanting to explain himself further and fearing how much more vulnerable he might become if he did. Finally, after what felt like an eternity compressed into mere moments, he added in a broken whisper: “You wouldn’t even… touch me.”

The words were spoken so softly they could have been mistaken for a thought accidentally voiced aloud. Yet their impact was anything but small—they sliced through the room with all the force of a blade drawn clean across tender flesh. Neuvillette winced faintly at his own admission, instinctively shrinking back as though bracing for Wriothesley’s reaction—a rejection he seemed certain would come.

But instead of recoiling or responding with anger, Wriothesley inhaled sharply through his nose and let out a slow exhale, calming himself before speaking again. He didn’t let go of Neuvillette’s hand; if anything, his hold became firmer—not restrictive but reassuringly present.

“Is that what you think?” Wriothesley’s voice was low but laced with something fierce—hurt mingled with disbelief and an undercurrent of frustration, not directed at Neuvillette but at whatever cruel inner voice had planted such doubts in him. “That I wouldn’t want to touch you? That I don’t want to?”

His free hand rose instinctively to cup Neuvillette’s cheek but hesitated halfway there when he saw how tightly wounded his partner had become. Instead, he redirected it to rest lightly on Neuvillette’s forearm—a gesture less intimate but no less heartfelt. “Neuvillette,” he said again, this time more firmly. “I don’t know what lies you’ve been telling yourself—or what lies others have made you believe—but they couldn’t be further from the truth.”

He leaned in closer still, his voice dropped to a near whisper, low and deliberate, each word carrying the weight of something deeply personal—almost conspiratorial in its intimacy. “You think being my consort is about fulfilling duties? Offering something transactional?” His breath was warm against the cool air between them. “That couldn’t be further from what I want from you.”

Wriothesley’s eyes, like storm clouds churning with unsaid truths, locked onto Neuvillette’s face. He wasn’t simply looking at him; he was searching—peering past the mask of composure that Neuvillette wore so well. His gaze lingered on the subtle tremor in Neuvillette’s lips, the way his jaw tightened ever so slightly as if holding back a flood of emotions too raw to voice. Wriothesley’s brows furrowed, not in frustration but in tender concern, silently pleading for some kind of response. He noticed how Neuvillette’s lashes fluttered—an almost imperceptible tell that betrayed how close he was to unraveling, to letting those emotions spill free.

“Do you even realize what I see when I look at you?” Wriothesley’s voice softened further, his words laced with an earnestness that made it impossible to look away. “You have so much love to give—to your people, to this land—and yet it’s all bottled up inside you because you’ve convinced yourself you’re unworthy of letting it out.” He leaned back just slightly, giving Neuvillette space to breathe, though his presence still felt magnetic, impossible to ignore. “But what if I told you... that doesn’t have to be a burden for you to carry anymore?”

The silence that followed was heavy—not oppressive, but charged with unspoken meaning. The crackle of the fire filled the void between them as Wriothesley studied him for any sign that his words were sinking in. Wriothesley let out a quiet sigh and shook his head lightly, a rueful smile tugging at his lips—not one born out of amusement but of exasperation at how obvious he needed to make himself. He rubbed the back of his neck as though searching for the right words before finally speaking again. “Yes,” he admitted after a moment, voice steady but tinged with a rare vulnerability. “I need this marriage to secure my claim.” The honesty hung between them like a fragile thread waiting to snap. “But didn’t I tell you from the start that I would never harm your people?”

His smile faltered for just a moment before he continued, his tone sharpening—not harshly but with a conviction that left no room for doubt. “And yet here we are, with you acting like you owe me something for this arrangement.” He gestured faintly between them, as though pointing out how absurd it all sounded when said aloud. “You don’t owe me anything, Neuvillette. If anything…” He paused then, his throat bobbing as he swallowed hard against whatever emotion threatened to betray him. “If anything, it’s me who is indebted to you.”

Neuvillette’s eyes widened fractionally but still, he said nothing. Wriothesley pressed on, his voice growing firmer now as though desperate to make him understand. “I thought… giving you freedom as my consort might be enough.” He glanced away for the briefest moment before returning his gaze to Neuvillette’s face, the intensity there unwavering. “Freedom to finally do what you’ve been yearning to do all this time. To love your people without restraint or fear holding you back.”

Neuvillette’s lips parted slightly as if he wanted to respond but couldn’t quite find his voice. The expression on his face was conflicted—a delicate battle playing out between disbelief and something softer, more hopeful. Wriothesley noticed this too and allowed himself a small chuckle—low and self-deprecating—as though laughing at himself for daring to speak so plainly.

Neuvillette blinked rapidly at those words as though trying to process them—trying to make sense of how someone like Wriothesley could see him as enough when all he saw were flaws and failings carved into every inch of himself like scars that refused to fade. His lips parted slightly as if to respond but no sound came; whatever he wanted to say remained locked behind an invisible barrier built out of years of self-doubt and fear.

Wriothesley saw this hesitation and pressed forward gently but insistently: “You think I don’t touch you because I don’t want to? You couldn’t be more wrong.” He let out a soft huff that was somewhere between exasperation and affection before adding under his breath: “I’ve seen how you flinch when anyone gets too close… how you look away when someone reaches for your hand.”

He paused for emphasis before finishing quietly: “That is why I didn’t want to push you into something you weren’t ready for, and I know nothing I say will make you believe you’re not confined by me, so I wouldn’t expect you’d want anything to do with me anyway.”

Wriothesley exhaled slowly, the breath slipping past his lips as if he were releasing more than just air—perhaps tension, or perhaps the weight of unspoken thoughts. His blue eyes, usually sharp and calculating, softened as they settled on Neuvillette. When he finally spoke again, his voice carried a measured calm, each word chosen with care, as though he was afraid the wrong phrasing might shatter something fragile between them.

“Do you want children?” The question came suddenly, cutting through the quiet like the unexpected snap of a twig in a still forest. It seemed almost out of place, an odd juxtaposition to the conversation they had just been having. And yet, the way Wriothesley asked it—with a deliberate gentleness and an undercurrent of sincerity—made it impossible to dismiss.

Neuvillette blinked, his lashes fluttering briefly as his expression shifted from composed neutrality to one of unguarded surprise. He hadn’t expected that—not now, not here, not from Wriothesley of all people. For a moment, he simply stared, his mind scrambling to make sense of the inquiry. It wasn’t that he didn’t know how to answer; rather, it was the sheer novelty of being asked this particular question without any strings attached. No ulterior motives. No veiled expectations.

“I—” He hesitated, his voice catching slightly on the single syllable. His pale brows furrowed as he glanced away briefly, his gaze darting toward the frost-patterned window before returning hesitantly to Wriothesley’s face. “I don’t… I don’t know.” The admission came softly, almost reluctantly.

Wriothesley nodded, his expression calm but thoughtful. There was no disappointment in his features, no trace of frustration or impatience—only understanding. It was as though Neuvillette’s uncertainty had been the answer he’d expected all along.

“Then don’t think about anyone else right now,” Wriothesley said quietly but firmly, his deep voice carrying a steadiness that grounded the moment. “Not me—not the court—not anyone else who thinks they have some right to dictate what you should or shouldn’t want.” His grip on Neuvillette’s hand tightened ever so slightly—not forceful, but reassuring. His thumb brushed over Neuvillette’s knuckles in a gesture so gentle that it sent an unexpected warmth skittering up Neuvillette’s arm despite the lingering chill in his skin.

Neuvillette’s lips parted faintly as if to respond, but no words came. Instead, his gaze dropped to their hands—his own trembling faintly under Wriothesley’s steadier grip. It was strange how such a small point of contact could feel so significant, so grounding. The warmth of Wriothesley’s skin against his own cold fingers felt almost symbolic: a tether anchoring him when he didn’t even realize how adrift he’d been.

“Do you want children?” Wriothesley repeated softly, though there was an unmistakable firmness behind the question now—a determination that left no room for evasion or deflection. His eyes searched Neuvillette’s face intently but without pressure, as though he were offering him something precious rather than demanding an answer.

Neuvillette opened his mouth again but faltered once more. There were no words—not yet anyway—to articulate the storm of emotions swirling within him. Instead, he felt his chest tighten with something unfamiliar and unnamed—something that wasn’t quite fear but certainly wasn’t comfort either.

“If you do…” Wriothesley’s voice broke through Neuvillette’s silence again like a beacon cutting through fog. He paused briefly to ensure he had Neuvillette’s full attention before continuing in that same steady tone: “If you do want children—if that’s something you decide you truly want—then I’ll figure something out.” There was no hesitation in his words; they carried an unshakable certainty that left no room for doubt or dismissal.

Neuvillette looked up sharply at that—a flicker of surprise flashing across his usually composed features. “What do you mean?” The question slipped out before he could stop it.

“I mean exactly what I said,” Wriothesley replied evenly, meeting Neuvillette’s gaze head-on. “We can rework adoption laws if necessary,” he elaborated with a faint shrug that belied the gravity of what he was offering. “We can make sure any child you choose to raise is eligible to inherit—if that’s something you care about.” His tone remained calm but resolute, each word carrying the weight of someone who had clearly thought this through more than once.

Neuvillette stared at him—really stared—and for a moment it felt as though time itself had slowed down around them. He could see it now: the quiet conviction in Wriothesley’s eyes; the way his jaw tightened ever so slightly when he spoke about making changes to laws as though it were something he could accomplish with sheer willpower alone; the subtle tension in his shoulders betraying just how deeply he cared about this—about him.

“But whatever happens…” Wriothesley continued after a brief pause, his voice softening slightly but losing none of its determination. “It will be your choice—not anyone else’s.” He leaned back slightly then—not retreating but giving Neuvillette space to process everything he’d just said.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The only sounds in the room were the faint crackle of logs burning low in the fireplace and the distant whistle of wind outside. Neuvillette finally tore his gaze away from Wriothesley and looked down once more at their joined hands—at the contrast between warmth and coldness, steadiness and trembling.

“I…” His voice wavered slightly as he struggled to find words again. He didn’t know exactly what he wanted yet—not fully—but for perhaps the first time in years… he felt like he had permission to figure it out on his terms.

And that realization felt like stepping into sunlight after years spent wandering through shadows.

Chapter Text

The Queen’s drawing room, Wriothesley thought, was rather childish.

He allowed his gaze to sweep over the space, noting every detail with a subtle arch of his brow. The room itself was immaculate, as though no one had dared disturb its perfection in years. Every surface gleamed under the soft light filtering through the lace-draped windows, revealing furniture upholstered with the finest silks Fontainian wealth could procure. The intricate patterns on the rug beneath his feet looked handwoven, their vivid colors promising an exorbitant price tag. Yet for all its splendor, the room carried an unexpected air of immaturity. Positioned neatly along the lower shelves and arranged with almost obsessive precision were trinkets that seemed better suited to a nursery than the royal drawing room. A porcelain music box adorned with tiny painted flowers sat next to a collection of carved wooden animals, each polished to a shine. A small stuffed rabbit—its fur slightly worn from age—was propped against a silver-framed mirror on a side table. Wriothesley’s lips pressed into a thin line as he considered these peculiar touches. They were never placed higher than eye-level for a child, as if someone intended them to be viewed by little hands and curious eyes.

He wondered briefly if this odd décor was Prince Neuvillette’s doing. Perhaps the young heir to the throne had once demanded his mother keep these mementos here, refusing to part with them even as he grew older. It struck Wriothesley as strange that such relics remained in a space meant for hosting dignitaries and esteemed guests, but he supposed it wasn’t his place to question royal tastes. Yet, the notion tugged at something deep within him, though he couldn’t quite place why. Perhaps it was because he recognized what such mementos represented: a desire to hold onto simpler times, to shield oneself from the relentless march of change. He shook the thought away before it could take root.

Then, his musings were interrupted by the sound of hurried footsteps echoing faintly down the marble corridor behind him. He straightened in his chair, instinctively adjusting his posture as the Queen entered the room.

“Ah, I must apologize for keeping you waiting,” she said, her voice steady but edged with a faint breathlessness that betrayed her haste. She walked with measured grace, her gown trailing like liquid gold across the floor, but there was a tension in her movements—an effort to maintain composure despite her rush. It was almost amusing to Wriothesley that she seemed so concerned about wasting his time, given her station compared to his.

He rose immediately from his seat and bowed deeply, his movements fluid and precise as etiquette demanded. “Good morning, Your Majesty,” he said, his voice calm yet formal. “I am humbled that you have summoned me here.”

The Queen paused for a fraction of a second, tilting her head as though studying him more closely. Her eyes softened before she released a quiet sigh, motioning for him to sit once more. “Please, sit down, Wriothesley,” she said gently.

He obeyed without hesitation, lowering himself onto the chair opposite hers. For the first time, Wriothesley allowed himself to pay attention to the table between them. It bore an elaborate tea set made of delicate porcelain painted with intricate floral designs. Steam curled invitingly from the teapot’s spout, and an assortment of pastries rested on a silver tray nearby.

“Is the tea and snack to your liking?” she asked after settling into her own chair. Her voice carried a note of tentative warmth now, as though she was attempting to put him at ease. “I understand you enjoy tea.” She seemed rather confused on why Wriothesley hadn't touch it, perhaps she wasn't expecting such politeness and consideration from a child.

Wriothesley nodded politely. “I do, Your Majesty,” he replied simply. He reached for his cup and took a small sip before continuing. “This is fine tea indeed.”

The Queen’s lips curved into a faint smile at his response. “You are so young,” she remarked after a moment, “and yet you have such an appreciation for grown-up drinks.”

You are so young, too. Wriothesley didn’t say. He had expected the Queen to look… like his Mom’s age, but she still had that air of youth around her. One that Wriothesley had not expected from someone who had a child older than him. No matter, soon she would be older than his Mom ever could.

“I’ve never been fond of sweet things,” he admitted with a slight shrug, setting the cup back onto its saucer with practiced care.

For a moment, silence settled between them—not uncomfortable, but heavy. Wriothesley's posture composed yet guarded, while the Queen's fingers lightly tracing the intricate embroidery of her gown as though lost in thought. Then, breaking the stillness, her voice emerged. “It has been quite some time since I’ve had anyone join me here,” she said softly, almost wistfully, her gaze drifting toward the far corner of the drawing room.

The words were simple enough, but there was an unmistakable weight to them. Wriothesley blinked, momentarily caught off guard by her admission. He studied her carefully—the way her shoulders seemed to carry an unseen burden and how her expression, though composed, hinted at something deeper, something more fragile than he had expected from someone of her stature. Yet he refrained from prying. There was a subtle warning in the air, a sense that probing too far would disturb whatever delicate balance had settled between them.

Still, he felt compelled to respond in some way. “Do you require something of me, Your Majesty?” he asked evenly.

Her gaze flickered toward him then—a swift motion that betrayed something raw and fleeting. Surprise? Sadness? It was impossible to tell. Whatever it was, it vanished almost as quickly as it appeared, replaced by the polished composure befitting a ruler. She straightened in her seat, adjusting her posture as though donning an invisible mask.

“I wish to extend my condolences,” she began carefully, folding her hands in her lap with deliberate grace. Her tone was formal yet held a thread of sincerity that softened its edges. “To you and to the Duchy of Meropide. I did not know much about your father—the late Duke—but your mother…” She hesitated for a fraction of a second, just long enough for Wriothesley to notice. “She was a dear friend of mine.”

The mention of his mother struck him like an unexpected gust of wind—sharp and unbalancing. His chest tightened involuntarily, and for a moment, he found it difficult to breathe past the sudden rush of emotion that surged within him. He had known about their correspondence—the letters penned in secrecy between two women, but his Mom had always been so jolly when receiving and writing a letter back to the Queen, as if it was not a delicate secret at all—but hearing it spoken aloud now felt different. It brought those memories into sharper focus, dredging up feelings he had carefully buried.

He lowered his gaze briefly to compose himself before inclining his head in gratitude. “Thank you,” he said quietly, his voice lacking its usual crispness.

For a fleeting moment, Wriothesley entertained a dark thought—that perhaps this meeting wasn’t merely one of condolence but a prelude to something far more devastating. He could almost hear the cold echo of court whispers: The boy is too young to hold power. A commoner’s son has no place among us. The duchy would be better served under another name. His imagination gave them life, each syllable cutting sharper than glass. He pictured the faces behind those voices—thin-lipped nobles with disdainful eyes and powdered wigs tilted just so, their sneers veiled behind feigned politeness. Adding salt to the wound while the victim was still young and powerless—wasn’t that how it always went? Strip them of their defenses before they even fully understood the battlefield. Wriothesley could almost feel their boots kicking him down before he had a chance to rise. The thought twisted in his stomach like a blade. After all, his father’s rise from obscurity—a miner turned nobleman through marriage—had always been a sore point among Fontaine’s aristocracy, not that the upper court did anything to stop their marriage anyway because they never cared about Meropide. And now, with both his parents gone, what was stopping them from stripping him of everything? The Queen herself held that power, right? She could dismantle his entire world with nothing more than a signature on parchment. They could've taken his land away from him and turned it into a prison like the rumour said.

The Queen shifted slightly in her seat—a small movement that seemed almost out of place given her usual poise. Her fingers fidgeted with one another for a brief moment before she forced them still again. It was subtle but telling—an uncharacteristic display of hesitation from someone who wielded power with such certainty.

“I…” She paused as though searching for the right words or perhaps debating whether to say them at all. Her voice dropped slightly when she finally continued. “I wish to propose something to you.”

Wriothesley’s brow furrowed faintly at her words, curiosity sparking in his mind despite his efforts to remain outwardly neutral. He folded his arms across his chest, leaning back slightly as if bracing himself for whatever suggestion might follow. Still, he said nothing, opting instead to let the silence coax more from her.

“Would you consider coming to Palais Mermonia on a recurring basis?” she asked at last, each word carefully chosen and weighed before being spoken.

Wriothesley’s eyes narrowed slightly as he processed its implications. It wasn’t entirely unusual for someone of his rank to be summoned for royal matters, but there was something about the way she phrased it—almost tentative—that gave him pause. “For… His Highness Prince Neuvillette, I assume?” he ventured cautiously after a moment’s thought. His tone was even but edged with curiosity.

The Queen inclined her head in confirmation but was quick to add more context before he could misinterpret her intent. “Would that be an issue?” she asked, her tone shifting slightly into one of reassurance rather than command. “Of course,” she continued smoothly, “I will cover all accommodations personally—this arrangement will place no burden on Meropide’s treasury.”

Her offer was generous and considerate—attributes not often associated with figures of authority in Fontaine—but it also raised more questions than it answered for Wriothesley. Why now? Why him? And why this peculiar sense that there was more behind this request than met the eye? He kept these questions to himself for now, choosing instead to focus on what lay directly before him.

“You do not need to give me an answer now. Take all the time you need,” she said quietly before adding with a faint smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes, “I only ask that you give it fair thought.”

Still uncertain of her motives, Wriothesley straightened his posture, his shoulders squared as if bracing for an unseen blow. His gaze scrutinized the Queen’s every gesture, every flicker of expression. Despite the calm in her demeanor, he felt like a pawn being placed on a game board far too intricate for him to decipher yet. Nevertheless, he did not waver as he met her gaze directly.

“May I ask why Your Majesty has chosen me?” His voice was steady, blunt but devoid of malice. There was no point in masking his skepticism; was this pity? A hollow gesture born from some misplaced guilt about an orphaned boy plucked from obscurity in a backwater duchy? Or was it something far more calculated?

The Queen’s expression remained serene, though her eyes softened ever so slightly. “You are closest in age to my son compared to any other noble children,” she explained simply, her tone measured and deliberate. There was no flourish to her words, no attempt to dress them up in grandeur or pretense. But then, after a brief pause, she leaned forward slightly, her hands resting lightly on the gilded arms of her chair. Her voice dropped just enough to convey sincerity without vulnerability. “And I believe this arrangement would benefit you as well.”

Wriothesley’s brow furrowed, his skepticism deepening. He tilted his head slightly, studying her with the wariness of someone trying to discern whether they were being offered a gift or a poisoned chalice. “How so?” he asked, his voice edged with disbelief.

The Queen did not flinch under his scrutiny. Instead, she held his gaze with quiet conviction and leaned in just a fraction more—a subtle gesture that made her next words feel almost conspiratorial. “You would have far greater access to mentors here at court,” she said earnestly, her voice carrying an unmistakable undertone of encouragement. “If there is any practice or study you wish to pursue while staying in the Court of Fontaine, I would be happy to arrange it... financially.”

Wriothesley wasn’t ready to trust those words yet. Especially since the Queen did not mention the most obvious thing: his direct access to Palais Mermonia. Was that not the ultimate advantage any noble wanted? Did she not say it because it went without saying, or something else? Wriothesley tilted his chin down as though shielding himself from the weight of what she was offering—or perhaps from what it might cost him. “...In exchange for entertaining the Prince?” he clarified dryly, his tone laced with reluctant acceptance but also a hint of bitterness.

The Queen’s lips curved into a soft smile—not the smug or condescending kind he had expected but one that seemed almost… hopeful. It was disarming in its gentleness, as though she understood exactly how heavy her words must feel to him. “I hope he’ll be a good friend to you,” she said sincerely, and there was an almost maternal warmth in the way she spoke—earnest and unguarded.

For a moment, Wriothesley said nothing. He let her words sink in, searching for any cracks in their sincerity. The notion of friendship seemed laughable—an idealistic fantasy that had no place in the cold realities of court life or the precarious position he found himself in. Yet there was something undeniably genuine about the way she spoke, as though she truly believed what she was saying.

Still, belief didn’t change reality.

He inhaled deeply through his nose and exhaled slowly, forcing himself to consider her proposal not as a boy being thrust into unknown waters but as the future Duke of Meropide—a title that weighed heavily on him despite his youth. There was little point in arguing with royalty; even less so when their reasoning seemed sound. Finally, he gave a small nod of agreement—sharp and precise like a soldier acknowledging orders rather than a boy accepting an invitation. “Very well,” he said quietly but firmly. He could already feel the burden settling more heavily on his shoulders—the invisible chains of obligation tightening around him—but he refused to let it show. If keeping Prince Neuvillette content meant securing resources for Meropide’s survival during this precarious time… then so be it. He would play along with their little charade, even if it meant swallowing his pride and pretending at camaraderie with someone who would never truly understand what it meant to bear the weight of an entire duchy on one’s shoulders when you had no support from your own nation.

As long as it kept Meropide from crumbling without its master—kept its people fed and its lands protected—he would endure whatever role was required of him. Even if it meant sacrificing pieces of himself along the way.

He glanced back at the Queen one last time, noting the faint glimmer of relief that crossed her features when he agreed. It wasn’t much—a fleeting emotion quickly masked by her composed exterior—but it was enough to confirm that this arrangement mattered to her too. Wriothesley resolved silently: he would do what was necessary—not for himself but for those who depended on him. And if playing this role meant lowering himself to the ground only to be stomped upon by those above him? So be it.

“Then I suppose I shall prepare myself for life at court.”

The Queen inclined her head gracefully in acknowledgment, her soft smile lingering just long enough to feel genuine before she composed herself once more. “I believe you will find your place here,” she said gently.

But Wriothesley wasn’t so sure—and as he left Palais Mermonia that day, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was walking into something far larger and far more dangerous than he had yet realized.

Chapter Text

Once Neuvillette had recovered sufficiently from his injury, he took great care in composing a formal invitation to Baroness Caspar, requesting her presence at Palais Mermonia. Though his wrist ached faintly from the effort—his recent injury still reminding him of its presence—he persisted, unwilling to delegate this task to a scribe. This invitation was, in the end, personal, after all, and it bore a significance he could not entrust to another.

Though Neuvillette had suggested temporarily overseeing matters concerning Elynas, he remained acutely aware that the ultimate responsibility for such affairs rested with Wriothesley. Still, even as he convalesced within the grand halls of Palais Mermonia, he resolved to approach his temporary role with diligence and grace, to show that he was still useful for Wriothesley.

Yet as Neuvillette strode into the drawing room where he intended to greet Navia upon her arrival, his composure wavered ever so slightly. The room was not quite the picture of diligence and grace that he prided himself on maintaining. His pale gaze swept across its interior—ornate but cluttered in a manner that betrayed its history. The lace drapes framing the tall windows were faded at the edges, their once-vivid emerald hue now dulled to a muted olive. On the side tables stood a curious assortment of trinkets: porcelain figurines of woodland creatures, delicate glass baubles that caught the light like fragments of a rainbow, and small boxes carved from exotic wood. These decorations were remnants of another time, relics of his mother’s touch.

A flush of embarrassment warmed his cheeks as he realized how utterly mismatched these items appeared in what should have been a space reflecting stately refinement. “What must she think of me?” he murmured under his breath, running a gloved hand along one of the polished tabletops and noting how the sunlight played across its surface. He could almost hear Navia’s voice in his mind teasing him.

He sighed and shook his head, brushing off the imagined critique. He’d meant to have this room redecorated long ago, but other matters had demanded his attention. Still, as he glanced around at the odd assortment of objects cluttering the space, he couldn’t help but wonder why his mother had never seen fit to update it herself. This room had once been hers, after all, a place where she entertained her guests with grace and charm.

Neuvillette’s hand lingered on one particular box; a small chest with intricate carvings of swirling waves and blooming lilies. It was familiar in a way that tugged at some distant memory. He hesitated before opening it, lifting the lid carefully as though it might shatter under his touch. Inside lay a collection of tiny keepsakes: dried flower petals pressed flat against parchment, an old brooch shaped like a crescent moon, an empty bottle of soap bubble bottle...

The sight struck something deep within him. He could almost see himself as a boy again, seated cross-legged on this very carpeted floor while his mother watched over him with an indulgent smile. “Go on,” she’d say gently, her voice melodic and warm as sunlight filtering through lace curtains. “Place them wherever you like.” And so he would—arranging her treasures on every available surface while she played soft melodies on the piano in the corner.

His throat tightened at the memory. He forced himself to close the box with deliberate care and set it back in its place. “Enough,” he muttered under his breath, straightening up sharply as though physical posture alone could banish sentimentality from his mind.

When Navia entered the drawing room Neuvillette was already near the door to greet her. “Thank you for coming today, Baroness,” he said.

Navia inclined her head slightly before executing a graceful curtsy. Her golden hair caught the light as it cascaded over her shoulders like liquid sunlight. “The pleasure is mine, Your Highness,” she replied smoothly. As she straightened and moved to take her seat across from him, her blue eyes flickered briefly over him in silent appraisal. “How are you doing, by the way?” she asked after a moment’s pause, her concern veiled beneath a casual tone but present nonetheless in the slight furrow of her brow. She settled into her chair with practiced elegance, her hands resting lightly on her lap as she waited for his response.

Neuvillette’s lips curved into a faint smile—polite but enigmatic. It could have been worse. He did not elaborate further on his condition, choosing instead to redirect the conversation with characteristic poise. “I hope I do not take you away from any pressing matters,” he said after a beat, leaning back slightly in his chair.

Navia chuckled softly at his remark, the sound light and airy like the tinkling of wind chimes in a gentle breeze. She waved a hand dismissively as though brushing away any notion that her time was too valuable for such an audience. “Nonsense,” she replied with an easy smile that reached her eyes. “Your Highness can call upon me anytime.”

There was an undeniable sincerity in her tone—a quiet assurance that she meant every word. Yet beneath that sincerity lingered a flicker of intrigue; Navia had always prided herself on reading people well, and there was something about Neuvillette today that seemed... different. Subdued yet resolute. It piqued her curiosity. “So,” she continued after another moment’s pause, tilting her head slightly as if to better study him. “What can I assist you with?”

Neuvillette straightened ever so slightly in his chair, his hands folding neatly atop one another on his lap. For a brief moment, he allowed himself to glance out the window—a fleeting look at the vast sky in the distance before returning his gaze to Navia. “There is much to discuss,” he began finally. “I find myself temporarily overseeing certain... responsibilities concerning Elynas.” He paused briefly as if weighing how best to proceed before continuing. “It is a task I suggested taking on, though I recognize it remains under His Majesty’s purview at its core.”

Navia raised an eyebrow at this admission but said nothing immediately, choosing instead to let him continue uninterrupted.

“It is my intention,” Neuvillette began, his voice steady yet faintly reflective, “to ensure that these matters are handled with care and precision during my tenure—however short-lived it may be.” He paused briefly. “Unfortunately, I do not know much about the estate. As of late, His Majesty has ordered me to manage it. I am simply asking for any suggestion on how to approach it.”

Navia tilted her head slightly, studying him with a mixture of curiosity and empathy. The Prince’s candor was unexpected. Refreshing, even. She gave him a small nod before speaking. “Do you wish to take care of it?” she asked carefully, knowing the underlying meaning behind her word and how it was plausible that she was reading Neuvillette’s intention wrong. “Forgive me if I’m overstepping, but would it be correct to assume there are no other heirs in the lineage? Except, well…” Her hesitation hung in the air before she added delicately, “…Your Highness.”

Neuvillette’s lips pressed into a thin line as he exhaled slowly through his nose, his shoulders stiffening ever so slightly. “I cannot become the lord of that duchy,” he said firmly, though there was an undertone of something wistful in his voice—regret, perhaps? “As I am a Prince, such a title is not mine to claim. I am merely tasked with its stewardship until His Majesty determines an appropriate successor.” He glanced away for a moment, his fingers absently tracing an invisible pattern along the polished wooden edge of his chair. The light illuminated his profile—the sharp line of his jaw, the faint furrow of his brow—as he seemed lost in thought. “It is… unfortunate,” he murmured at last, almost to himself.

The old laws remained steadfast: family lordship must pass to a successor within the bloodline. And in this instance, that law presented an impossible predicament. Neuvillette’s mother had borne only one child—him—and no other siblings existed who could abdicate their royal status to assume the dukedom instead. The situation was as tangled as it was tragic.

Navia’s gaze dropped momentarily to her hands resting in her lap, her thoughts wandering through the peculiar history of Fontaine’s royal family. How ironic—and undeniably strange—that the late King, a man notorious for his shrewd political machinations and obsession with securing advantageous alliances, had left behind only one child. Surely someone as calculating as he would have anticipated this dilemma? He could have fathered another child with the Queen Dowager or even sought to establish a claim over Elynas through more distant kinship ties. Yet here they were—trapped by circumstance and tradition alike.

Still, Navia kept these musings to herself. Instead, she chose to focus on Neuvillette’s words as he began recounting what little he had uncovered about Elynas thus far. She listened intently as he described dry lists of reports and ledgers he had poured over late into sleepless nights—records of dwindling trade agreements and abandoned industries. His voice carried an understated frustration as though even speaking of these things made him feel powerless.

“I reckon,” Neuvillette eventually said after a pause, “the main resource there is condessence crystals?”

“Yes,” Navia replied quickly but added with a faint sigh, “Or rather—was.” She leaned back slightly in her chair and folded her arms across her chest as if bracing herself for unpleasant memories. “Elynas used to be one of the major mining areas for condessence crystals,” she explained before glancing at him with a faintly apologetic smile. “Activity has ceased for now though… after Your Highness’ grandfather passed.”

Neuvillette’s expression darkened slightly—not out of anger but thoughtful regret—as he digested this information. “It cannot be helped,” he murmured after a moment’s silence. “There doesn’t seem to be much use for that mineral anymore.”

“Or,” Navia interjected pointedly, leaning forward now and fixing him with an almost mischievous glint in her eye, “we just don’t know what to do with it yet.” Her tone carried both challenge and optimism—a spark that seemed to momentarily brighten the room.

She continued without waiting for his response. “The only other nation that produces condessence crystals is Natlan,” she explained animatedly. “And let me tell you—they’ve mastered its utilization down to an art form! It’s become one of their most valuable exports.” Her hands gestured emphatically as she spoke; clearly, this was a subject she felt passionately about. “But because they dominate the market so thoroughly—well—other nations just buy their crystals from Natlan and wouldn’t give any thought of sourcing them from us.”

Neuvillette nodded slowly but didn’t immediately respond; instead, his gaze seemed to drift somewhere beyond her shoulder as though contemplating possibilities far beyond their current conversation. “It’d be nice,” he said eventually, his tone thoughtful as if voicing an idea still taking shape in his mind, “if we could send delegations to Natlan—to learn how they utilize this resource.” Navia smiled at this suggestion but somehow, Neuvillette quickly countered himself. “But even if we did figure that out… who would mine the crystals? Most young people have already moved out of Elynas looking for work elsewhere.”

Navia sighed softly before adding wistfully: “It’s such a shame because Elynas really is beautiful—you know?” Her expression softened further into something almost nostalgic as she allowed herself a small smile. “Your hometown... It’s still considered an ideal place for retirement by many people who’ve been there—even now when times are harder than they used to be.”

Suddenly though—as if struck by divine inspiration—Navia straightened abruptly in her seat, the rustle of her skirt breaking the quiet tension that had lingered between them. Her movements were so sudden and sharp that Neuvillette, who had been absently tracing the rim of his teacup with a gloved finger, stilled. His cool, composed demeanor faltered for just a moment as his pale violet eyes flicked up to meet hers.

“Baroness?” he prompted, his tone calm yet laced with curiosity.

Her eyes—brilliant and alight with a fervor that seemed to ignite her entire being—shone with a determination that could not be mistaken for anything less than purpose. She leaned forward across the polished oak table, her hands gripping its edges as though the sheer force of her excitement might propel her forward. The subtle pink flush coloring her cheeks was not merely from the firelight flickering nearby but from some internal spark, some idea too grand to be contained within her.

“Your Highness should go there!” she exclaimed suddenly, her voice carrying an energy that filled the room and made it impossible to ignore her. She gestured animatedly, her hands slicing through the air as she spoke, her words tumbling out as if she feared losing them in silence. “Elynas! You’ve read the reports, you’ve listened to all the advisors and scholars drone on about its decline—but none of them truly know what it’s like there! None of them live it.” She paused for a breath, her chest rising and falling quickly before she pressed on. “Talk directly with the residents! See their struggles for yourself! After all—who knows more about Elynas than those who’ve lived their whole lives there?”

Neuvillette blinked at her sudden outburst. For a moment, silence reigned. “I will consider it,” he said at last.

Navia’s hopeful expression faltered slightly as she caught the reserved hesitation in his words. “Consider it?” she repeated, her brows knitting together in frustration. “With all due respect, Your Highness, you can’t just consider this! They need you out there—they need to see you care.”

He exhaled slowly through his nose and glanced toward the rain-streaked window as though searching for an answer among the storm clouds beyond. “It is not so simple,” he said after a long pause, his voice tinged with something akin to regret. “To show myself in Elynas is to make promises I may not be able to keep. It would give them hope—a hope that perhaps their Lord has come to restore their land and undo years of suffering.” He turned back to her then, his gaze sharp yet not unkind. “Hope can be a dangerous thing when misplaced.”

Navia didn’t back down—if anything, his response only seemed to fuel her resolve further. She squared her shoulders and leaned forward again, her voice quieter now but no less intense. “And what’s more dangerous?” she asked pointedly. “Letting their hope fade entirely? Letting them believe they’ve been forgotten? You don’t have to promise miracles, Your Highness—you just have to show them you see them. You’ve done something similar before, right? Think of Petrichor.”

“You speak with conviction, Baroness, and I do not dismiss your point lightly.” He paused briefly before adding with careful deliberation: “But you must understand, my responsibilities demand my presence here.”

Navia let out an exasperated sigh, running a hand through her hair as she tried to formulate a counterargument. Her frustration was evident in every line of her posture—the way she tapped her fingers impatiently against the table’s surface, the way she bit her lower lip in thought. Yet, before any of them could spoke, suddenly, a sharp knock echoed through the door, its sound crisp against the otherwise tranquil atmosphere of the drawing room. The faint rustle of fabric and the soft clink of heels hinted at someone waiting patiently on the other side. Before anyone could call out, a familiar voice broke the silence.

“It’s me,” Clorinde announced, her tone composed yet carrying that unmistakable edge of authority she always seemed to wear like a second skin.

Neuvillette barely had time to respond before the door creaked open. But instead of the tall, imposing figure of Clorinde stepping through first, it was Charon who padded into the room with a regal air. His eyes scanned the room with a calm yet watchful intelligence, as if assessing everyone present.

“Come here, Charon,” Neuvillette called softly.

At once, the dog’s ears perked up, and he trotted over with surprising grace for his size. His tail wagged in slow and deliberate arcs, like a silent acknowledgment of his master’s command.

Navia’s face lit up at the sight of him. “Ah, what a lovely lad!” she exclaimed, her voice bubbling with delight. She leaned forward eagerly, extending her hands toward Charon in an open invitation. Her movements were gentle and unhurried, clearly mindful not to startle him.

Charon hesitated for only a moment before stepping closer, his large head tilting slightly as he studied her with those piercing eyes. Then, as if deciding she was worthy of his trust, he pressed his nose into her palm. Navia beamed in return, her fingers quickly finding their way to scratch behind his ears.

“Oh, you’re such a good boy,” she cooed, her tone softening as she stroked his glossy fur. Charon let out a low rumble—not quite a growl but more like a contented purr—as he leaned into her touch.

Meanwhile, Clorinde entered quietly behind him. She moved with her usual precision, tall frame that cut an elegant silhouette against the warm backdrop of the room as she inclined her head in a slight bow toward Neuvillette.

“Your Highness,” she murmured before gliding over to take the seat beside Navia. But instead of leaving a polite amount of space between them as one might expect, Clorinde settled unnervingly close. Too close. Navia stiffened slightly at first, casting a sideways glance at Clorinde’s stoic expression. The Dame seemed entirely unbothered by their proximity—or perhaps she was simply pretending not to notice.

Neuvillette observed the interaction with quiet amusement before turning his attention back to Charon. “You are the first person who isn’t immediately afraid of him,” he remarked, his tone thoughtful.

Navia looked up from where she was still scratching Charon under his chin. Her expression shifted to one of curiosity as she tilted her head at Neuvillette’s observation. “Well,” she began, brushing a stray curl from her face, “to be fair, it is quite surprising to see someone like Your Highness with a rottweiler of all breeds.”

Neuvillette blinked at her in mild confusion. “Surprising? Why is that?”

Navia paused mid-pet, clearly caught off guard by his question. “Oh! Well… I mean…” She gestured vaguely toward Charon as if that alone should explain everything. “Their appearance can be… well… intimidating. That cannot be helped.”

“Intimidating?” Neuvillette repeated slowly, as though tasting the word for the first time. His brows furrowed ever so slightly in genuine contemplation.

Navia couldn’t hide her surprise at his reaction. Was he truly unaware? It almost seemed as though he hadn’t considered it before—or worse, that he’d never even thought about how others might perceive Charon. There was something endearingly naïve about it.

“Your Highness…” she ventured cautiously after a moment’s hesitation. “Is Charon your first dog?”

He nodded once.

Her eyes narrowed slightly in thought before she asked another question: “Were you not afraid of him? When you first met him?”

Neuvillette’s gaze softened as it shifted down to Charon, who had now laid his massive head across Neuvillette’s knee like some oversized lapdog. The Prince reached out absentmindedly to stroke the coarse fur along the dog’s neck.

“I decided to trust him,” Neuvillette said simply. “I trusted that he wouldn’t hurt me.” Charon let out a contented sigh at his master’s touch and nuzzled against Neuvillette’s hand in quiet affirmation. “And even if he had hurt me,” Neuvillette continued after a pause, “it wouldn’t have been his fault.” His gaze remained fixed on Charon as he spoke. “Because my decision to trust him wouldn’t matter—it would have been mine alone.”

The room fell silent for a moment after that. Clorinde broke it with a soft sigh as she reached for teacup on the table. “Well,” she said dryly after taking a slow sip of tea, “I’m sure the dog doesn’t want to hurt Your Highness—in his own convoluted way.” Her words earned her an amused glance from Navia. “The dog knows he’s prone to being misunderstood,” Clorinde added with an almost imperceptible smirk tugging at the corner of her lips.

Navia raised an eyebrow at that cryptic remark and leaned back slightly in her chair. “Are we still talking about Charon?” she asked pointedly.

Clorinde didn’t miss a beat as she set her cup down with deliberate care before meeting Navia’s gaze evenly. “Do you see any other dog in this room?”

“Hmph.” Navia crossed her arms but couldn’t suppress the faint smile tugging at her lips. “That doesn’t really answer my question, you know.”

Clorinde merely shrugged—a small but eloquent gesture—and returned to sipping her tea without offering further explanation.

Neuvillette watched their exchange with quiet amusement playing in his eyes. As Charon let out another contented sigh and settled more comfortably against his master’s leg, it became clear that this peculiar little gathering—complete with its cryptic remarks and unexpected warmth—meant something else. “You two seem to be at your most relaxed when you're together.”

Navia leaned back slightly in her chair, her lips curling into a playful smirk. “Well, I’ve known Clorinde longer than anyone else.” Her chuckle was light yet tinged with genuine affection, the kind that only years of camaraderie could foster. She glanced at Clorinde with a glimmer of mischief in her eyes, as though daring her to disagree.

Clorinde’s posture remained upright and poised, as always, but there was an unmistakable air of ease about her—a subtle shift in her otherwise disciplined demeanor. “We are betrothed,” she stated plainly, her tone devoid of any pretense or hesitation. It was a simple truth, delivered with the same precision she brought to every aspect of her life.

Navia rolled her eyes dramatically, though the corners of her mouth betrayed the beginnings of a smile. “Oh please,” she teased with a mock exasperation. “If you’re trying to get back together now, just say so. This is certainly one way to go about it.”

Clorinde’s sharp gaze flickered toward Navia, her lips tightening into a line. Yet instead of responding to the playful jab, she noticed the faint furrow forming on Neuvillette’s brow. He was certainly confused, subtle yet noticeable to someone as observant as Clorinde. She tilted her head slightly and addressed him directly. “Don’t worry about it, Your Highness,” she said with a faint but reassuring smile.

Neuvillette blinked, his composed demeanor quickly returning as he gave a small nod. “Right,” he said quietly, though there was still a faint trace of perplexity lingering in his otherwise serene features. For some reason he could not understand, Neuvillette felt really happy.

Clorinde shifted the conversation with characteristic decisiveness, leaning forward slightly as she addressed him again. “Your Highness didn’t summon Navia here just to talk about Elynas, did you?” Her tone was polite but carried an undercurrent of curiosity—and perhaps just a hint of impatience. “That’s something that could easily be discussed with your team or the council—people far more equipped to handle such matters on your behalf.”

“Are you saying I’m not equipped?” Navia retorted.

“I’m just thinking that it is particularly something you and I cannot help on beyond giving first opinions.”

Neuvillette hesitated for a moment. He glanced between the two women, his fingers intertwining as he rested them lightly on the polished table before him. “I—” He paused again, his eyes briefly darting downward before meeting theirs once more. “This is rather embarrassing,” he admitted at last, his voice quieter than before.

Navia raised an eyebrow in surprise, while Clorinde’s expression softened ever so slightly. The two women exchanged a brief glance before turning their attention back to Neuvillette.

“I saw the news the other day,” he continued, his words measured yet tinged with an almost boyish sincerity that seemed out of place coming from someone of his stature. “About how Spina di Rosula surprised an orphanage with a visit and invited the children on an aquabus trip.”

Navia’s face lit up at the mention of her organization’s efforts, pride and enthusiasm evident in her wide smile. “Ah yes!” she exclaimed brightly. “That trip was such a joy—it was wonderful seeing their faces light up like that.”

Neuvillette nodded slowly, his expression thoughtful. “I thought it was… truly remarkable,” he said earnestly. “To see such kindness and generosity extended to those children—it left quite an impression on me. So, I was wondering,” he continued hesitantly, as though uncertain how his request might be received. “If Baroness Caspar might consider inviting me to join one of your future visits?”

Navia blinked in surprise, momentarily caught off guard by the unexpected request. Then her face broke into a delighted grin. “Your Highness,” she said with a laugh that rang clear and bright like bells on a spring morning. “Do you mean you want to patron the orphanage?”

Neuvillette inclined his head ever so slightly in confirmation, his expression calm yet resolute. This was unfamiliar territory for him—his life had always been defined by duty and protocol, not personal gestures of goodwill—but something about this felt right. “Yes,” he replied simply, his voice steady despite the slight awkwardness of admitting his intentions out loud. Patronage meant offering financial support—or so he assumed—and if that was all it entailed... well, he had more funds than he could ever reasonably spend in one lifetime. Surely Wriothesley wouldn’t begrudge him using some of his allowance for such a noble cause.

“That’s… That’s a wonderful idea!” Navia exclaimed enthusiastically, leaning forward eagerly. Her eyes sparkled with excitement again, more than before, as she began rattling off possibilities. “Oh—you know—the children are going to absolutely adore you! Your Highness visiting them? It’ll be such an honor for them! We actually have plans to visit a few more orphanages soon—though we’ve been running low on funding lately…”

“Navia—” Clorinde interjected sharply, swatting Navia lightly on the arm as if attempting to rein in her fiance’s exuberance.

But Navia merely waved off Clorinde’s admonishment with a dismissive gesture and continued unabated. “Well,” she said with an impish grin directed at Neuvillette, “as long as His Highness is involved, I’m sure we can plan something truly spectacular together.”

Clorinde sighed quietly but couldn’t entirely suppress the faint smile tugging at her lips as she watched Navia's boundless energy fill the room like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. Meanwhile Neuvillette’s lips curved into another small smile that conveyed both gratitude and quiet amusement at Navia’s spirited response. For all her unorthodox manners and irreverent humor, there was no denying the sincerity behind Navia's words or actions.

“Well then,” Neuvillette said. “Do extend an invitation for your next visit.”

“I certainly will,” Navia said. “Your Highness will certainly become the most beloved figure in Fontaine soon, if you were not already.”

Wriothesley found himself once again at the Opera Epiclese, though not for a moment of respite or indulgence. The stage, usually reserved for elaborate plays, had transformed into something entirely different tonight. A magician’s act was set to take center stage—an up-and-coming performer whose name had begun to ripple through Fontaine like a sudden gust of wind across still waters. The stage glimmered faintly under the soft glow of gaslights, their flickering flames casting long shadows over the intricate set pieces: an ebony table adorned with silken cloths, a gilded birdcage that seemed almost too ornate to be real, and a series of props that hinted at mysteries yet to unfold.

From his vantage point near the shadowed edges of the room, Wriothesley caught sight of the magician himself—a young man whose tailored coat shimmered faintly under the light. His movements were deliberate yet fluid as if every step and gesture were part of some unseen choreography. At his side stood his assistant—his younger twin sister—whose presence added a layer of intrigue to their act. She was dressed in a striking ensemble that mirrored her brother’s aesthetic yet bore its own flair: a fitted jacket with intricate embroidery resembling constellations and a flowing skirt that swirled like smoke with each step she took.

The twins moved in perfect synchrony as they prepared for their performance, their silent exchanges speaking to years of shared practice and unspoken understanding. There was something undeniably magnetic about them—a brand built not just on skill but on charm and the unique bond they shared. Wriothesley couldn’t help but acknowledge it; even he, who had come here with other matters pressing heavily on his mind, found his attention snagged by their presence.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” came the magician’s voice at last, smooth and resonant as it carried across the hall. A hush fell over the crowd as he continued, “Tonight, we invite you to step beyond the veil of the ordinary and into a world where the impossible becomes reality.”

A smattering of applause greeted his words, but Wriothesley’s focus shifted before he could hear more. As much as he might have liked to linger—if only for a few moments longer—he knew better than to let himself be lulled by the allure of spectacle. The weight of responsibility pressed against him like an iron hand on his shoulder, urging him forward.

“Not here for leisure tonight, are we?” came a familiar voice from behind him, low and tinged with amusement. Wriothesley turned slightly to find Sigewinne standing there, her arms crossed and her expression unreadable save for the faintest quirk at the corner of her lips.

“Leisure?” he echoed dryly, allowing the ghost of a smile to touch his own features. “When have you ever known me to indulge in such luxuries, Matron? And why are you here and not Palais Mermonia?”

Sigewinne tilted her head thoughtfully before replying. “You might surprise me one day. And also, I’m not you.” Her gaze drifted toward the stage where the magician had begun his first trick—a flourish of silk scarves that seemed to multiply endlessly in his hands. “They’re good,” she remarked after a moment. “Better than I expected.”

“They have talent,” Wriothesley admitted, though his tone remained measured. “And they know how to captivate an audience.”

Sigewinne glanced back at him, her keen eyes studying his expression. “But you’re not staying to watch.”

“I can’t afford to,” he said simply. His voice held no bitterness—only quiet resolve.

“Duty calls,” she murmured knowingly. Wriothesley almost wanted to tease her and asked if she came here because she was worried for him. Instead, he nodded once before stepping past her toward one of the side corridors that led away from the main hall. The noise of the crowd grew fainter with each step he took until it became little more than a distant hum.

Stepping out of the opera hall, Wriothesley’s polished boots clicked against the marble steps, the sound sharp in the quiet evening air. The golden glow of gas lamps lined the theater’s entrance, casting flickering shadows across his dark, tailored coat. He feigned a look of faint surprise as his eyes fell on Charlotte, who stood poised with her leather-bound notepad clutched in one hand and a slightly battered camera slung over her shoulder. Her cheeks were kissed pink by the crisp evening air, though her expression betrayed nothing but steely determination.

“Miss Charlotte,” Wriothesley greeted smoothly, a slow, deliberate smile tugging at his lips. “I see you're hard at work again.”

Charlotte shifted her weight to one foot, her grin widening like a cat that had cornered its prey. Her confidence was almost unnerving. “I knew it,” she said with a playful lilt. “Third time’s a charm.” She didn’t flinch, even though she was now alone with the King—a man whose rise to power was whispered about in hushed tones across all of Fontaine.

Wriothesley inclined his head slightly, his eyes catching hers with an amused glint. He extended his hand, and she met it firmly without hesitation. For someone so petite in stature, her handshake carried surprising strength. “Shouldn’t you be inside covering the performance? Or are you here for something else entirely?”

Charlotte didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she simply raised an eyebrow at him, her silence loud and deliberate. Wriothesley chuckled softly, folding his arms across his chest as he glanced back toward the glowing entrance of the opera house.

“So,” he continued with mock curiosity, “you’re waiting for me? Are you planning to stand out here this entire time on the off chance you might catch me leaving?”

“If I can’t get an interview with Your Majesty through Palais Mermonia’s bureaucracy,” Charlotte shot back without missing a beat, “this is my best shot.”

“Persistent,” Wriothesley remarked with a low laugh that rumbled from deep within his chest. As expected, Charlotte somehow knew he’d been coming to Opera Epiclipse in incognito. Wriothesley had decided that it was the time to get information out of her, in ways that didn’t hurt her, of course. And since the beginning of his reign, there was only one thing Charlotte from The Steambird wanted.

He gestured for her to follow him. “Come then.”

Charlotte blinked—just once—but quickly fell into step beside him as he led her toward a side door tucked behind the grand facade of the hall. Her mind raced as she tried to reconcile how easily this opportunity had fallen into her lap after months of dead ends and polite refusals from Palais Mermonia’s gatekeepers.

“Wait,” she said suddenly, stopping mid-stride. Her wide eyes searched his face for any sign of jest. “Now? Right now?”

Wriothesley turned back to face her fully, tilting his head ever so slightly as if studying her reaction. A smirk tugged at one corner of his mouth. “Do you want to try your luck with Palais Mermonia again?” he asked dryly. “Or perhaps you enjoy getting kicked out?”

“No! This is great!” Charlotte blurted hurriedly before he could change his mind. She clutched her notepad tighter and followed him into the room beyond the door. The space was modest compared to the opulence of the opera hall—simple wooden furniture and walls adorned with faded portraits of long-forgotten nobles—but it was private.

Wriothesley closed the door behind them with a soft click, then motioned toward one of the chairs by the small desk in the corner. “Please, sit,” he offered evenly.

Charlotte hesitated for only a moment before taking her seat. As she flipped open her notepad and readied her pen, she glanced up at him. “Do you need to approve my questions first?” she asked curiously.

“I have a feeling,” Wriothesley began as he leaned casually against the edge of the desk opposite her, arms crossed loosely over his chest, “that you wouldn’t change your questions even if I did.” His tone was light but carried an unmistakable undertone of respect for her resolve. “Go ahead, Miss Charlotte,” he added with a small nod. “You may begin.”

Charlotte took a deep breath to steady herself before speaking. Her voice was firm but devoid of malice—she wasn’t here to provoke him or twist words; she sought only clarity and truth. “Why now?” she asked directly, her voice cutting through the room like a finely honed blade. Her piercing gaze locked onto him, unwavering and sharp, as though she could extract the truth from him with sheer willpower alone. The air between them hummed with tension, taut as a bowstring.

Wriothesley’s lips twitched ever so slightly at her audacity—a flicker of amusement that danced across his face for the briefest of moments before vanishing entirely. His expression settled into one of calm control, but his eyes betrayed a glint of something almost... playful. He tilted his head slightly, as if weighing her words against some private scale within his mind, before his deep voice rolled out smoothly, steady as the tide.

“I’ve known Prince Neuvillette my whole life,” he began, his tone deceptively casual, though every word was deliberate. “And this,” he gestured vaguely with a hand, as though encompassing not just the moment but the entire coup itself, “is the only way I would ever be good enough to be his spouse.”

Charlotte froze mid-motion. Her pen hovered above her notepad like a bird poised to dive, suspended in disbelief for half a heartbeat. The absurdity of his words was incongruous in its boldness. But then, just as quickly, her pen resumed its rapid scribbling across the page. The scratch of ink against paper filled the brief silence that followed. She didn’t blink. She didn’t scoff or laugh as most might have done at such a blatantly fabricated answer. Instead, she nodded once, briskly, as if humoring him—or perhaps acknowledging some unspoken game they were playing. “Assuming that’s true,” she began thoughtfully, her voice laced with an almost clinical detachment, though her eyes gleamed with curiosity. She tapped the end of her pen lightly against her chin, a rhythmic punctuation to her thoughts. “Wouldn’t it have been more convenient to wait? Play the role of a savior instead?”

For the first time since their conversation began, Wriothesley’s composure faltered—barely. It was subtle: a slight arch of one dark eyebrow that betrayed both surprise and intrigue at her line of questioning. He didn’t interrupt, nor did he immediately offer a rebuttal. Instead, he leaned back further ever so slightly, his fingers drumming once against the desk before stilling. He knew exactly she’d asked these questions but still, it was quite surprising to hear the actual words spoken.

He’d let him take the lead for now. The more he played along, the more he’d get information about the source of leaks within the upper court.

Charlotte seized the moment to press on, her voice gaining momentum like a river surging past a broken dam. “You weren’t exactly isolated from Fontaine’s court, despite Meropide’s reputation and how young you were when you became a Duke.” she pointed out matter-of-factly, her words crisp and precise. “Surely you noticed that it was crumbling under its own weight? Corruption rotting it from the inside out? If you’d waited just a few more months, let Prince Neuvillette ascend first, let him inherit the mess that was brewing… you wouldn’t have had to lift a finger. The chaos would’ve swallowed him whole.” Her voice sharpened here, every syllable landing with precision. “And when it did,” she added coolly, leaning forward just enough to close some of the space between them, “everyone—the people, the court—they would’ve begged for someone like you to step in.”

The room seemed to hold its breath in the wake of her words. Even the faint ticking of the ornate clock on the mantle seemed muted somehow, as though time itself had paused to listen.

Wriothesley studied her in silence for a long moment, his gray-blue eyes narrowing fractionally and there was something wolfish about him in that instant—a predator assessing whether or not its prey was worth pursuing further.

Finally, he exhaled softly through his nose. As expected, the previous court had milked Fontaine for all its worth, bleeding it dry with their insatiable greed. Wriothesley’s lips twitched into a grim semblance of a smile, though there was no humor in it—only the bitter satisfaction of seeing his suspicions confirmed. The undercurrent of frustration tugged at him, but he forced it down like swallowing a bitter tonic. Fontaine had been teetering on the brink of collapse long before he’d marched with the coup. The nation’s coffers had been siphoned nearly dry, its people left to bear the brunt of aristocratic excess while the court feasted behind gilded doors. But what angered him most wasn’t just the corruption—it was the cold precision with which they had orchestrated their escape route. They had already begun laying down their sacrificial lamb: Neuvillette.

Though it was something that most members of parliament had known about to some degree—this grand scheme to scapegoat Neuvillette—aristocrats would never admit such knowledge openly. Wriothesley could practically hear their voices in his mind: smooth, practiced tones dripping with false innocence as they swore ignorance. They would have played their parts well, all too eager to grovel at the feet of whoever next claimed power if it meant preserving their own positions.

What Wriothesley needed now wasn’t confirmation that such plans had been common knowledge among the elite—that much was obvious to anyone paying attention. No, what mattered now was discovering who among them had run their mouth through unofficial channels. Someone’s carelessness—or perhaps arrogance—had allowed critical information to filter down into Fontaine’s underbelly, where whispers turned into rumors and rumors found their way to people like Charlotte.

This was one way to narrow down the list of potential rebels he must deal with. Removing them was only part of the battle; understanding their network and dismantling it piece by piece would be far more arduous.

“You’re sharp,” Wriothesley said at last, his voice quieter now but no less commanding. There was an edge to it—a faint undercurrent of respect mingled with something darker, harder to place. “But you’re also assuming,” he began slowly, “that I wanted their begging.”

Charlotte didn’t flinch; instead, she met his gaze head-on. “That’s not what I’m assuming,” she countered smoothly. “I’m saying that Your Majesty had leverage, a unique position where you could’ve dictated how they saw you. Instead,” she continued pointedly, “you acted before they even realized they needed you.”

“And what makes you so certain,” he asked after another beat of silence. “that waiting would’ve changed anything? Fontaine wasn’t rotting—it was already dead by then. Waiting would’ve only given its corpse more time to stink.”

Charlotte raised an eyebrow at his response but didn’t back down. If anything, his retort seemed to ignite something within her. “So you decided to play executioner instead?” she shot back evenly. There was no malice in her tone—only curiosity tinged with an undercurrent of challenge.

Wriothesley’s mouth curved into a faint smirk—not one born of amusement but rather an acknowledgment of her persistence. “Executioner?” he repeated softly, almost musingly. “No.” He shook his head once before meeting her gaze again with unflinching intensity. “I did what had to be done because no one else would.”

“And yet,” Charlotte replied without missing a beat, “Your Majesty don’t deny that timing could’ve given you an advantage.”

“Timing,” Wriothesley said with a faint scoff—though there was no real humor behind it—“is something people only talk about when they’re not the ones in the thick of it.” His voice dropped slightly lower now—quieter but no less commanding—as he added firmly: “When you’re faced with a storm that threatens to sink everything around you, you don’t sit around debating whether it’s convenient to act or not—you move.”

The conviction in his words was a stark contrast to Charlotte’s calculated logic moments ago. And yet…she didn’t look away from him or shrink back under the weight of his argument.

Instead, she let out a soft breath through her nose—a sound that wasn’t quite agreement but wasn’t outright dismissal either. “Fair enough,” she said finally after another pause stretched between them. “But don’t tell me Your Majesty didn’t consider it—even for a moment.”

He let those words hang for a moment before continuing, his tone shifting slightly—becoming almost confessional in its candor. “Convenience doesn’t win wars,” he said plainly. “It doesn’t inspire loyalty or fear or respect—not in any lasting way.” His gaze bore into hers now with an intensity that made it impossible to look away. “And it certainly doesn’t change systems that have been broken for decades.”

Charlotte’s hand stilled again mid-scribble as she absorbed his words. For all her practiced neutrality she couldn’t entirely suppress the faint flicker of surprise that crossed her features.

“So,” she said slowly, after a beat of silence that seemed to stretch just long enough to make it deliberate. Her head tilted slightly to the side, the motion almost feline, as though she were studying him afresh, peeling back layers of pretense to glimpse something raw beneath. Her voice was light, inquisitive, but there was a sharpness hidden in its edges, like a blade wrapped in silk. “You’re saying this isn’t about power?”

The question lingered in the air, sharp yet deceptively casual, like the kind of remark meant to test boundaries. Wriothesley didn’t answer immediately. Instead, a low chuckle followed, rumbling deep in his chest like distant thunder, soft but carrying an undercurrent of something she couldn’t quite name. Was it derision? Amusement? Or perhaps... respect?

The corner of his mouth lifted in what could have been approval—or perhaps it was merely amusement at her audacity. “Power,” he repeated softly, tasting the word as though he were testing its weight on his tongue. “An interesting assumption.”

Charlotte’s lips quirked upward in response, mirroring his faint smile but with an added layer of mischief that made it uniquely hers. She crossed her arms loosely across her chest, her fingers drumming lightly against her elbow as though marking time to some internal rhythm only she could hear. “Isn’t it always about power with people like you?” she countered smoothly, her tone airy but her gaze razor-sharp.

Wriothesley inclined his head slightly, acknowledging her point without conceding it outright. “Perhaps,” he allowed after a moment’s pause. “But then again... perhaps not.”

Her eyebrows lifted fractionally at his evasive reply, she was skeptic. Before she could press him further, however, he leaned forward slightly, his movements deliberate and unhurried. “Can I ask you something? Where,” he continued slowly, drawing out the word as though savoring its significance, “did you hear about this supposed ascension pllan?” His eyes never left hers as he spoke; they seemed to bore into her with an intensity that made it impossible to look away. “You sound so certain that had I not interfered, Prince Neuvillette would’ve ascended in a few months after the coup anyway.”

Charlotte didn’t flinch under his scrutiny; if anything, she seemed to thrive on it. A slow smile spread across her face—not wide enough to be gloating but just enough to suggest she found his question... amusing. “I have my sources,” she replied lightly, the words rolling off her tongue with practiced ease.

His eyebrows arched ever so slightly at her response. “Your sources,” he echoed dryly, his tone laced with just enough skepticism to make her grin widen. “Would you care to share them?” he pressed after a moment. There was something almost playful in the way he asked the question—as though he already knew what her answer would be but wanted to hear her say it anyway.

Charlotte tilted her head again, this time in mock contemplation. She tapped a finger against her chin as though weighing his request before finally responding with a shrug that was equal parts nonchalant and coy. “That depends,” she said at last, her voice smooth as velvet. “Am I in any position to bargain with the King?”

For a moment, there was silence, then Wriothesley laughed. A soft yet genuine sound that warmed the otherwise cool atmosphere of the room. He shook his head slightly as though amused by her audacity. “Clever,” he remarked quietly, almost to himself. Straightening up, Wriothesley let his arms fall loosely at his sides, subtly reasserted his authority without needing words to do so. His gaze remained fixed on Charlotte as he took a single step closer—not enough to invade her personal space but just enough to remind her who held the upper hand. “Well,” he said at last, his tone deceptively casual as though they were discussing nothing more consequential than the weather. “You just implied that you believe Prince Neuvillette would’ve failed as king—which some might argue borders on treason.” He let the accusation hang in the air for a moment before continuing with a faint smirk playing at the corners of his lips. “Careful now... not everyone would be so forgiving.”

“Forgiving?” she echoed softly after a beat of silence. “I wasn’t aware forgiveness was part of your repertoire.”

For a moment—just a flicker—something unreadable passed across Wriothesley’s face: surprise? Amusement? Respect? Whatever it was vanished almost as quickly as it appeared, leaving behind only that enigmatic smile and those piercing eyes that seemed determined to unravel every secret she kept hidden.

“You’d be surprised,” he replied simply, leaving her to wonder whether he meant it as a promise or a warning—or perhaps both.

Charlotte tilted her head slightly but didn’t flinch under his scrutiny. Instead, she smiled, ripped a piece of page from her book to give to Wriothesley before she asked boldly: “Can I ask just one more question? Something I can actually put on paper?”

Wriothesley studied her for a moment longer before inclining his head slightly in agreement. She was really smart, this journalist. Not in the showy way some people felt the need to flaunt but in the kind of way that lingered just beneath the surface until it struck when least expected. She knew exactly how far to push without crossing the line, and that made her dangerous in the best—and worst—ways. Charlotte wasn’t the type to sully her work with sensationalism or lies; he’d already gathered that much through his observation. She valued truth too highly for that—and yet she was no fool about it either. She understood which truths could be shared and which ones were better left unsaid. It was an art form in itself: knowing how much light to let into the room without blinding everyone in it. Still, for all her restraint when it came to public storytelling, there was no denying the fire that drove her pursuit of knowledge—the whole truth—no matter how inconvenient or uncomfortable it might be for those involved.

So for that, Wriothesley thought he'd reward her with it. “Go on.”

“What kind of King do you see yourself as?”

Her words did not land lightly. They weren’t tossed into the conversation like idle chatter meant to fill the space between breaths. No, her question carried weight—steady but probing, like a blade carefully drawn from its sheath. She wasn’t asking about policy or power or politics. Those were the superficial details, the scaffolding of rule that anyone could debate at length. Her question reached far deeper. It struck at the foundation of who he was—or perhaps who he thought he was. This was about identity, legacy, character. And she knew it.

What she didn’t know—what she couldn’t know—was how Wriothesley had never truly seen himself as anything at all.

“That,” Wriothesley said quietly, “remains to be seen.”

Chapter Text

The journey to the orphanage took a little less than an hour, yet to Neuvillette it seemed both impossibly brief and interminably long. He spent most of it in silence, eyes half-shuttered, his breath fogging the window whenever he leaned close enough to catch the faint outline of their destination. The world outside was still in the pall of late winter, stubborn patches of snow glistening on the rooftops and along the banks of the canal, the city’s dormant trees etched against a pewter sky. When the carriage finally drew to a halt, Navia was the first to rise, as energetic as ever even in the cramped confines of the coach.

“Ready, Your Highness?” she said, flashing a smile that did nothing to settle the nervous flutter in Neuvillette’s chest.

“Of course,” he answered, his voice as composed as marble. He had spent the entire journey practicing that very tone, smoothing out any betraying quaver, reminding himself that he was the Prince—heir or not—and that children were not, in fact, a breed of wolf. Still, his hands trembled as he gathered his overcoat and gloves.

Clorinde, already waiting at the door with his cane, glanced over her shoulder. “You’ll be fine,” she said in her measured way, but there was a lightness at the corner of her mouth that he’d never seen during state business. “Just be yourself. Or, failing that, try not to frighten them.”

He nodded, once, and stepped out into the bracing chill, one hand accepted the cane and he held on to it.

The orphanage was an unassuming building, its facade weathered but dignified, with a brass plaque above the door that read: Maison des Etoiles. The entrance hall was neither grand nor austere, but practical, lined with hooks for coats and cubbies for boots, the flagstones swept but not quite free of the city’s persistent grit. Past a set of swinging doors they entered the main hall—dining room by function, assembly hall by necessity, a cavernous space filled with the low hum of childish voices.

The sight of so many children at once—the youngest perhaps only two, the oldest nearly adolescent—struck Neuvillette with a kind of awe. The tables were arrayed in neat rows, flanked by benches scuffed and gouged by years of use. On the walls hung a patchwork of bright, lopsided paintings: ships sailing turbulent seas, improbable animals with too many legs, shaky attempts at the royal crest. Everywhere he looked was color and motion, and the faint, comforting aroma of something yeasty baking in the kitchens.

Navia and Clorinde were immediately swept into the tide of activity. A matronly woman with forearms like rolling pins came forward to greet them, her smile warm and utterly sincere. “Baroness Caspar, Dame Clorinde—it’s an honor,” she said, and bowed with surprising grace for someone so solidly built. “Prince Neuvillette, we’re so delighted to receive you today.”

He returned the bow, careful not to overplay it. “The pleasure is mine,” he replied. “Thank you for the invitation.”

“Not at all. The children have been looking forward to this for days.” The woman’s eyes crinkled as she gestured toward the end of the hall, where a small stage stood at the ready. “Would you like to say a few words before the program?”

He hesitated. “I—” But Navia stepped in, her hand on his elbow.

“He’s terribly modest,” she said, covering for him without a beat. “Why don’t we save the speeches for after the performances?” She leaned closer to Neuvillette, her voice lowered to a conspiratorial murmur. “They’re all expecting you to have stage fright. It’s their favorite game.”

Neuvillette managed a wry smile, but the knot in his chest only tightened.

Soon, the children were ushered onto the benches, a sea of bright eyes and fidgeting limbs, as Navia mounted the stage. She did not announce herself, instead launching straight into a story—a wildly exaggerated account of how she once bested a band of sky pirates on a moonless night. She gestured with her whole body, acting out the parts with a bravura worthy of the Comédie Royale, her voice vaulting from thunderous to a theatrical whisper with every twist. The children were rapt, shrieking with laughter at the slapstick, gasping at each new escalation. Every so often she would glance at Clorinde, who stood just offstage, arms crossed but eyes gleaming with amusement. When Navia reached a particularly outlandish claim—something about a kraken with a taste for rhubarb pie—Clorinde interjected dryly from the wings, “That’s not how the story goes.”

“But you weren’t there,” Navia countered, never missing a beat. “And besides, who would you believe—me, or someone who’s never even seen a kraken?”

This drew a round of delighted giggles, and Clorinde, lips twitching, conceded the point. She stepped forward and, with the smallest nod from Navia, took over the narrative. Her version was quieter, more precise, but woven through with an understated wit. She described, in a tone of grave importance, the intricacies of knot-tying and the discipline required to run a tight ship, and though the laughter was softer now, the children listened just as intently. Every few sentences, Clorinde would cast a sidelong glance at Neuvillette, as if inviting him to join or at least to bear witness that she was not, in fact, making any of this up.

He sat at the far end of the hall, legs already tired and ached, hands folded on his lap, watching the two women command a room of fifty with nothing more than words. There was no audience in the world more difficult to please than a hall full of children, yet Navia and Clorinde had them in the palm of their hand. Neuvillette felt suddenly, acutely aware of his own lack—his inability to improvise, his stiff, overformal diction, the way he hesitated at every moment requiring genuine ease. He could not remember the last time he had made someone laugh.

A few of the younger children at the nearest table had begun to glance in his direction, their curiosity barely masked by shyness. One, a small boy with a mess of black hair and a gap-toothed smile, looked as if he was working up the nerve to approach. When their eyes met, the boy looked away instantly, cheeks coloring, but a few seconds later peeked back through his fingers. His friends nudged him in encouragement. Neuvillette was at once grateful and mortified.

He kept his gaze steady, hoping that by sheer will he could make himself seem less intimidating, more... approachable. He softened his posture, let his hands hang at his sides, even forced a small smile. After a minute, the boy made his move, sidling up with the hesitant swagger unique to children who are daring themselves to do something foolish. “Excuse me, Your Highness,” he said, voice barely above a whisper, “would you like to see our classroom?”

Neuvillette blinked. “I—yes, certainly.” The relief that flooded through him at being given a role, any role, was nearly overwhelming. He bowed his head slightly. “Please, lead the way.”

The boy grinned and looked back at his friends, who immediately erupted into a chorus of muffled excitement. Before Neuvillette knew it, he was surrounded by a small cadre of guides—three boys and two girls, all talking over one another in their eagerness. Their hands hovered at his sides, uncertain whether it was proper to grab him or not. He solved the dilemma by extending his gloved hand, palm open and waiting. The children accepted with shy smiles, their fingers small and cool in his, some even reached for his cane to give more support.

They marched him proudly down a hallway, past a series of doors each painted a different color. The walls here were more plainly decorated, but every so often Neuvillette caught a glimpse of something personal—a crooked family photo, a paper lantern made from recycled newsprint, a dried bouquet tied with twine and hung beside a window.

In the classroom, which doubled as a playroom, the children showed off their treasures: a shelf of battered encyclopedias, a glass terrarium where a turtle dozed in a sunbeam, a map of Fontaine dotted with colored pins. “That’s where we live now,” said one of the girls, indicating the city with a careful finger. “But my brother was born there,” pointing to a distant coastal town. They argued cheerfully over who had the most distant birthplace, laughing when it was determined that none of them could quite recall the exact geography of Inazuma. Neuvillette answered their questions when asked—How old are you? Have you ever been in a swordfight? Is it true you have a pet dragon?—but mostly, he listened. He discovered, to his mild surprise, that he enjoyed it.

The tour continued, winding through the modest but lovingly maintained rooms: the infirmary with its jars of herbal remedies, the sunroom lined with mismatched armchairs, the tiny garden out back where hardy winter vegetables clung to life beneath glass cloches. Everywhere they went, the children pointed out things that mattered to them—not the cracked windowpanes or patched-together furniture, but the stuffed rabbit that served as their class mascot, or the faded blue ribbon from last year’s harvest festival.

The orphanage’s second floor was accessible by a narrow, spiraling staircase that seemed designed for smaller feet than his. Neuvillette allowed himself to be pulled along, the warmth of the children’s hands contrasting with the draft seeping through the cracks in the stairwell and they were instinctively gentle with his injuries that made him unable to walk too fast. Their voices, unconstrained now by the presence of adults, ricocheted off the plaster walls as they debated the best route for the tour.

“This way is faster,” declared the gap-toothed boy, ducking beneath Neuvillette’s arm and disappearing up the next flight.

“No, this way!” countered the girl with the impossibly long braids, her eyes bright and unblinking as she tugged him gently in the opposite direction.

Neuvillette acquiesced, splitting the difference and following the braided girl while the others shrieked in mock protest. They emerged into a corridor lined with doors, each painted a different color, and she led him to the very last one. She paused, her hand on the knob, and glanced up at him as if expecting permission.

“May I show you our library, Your Highness?” she asked.

He smiled at her formality. “I would be delighted.”

The door opened onto a room even smaller than he expected, just wide enough for a mismatched assortment of armchairs and a single narrow bookcase that groaned under the weight of its contents. The windows were patched with old oilcloth, the panes set askew, but sunlight still managed to filter through, casting a golden net across the warped wooden floor. Here the walls were festooned with more art, some of it recent—boldly colored and wildly abstract—but much of it old, curling at the edges, the colors faded but never entirely lost.

“It’s very cozy,” Neuvillette said, scanning the shelves for familiar titles. There were books in every condition, from fine gilt-edged volumes to battered paperbacks held together by twine and optimism.

The girl nodded proudly. “We take turns being the librarian. Next week it’s my job to dust the shelves and check out the books.”

He knelt to her level, careful to move slowly so as not to intimidate. “And what is your favorite?”

She considered this, twisting her braid around her fingers. “Right now, I like the one about the explorers who go to the moon. There’s a picture of them planting the flag, and you can see the whole world from up there.”

She retrieved the book from the shelf and held it out to him, her hands small but steady. Neuvillette took it with reverence, flipping through the thick pages. The illustrations were vivid, more fanciful than accurate, but he was moved by the way the artist had rendered their planet—a blue orb, wreathed in white, suspended in the dark.

“It’s a beautiful story,” he agreed, closing the book gently.

The girl’s smile widened, and she hurried to replace the book before anyone could see her lingering with the prince.

The rest of the children rejoined them, out of breath but grinning. The tour proceeded apace: a dormitory where every bunk was draped with handmade banners and paper chains; a washroom with ancient pipes that gurgled like distant thunder. Every stop was accompanied by a flurry of commentary—who had won last month’s sport contest, who was learning to play the flute, who had finally mastered the art of tying a necktie.

Neuvillette listened with the attentive air of a scholar at a symposium, nodding and asking questions when prompted. It was only when they passed a window overlooking the courtyard that he noticed the water stains creeping down the outer wall, the subtle bulge of plaster where the masonry had bowed under years of neglect. The signs of underfunding were everywhere, yet the children did not remark on them. Instead, they pointed out what they loved: the way the sun lit the uppermost branches of the mulberry tree, the tiny green buds just beginning to show after the long winter, the pigeons who always roosted under the eaves.

Then, the gap-toothed boy drew him aside, eager to show off their proudest achievement—a sprawling wall map just outside the headmistress's office. The map, hand-painted and continually updated, traced the routes of the city's new roads, each one painstakingly marked with colored twine and pins. Around the edges, in cramped but enthusiastic handwriting, the children had recorded the names of every street, every bridge, every aquabus stop that had opened in the last two years.

"We help with the map," said the boy, chin up. "Whenever they build a new road, we add it on. I was the first to find the shortcut through Court of Fontaine, four months ago."

Neuvillette traced one of the new routes with his finger. "It's very accurate," he said. "You must be proud."

"We are! Because now we can go everywhere." The boy's voice was matter-of-fact, but the words landed in Neuvillette's chest with unexpected force.

"Everywhere?" he echoed.

The boy nodded vigorously. "Before, we couldn't go far. But now, sometimes on Saturdays, we visit the other orphanages. We made friends in Morte-sur-Lac and even in Liffey!" He paused, searching Neuvillette's face for understanding. "It's good. We like it."

The boy's eyes lit up with sudden excitement, as if he'd just remembered the most important part. "And now some of us get to go to real school too! You know, like Céleste and Théodore—they're the smartest ones here, obviously. They take the morning aquabus to the Académie near the Court now, every single day!" He spoke their names with the confidence of someone certain that Neuvillette must surely know these remarkable individuals. "Céleste is really good at mathematics, and Théodore can read faster than anyone, even faster than Mademoiselle Berger sometimes. Before the new road to the aquabus station, it would have taken them two hours to walk there, but now it's only twenty minutes!"

The boy leaned closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "Théodore says the other children at the Académie don't even know he's from the orphanage. He just sits with them and does his lessons like he belongs there." The pride in his voice was unmistakable, as if Théodore's seamless integration was a victory they all shared.

Neuvillette took a step back, suddenly uneasy in the hush that followed. He regarded the map, its delicate lattice of thread, and realized that what to him had seemed a mere political initiative—one of Wriothesley's endless initiatives—had utterly transformed these children's world. He had heard talk of new roads, of increased traffic and lowered costs, of economic growth, but none of the dry reports had conveyed what it truly meant to the ones who walked those roads for the very first time.

“Thank you for showing me,” he said, his voice softer than he intended.

The boy ducked his head in embarrassment, then scampered away to join the others.

They continued the tour, each new room echoing with laughter and the thump of running feet. Even in the narrow, chilly attic, where the insulation was poor and the beams rattled in the wind, the children had hung paper lanterns from the rafters, their colors bright against the gloom. Yet, it was in there that the question came. The children had clustered around a crate of old costumes, eager to show off their favorites. A girl with hair coiled in intricate braids—she had the self-possession of a magistrate, and a voice to match—paused as she tugged a velvet cloak from the pile. She turned to Neuvillette with sudden solemnity, her eyes fixed on his.

“Where is King Wriothesley?” she asked, her tone neither accusing nor plaintive but simply curious.

The other children fell silent, waiting for his answer.

He felt a surge of cold that had nothing to do with the draft. The question caught him off guard, as if he had been asked to recite the exact hour of his own birth. He hesitated, searching for the precise response, careful to weigh each word.

“His Majesty is very busy,” he said at last, not quite meeting her gaze. “He has many duties, but he works for everyone in Fontaine. Especially for all of you.”

There was a long, considering pause, then the girl nodded as if this confirmed something she had already suspected.

“My cousin says the King is mean,” said one of the younger boys, his voice half-drowned in the sleeve of his sweater. “He made our teacher leave.”

“He’s not mean,” the girl corrected, shaking her head so that her braids clicked together softly. “He just doesn’t like to talk. That’s what Headmistress says.”

Neuvillette found himself at a loss, unsure whether to defend Wriothesley or let the conversation drift onward. In the end, the children rescued him, as they so often rescued themselves—by redirecting their energy toward something more immediate.

“Headmistress said Your Highness is married to the King?” the girl asked, her voice low and conspiratorial, as if this were the most closely guarded secret in the world.

Neuvillette considered his answer. “Yes,” he said finally. “I am.”

The children accepted this with a kind of reverence. For a moment, he was not the awkward prince or the consort-in-waiting, but a person who held access to something vast and mysterious. He felt oddly honored by their faith in him.

“Tell him we said thank you for the new roads.” said the gap-toothed boy.

He promised he would.

By the time they returned to the main hall, the stage had been taken over by a group of older children who were preparing a puppet show. Neuvillette’s group settled back at their original table, and several more children edged over, emboldened by his apparent harmlessness. He found himself answering more questions—about palace life, about his favorite animal (he had to think about this; perhaps a dog, because of Charon), about why his hair was so white when he wasn’t old at all. The attention was oddly comforting, like the low, steady rush of rain against a window.

When Navia and Clorinde finally joined him, the latter fixed him with a knowing look.

“You survived,” she said, a faint note of approval in her voice.

Neuvillette inclined his head. “They were very good guides.”

Navia smiled, pulling a chair up next to him. “You’re a natural,” she declared, with the confidence of someone who had never doubted the outcome for a moment. “They adore you already. You’ll be fielding marriage proposals from the older girls before dessert.”

He demurred at the compliment, but his eyes betrayed him with a rare, unguarded warmth.

Clorinde watched him for a moment, her expression thoughtful. “Did they ask about the King?”

He nodded, unsure how she could have known.

“They always do,” she said, almost to herself.

The children were gathered at the tables again, preparing for an early supper. As the matron led a short grace, Neuvillette felt the mood shift—gentler, more subdued, but no less joyful. He looked around at the patched walls and worn benches, at the faces illuminated by the last rays of afternoon, and found himself wishing he could stay longer. To observe, to listen, to try and understand the world as these children knew it.

After that, the orphanage’s headmistress called the children to gather. Her voice, patient but insistent, cut through the clamor and set the children into a well-practiced order. They formed rows with the precision of a drilled regiment, younger ones squirming in the front, the older children marshalling their siblings behind them, all eyes fixed on the visitors.

The room had transformed with the setting sun: its long, battered tables were now set for supper, and the rays streaming through the patched windows cast every floating dust mote into sharp relief. The air was thick with anticipation and the faint, nutty aroma of lentil stew. At the head of the assembly, the headmistress clapped her hands for silence.

“We have something important before our guests depart,” she said, her voice pitched to carry over the fidgeting and whispers. “Everyone, remember your thank-you cards?”

A collective gasp went up as children darted to their bags and pockets. Out came a riot of hand-folded paper, cut into hearts, boats, crowns, and the occasional improbable animal shape. Some cards had been colored with such fervor that the wax had worn through the paper. Others were decorated with meticulous, careful penmanship, the script wavering but earnest.

Neuvillette was not the only recipient—Navia and Clorinde found themselves inundated as well—but the children lined up with a quiet awe before presenting the prince with their tributes. The first card, pressed into his hands by a girl whose curls were as wild as her handwriting, simply read: “THANK YOU FOR SEEING US.” The words were surrounded by a border of stick figures holding hands, and in the center, a white-haired, purple-eyed rendering of Neuvillette himself, crowned with a halo of stars.

The next card, offered shyly by the gap-toothed boy, was addressed not to Neuvillette, but to Charon the rottweiler: “You seem good. Please come next time.” Beneath the text was a sketch of a dog—identifiable only by size and the distinct roundness of its ears—guarding a herd of sheep.

Neuvillette accepted each card with grave ceremony, bowing his head and murmuring his thanks. He found himself genuinely moved by the gestures, the sincerity so plain that it transcended the simplicity of the art. Navia and Clorinde received theirs with equal grace, though Navia made a great show of reading hers aloud, to the delight of the children.

As the cards made their way into the safe harbor of his satchel, Neuvillette caught Clorinde watching him from across the room, her expression unreadable but softer than he had ever seen it. She raised a single eyebrow, as if to ask: Are you all right?

He gave a subtle nod in return, not trusting his voice.

Eventually, the farewells began in earnest. Navia and Clorinde were swept into a vortex of hugs and waves, the children clinging to them with all the fervor of the newly converted. Neuvillette’s parting was quieter, but the line to shake his hand did not abate until every child had taken their turn, the smallest ones only able to grasp his fingers, the older ones holding his palm for just a beat longer, as if drawing something from him.

Once outside, the world felt different—sharper, more vivid. The carriage waited in the street, the horses stamping their feet against the encroaching cold. Navia and Clorinde settled inside with practiced ease, and Neuvillette, his satchel heavier than before, followed in their wake.

The ride back to Palais Mermonia was quiet. Navia had exhausted herself in the performance and now dozed lightly against Clorinde’s shoulder, her hands folded in her lap. Clorinde, gazing out the window at the darkening city, seemed to be counting the street lamps as they flickered to life, one after another.

Neuvillette used the time to sort through the cards, stacking them by size and shape, reading each one before tucking it safely away. Most were addressed to him directly, some to “His Highness the Prince,”. A handful, though, bore a different name. At first, he thought it an error—a misdirected message, perhaps. But as he examined the cards, the truth became plain.

Several were addressed, in uncertain but unmistakable script, to “King Wriothesley.”

He stared at the name, feeling the rhythm of the carriage and the hush of the interior close around him. On one card, the word “KING” had been written in capitals, then carefully colored in with blue wax pencil. The message beneath was short: “Thank you for the new school. Thank you for the roads.” On another, written in a looping hand, it said: “Please make it so Headmistress never has to cry again.” The final card was the most elaborate—a drawing of Palais Mermonia, its spires and towers rendered in bold, angular lines. At the base, three stick figures stood side by side: one white-haired, one black-haired, one yellow-haired. Above them, a fourth figure—taller than the others, with an unmistakable sweep of dark hair and a crown balanced precariously atop his head—stood at the palace gate. He was smiling.

Neuvillette closed his hand around the card and let out a slow, measured breath.

The cards settled into their neat stack, but his thoughts remained unsettled. The evening at Maison des Etoiles had been illuminating in ways he hadn't expected. The building itself told a story of neglect that no amount of fresh paint could entirely disguise—the warped floorboards in the dormitory that creaked ominously under even a child's weight, the windows that rattled in their frames, the walls that showed hairline cracks despite the headmistress's valiant efforts at maintenance. He had noticed, too, the way she had discreetly steered them away from certain areas, the apologetic glances when a door wouldn't close properly or when the evening chill seemed to seep through the walls with uncomfortable ease.

How many other orphanages throughout the kingdom were in similar—or worse—condition? The thought settled heavily in his chest. His position as Prince Consort came with a personal allowance, certainly, but would it stretch to cover the extensive renovations that seemed necessary? The costs would be substantial: proper heating systems, structural repairs, new dormitory furniture, updated kitchen facilities, perhaps even expansions to accommodate more children. And that was just for the institutions he knew of—there were likely others in the outer provinces that he had never visited, operating in conditions that would make Maison des Etoiles seem luxurious by comparison.

The mathematics of it were daunting. His allowance could perhaps handle one or two orphanages comprehensively, but a kingdom-wide initiative would require something more substantial. The thought of approaching other nobles for donations made him grimace slightly. Such requests would inevitably come with expectations, conditions, the social maneuvering that he had never quite mastered. Some would be generous, certainly, but others would see it as an opportunity to curry favor or to attach their names to charitable works for the prestige alone.

Still, if it meant ensuring that no headmistress would have to apologize for a building's shortcomings, that no child would shiver through winter nights in inadequately heated rooms... perhaps it would be worth navigating those treacherous social waters.

The remainder of the trip passed in the steady beat of hooves and the low murmur of the city rising to meet the night. By the time they reached the palace gates, Navia had stirred awake, rubbing her eyes and yawning extravagantly. Clorinde roused as well, stretching with the feline grace of a swordsman at rest.

They disembarked in the grand foyer, and Navia took his arm, guiding him up the marble steps with the air of someone shepherding a slightly dazed relative. “You did well, Your Highness,” she whispered, her voice warm and close to his ear. “They’ll remember today for the rest of their lives.”

He tried to reply, but his mind was already skipping ahead—unfolding and refolding itself around the question of what, if anything, he was meant to do with the cards addressed to the King.

They parted ways there, Neuvillette ascending alone toward the palace. Ite was uncharacteristically quiet, the staff keeping respectfully to the periphery, as if aware of the residue the day had left on him.

At the intersection of two empty corridors, he heard the low, even tread of boots against marble—a sound he would have recognized in any crowd. Wriothesley emerged from the gloom at the far end, hands clasped behind his back, posture as upright as ever.

The King came to a stop when he saw Neuvillette, blue eyes flickering to the satchel at his side, then back to his face.

"Good evening," Wriothesley said, voice even.

"Your Majesty," Neuvillette replied, bowing just enough to be polite, not so much as to seem deferential.

They stood in silence for a moment, the hush so complete that Neuvillette could hear the faint tick of the great hall's clock somewhere in the distance.

"I have something for you," he said finally, unslinging the satchel and removing the cards—only the ones addressed to the King. He held them out, stacked neatly and square, the topmost card with its hand-drawn palace and smiling stick figures front and center.

Wriothesley regarded the offering with a flicker of surprise, then took the cards in both hands, weighing them as if they might contain something other than paper. The moment his fingers touched the rough edges of the homemade paper, something shifted in his expression—a tightening around his eyes, barely perceptible. He did not open them immediately, but traced a thumb along the edge, feeling the unevenness of the homemade stock. The gesture was almost reverent, yet his mouth curved downward, as if the texture itself caused him physical discomfort.

"What is this?" he asked, not unkindly, though his voice had grown quieter, more strained.

Neuvillette hesitated. "Thank you notes. From the children at Maison des Etoiles. They—" He faltered, unsure how to explain the gravity of the thing. "They wanted you to know that the roads matter. That the school matters."

At the word 'thank you,' Wriothesley's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. His grip on the cards became more careful, as if they might crumble under too much pressure. He turned the stack over, then once more, as if searching for a flaw—or perhaps trying to convince himself they were real. For a long moment, he said nothing, but Neuvillette caught the way his breathing had become deliberately controlled, the way one breathes when fighting against some internal tide.

When Wriothesley finally looked up, there was something raw in his eyes before he shuttered it away. "Children," he repeated, the word hollow. His thumb stilled against the cards' edge. "They should not..." He stopped himself, shaking his head once, sharply.

The silence stretched between them, heavy with something Neuvillette couldn't name. He watched as Wriothesley's free hand moved unconsciously to his chest, pressing briefly against his ribs as if something there ached.

Finally, Wriothesley slipped the cards into an inner pocket of his coat, smoothing the flap closed with deliberate care. The motion was gentle, protective, but his face had gone carefully blank in the way of a man steeling himself against a blow.

"You should not…" He paused, searching for the words, and when he found them, they came out rougher than intended. "You should not do unnecessary things."

Neuvillette blinked, caught off guard by the statement. "Unnecessary?"

Wriothesley nodded, just once, but the movement was too sharp, too controlled. "It is not required of you, these… gestures." His eyes met Neuvillette's, level and unblinking, but there was something desperate lurking beneath the surface. "You do not need to act as courier for the court."

The words sounded rehearsed, as if he'd been preparing for this conversation—or one like it—for some time. But there was a brittleness to his composure that made Neuvillette study him more closely. Had Wriothesley always held himself so rigidly? Had his shoulders always been quite so tense?

Neuvillette considered this. He thought of the children, their pride and their gratitude, and of the cards now tucked away against the King's chest. He thought, too, of the unspoken gulf that had grown between them in recent months, and how for all his effort, he had never quite managed to bridge it. But now, watching Wriothesley's careful mask, he wondered if the distance had been intentional—and if so, why it seemed to pain the King as much as it puzzled Neuvillette.

"I know," he said, his voice steady. "But it seemed important. To them. To you."

Something flickered across Wriothesley's face at those last two words—a wince, quickly suppressed. His hand moved again to his pocket, pressing against the cards through the fabric, and for a moment his composure cracked just enough to reveal something that looked almost like grief.

"To me," Wriothesley repeated, so quietly it was barely audible. The words seemed to catch in his throat. He closed his eyes briefly, and when he opened them again, they held a weight that Neuvillette had never seen before—the kind of exhaustion that came not from sleepless nights, but from carrying secrets too heavy for one person to bear.

Wriothesley inclined his head in acknowledgment, the motion jerky, unnatural. The light from the corridor's sconces caught the edge of his profile, throwing his expression into half-shadow, but not before Neuvillette glimpsed what might have been tears gathering at the corners of his eyes.

"Thank you," the King said, very softly, as if it pained him to admit the necessity of anything at all. The words seemed torn from him, laden with a significance that Neuvillette could sense but not understand.

Neuvillette bowed again, a little deeper this time, and turned to leave. But as he walked away, he found himself troubled by what he'd witnessed. The gratitude had clearly affected Wriothesley deeply, but not in the way one might expect. It was as if the cards had wounded him rather than pleased him, as if the children's innocent thanks had reopened some old hurt that refused to heal.

He did not look back until he reached the end of the corridor, but when he did, Wriothesley was still standing there, one hand pressed to the pocket where the cards rested, as if holding something precious and breakable inside. His head was bowed, shoulders curved inward in a posture of defeat that sat strangely on a king's frame. In that moment, he looked less like a ruler than like a man drowning in the weight of his own choices.

For a long while after, Neuvillette could not decide whether Wriothesley's words had been praise or warning. But as he returned to his rooms, the weight of uncertainty was not so heavy as before. The cards had been delivered. The message, whatever it was, had been received.

And for now, that was enough.