ʚshaɞ

Tension, thick as clotting blood, still choked the throne room. A cold shiver traced a path down your spine. You had not released the breath you'd held since bursting into the chaos, and the metallic taste of fear and smoke still lingered on your tongue.

The dark-haired man faced your father with an unnerving stillness. He calmly retrieved his blade from the fallen traitor and wiped the steel clean on the blood-soaked wool of his own cloak. 

He did not kneel. He did not bow. He simply stood, making the once-imposing figure of your father seem small and fragile before his glacial presence.

“My men intercepted their reinforcements at the eastern pass,” he stated, his eyes lazily assessing his now-clean weapon. His tone was smooth, devoid of the adrenaline or pride such a feat should warrant. “It seems we arrived just in time.”

Your father stuttered, a soft, broken sound you had never heard from him. The King, who was accustomed to commands and obedience, now found his life and crown indebted to a man who looked upon him with the apathy of a sculptor regarding a block of stone. 

King Aldric was no fool; he knew the precarious weight of such a debt.

He drew himself up, straightening his robes with a tremulous hand, trying to weave threads of authority back into his voice. “Sir…” he began, each word measured and placed with extreme care. “The Crown owes you a great debt for your service this day. For saving my life and the stability of the realm itself. May I ask to whom I owe such a… decisive pleasure?”

In all his arrogant grace, he turned his head, his attention drifting from the king as if he were a faintly buzzing insect. His gaze swept the ravaged throne room, over the bodies and the blood-slick marble, before it landed on you. 

His eyes narrowed, just a fraction, not with curiosity, but with assessment, like a merchant evaluating a potentially valuable trinket. You held that calculating gaze, a strange hypnosis locking you in place, your heart hammering against your ribs.

“The name is Nicholas, Your Majesty,” he said, his voice a low hum that carried effortlessly across the space, still looking at you. “I have no house to claim, no title to remember me by. I am a blade for hire. A resolver of… problems.”

That seemed to take the king by surprise, his eyebrows lifting slightly. A common sellsword, however lethal, was not a figure typically granted audience in the throne room, let alone one who had just butchered a coup attempt almost single-handedly. 

This admission, rather than diminishing Nicholas, made him more terrifying. His power was not borrowed from lineage or land; it was entirely, unequivocally his own. And your father knew that those kinds of people were not to be easily impressed by crowns and divine authority. 

Finally, Nicholas deigned to look back at the king, a faint, icy smile touching his lips. “But even a simple blade expects its due reward.”

The king found his footing then, the language of transaction one he understood. “Of course. Name it. Gold? Lands? A title and a seat on the council? It shall be yours.”

Nicholas listened, his head tilted as if considering a mildly interesting proposal. He took a single, silent step forward, his boots making no sound on the gore-streaked floor. He stopped at the base of the dais, looking up at your father not as a subject to a king, but as an equal. Worse: as a creditor.

“I have no need for dusty titles or troublesome parcels of land,” he dismissed, his voice dropping into a more intimate, yet no less dangerous, register. “Gold is fleeting, Your Majesty, and I like to think of myself as a careful man, you see.” 

The air grew heavier. Everyone hung to every word he said, and the silence was only punctuated by the soft drip of blood from his cloak onto the marble.

“A title makes me a target. Land, a leash.” Nicholas’s gaze swept over the carnage, then back to the king, his expression one of cold analysis. “Gold can be stolen, or reclaimed by a king who regrets his generosity. These are not rewards. They are vulnerabilities.”

The king did not dare interrupt him, no matter how ungrateful and incredibly arrogant his reasoning was. 

“My duty was to my king. I performed it. The reward is… a separate matter. One of practicality.” He paused, letting the distinction hang in the air. “The earlier events have revealed a fragility, have they not? Were it not for a handful of men loyal to the idea of the crown…” He let the sentence trail off, a masterful stroke of implication.

His eyes flickered to you again, and you felt Fuma’s grip on your arm tighten almost imperceptibly, a silent declaration of his devoted protection.

“Has it not been for us,” Nicholas continued, his voice softening into something far more dangerous than a shout, “a few traitors would have been enough to murder you, Your Majesty. And the Gods alone know what would have then become of the realm’s only heir.”

The threat was veiled in concern, but it was a blade held to the throat of everything your father held dear. He was displaying the king’s failures, one by one.

“I have no need for gold or empty titles, and neither does the realm,” he stated, his tone shifting to one of grim finality. “It needs defense. Stability. And as today has so violently proven, it needs a strength that cannot be so easily… purchased by your enemies.”

He let the words settle. He was not asking for a reward. He was presenting himself as the only logical answer to a problem he had just defined.

“The crown must be secured. Permanently.” Nicholas’s voice was low, each word a hammer striking an anvil. “It needs a shield that cannot be broken. An alliance that demonstrates, beyond any doubt, that the realm’s future is not a thing of fragile porcelain, but of unyielding steel.”

A shiver, cold and sharp as a dagger’s point, traced its way down your spine. The implication was no longer a shadow; it was a shackle being forged before your eyes. There was no negotiation; it was a simple requisition.

Your father drew a shallow breath, his pride warring with the raw, undeniable truth of his vulnerability, laid bare by the bodies at his feet. He raised his chin in a last, defiant gesture, but the fire in his eyes had been banked by exhaustion and grim necessity. His voice, when it came, was tight, stripped of all its former authority. “Name your price, stranger.”

Nicholas looked directly at the king, his icy smile gone, replaced by an expression of chilling certainty. He did not blink. He did not hesitate.

“I will take the Princess’s hand.” The words were absolute, a decree. “It is the only guarantee that a night like this never happens again.”

Silence.

It was not the quiet of peace, but the void after an explosion. 

The air itself seemed to curdle. You felt the blood drain from your face, your world narrowing to the cold, assessing gaze of the man who had just declared himself your owner. 

From the corner of your eye, you saw Euijoo’s hands clench into impotent fists at his sides, his scholar’s frame trembling with a fury he had no means to act upon. 

Behind you, Fuma’s presence was a statue of coiled tension, his silence more screaming than any protest could have been.

And you, you were drowning on dry land. A scream gathered in your chest, but it lodged in your throat, heavy as a stone. Your lungs refused to draw air; your limbs were locked in place, weak and useless. The world began to narrow, the edges of your vision darkening as if you were staring down a long, black tunnel. The grand hall, the watching eyes, the stench of blood and smoke, it all melted into a muffled, distorted hum. You were a prisoner inside your own body, forced to watch the unraveling of your life in silence. 

The king closed his eyes for a brief, eternal moment. When he opened them, he looked not at Nicholas, but at you. In his gaze was an apology, a surrender, and the crushing weight of the crown.

He gave a single, stiff nod.

“It is done.”

Those two simple words hit you like a physical blow. The gilded cage you had always railed against had just acquired a new, far more imposing lock.

Your father turned to Nicholas, his voice shedding its momentary weakness, adopting the brisk tone of a merchant closing a deal. “You have proven your strength and your value tonight. It is a… worthy alliance. The realm will be stronger for it.” He gestured vaguely in your direction, without meeting your eyes. “The Princess accepts.”

Accepts.

A fresh, violent wave of fury boiled up from the pit of your stomach, so hot and sudden it threatened to make its way up your throat. Your nails dug half-moons into your own palms, the sharp pain the only thing grounding you to the spot, preventing you from shattering.

This was not just the usual political bargaining, the parade of simpering lords. This was different. This was a profound and personal betrayal. He had not merely ignored your wishes; he had gathered them up and handed them to a man who wore blood as others wore perfume. 

He had given his daughter, his only child, to a glorified assassin who had just carved his way through the throne room as if it were a butcher’s block. The man who now stood there, with his icy calm and calculating eyes, was not a suitor. He was a weapon, and your father had just sheathed him in your future.

You felt the weight of Nicholas’s gaze upon you again, a predator acknowledging yet another prey. A faint, almost imperceptible tilt of his head was his only reaction, and in that moment, you realized the  cage had not just acquired a new lock. The door had been opened, and a wolf had been invited inside.

“Good.” Nicholas smiled, a slow, cold curve of his lips so slight it did not reach his eyes. “Let us all retire, then, shall we? We will announce our betrothal tomorrow. I am in no rush.”

He spoke as if the palace, the schedule, and your life were already his to manage.

“And sleep comfortably,” he continued, his gaze sweeping over your father and then lingering on you, a subtle, mocking assurance. “My men and I will guard the castle tonight. Just in case any other… lingering loyalties… decide to test the new order. You are all safe and sound.”

The implication was clear. The threat was not just from outside, but from within, and he was the sole arbiter of what constituted safety. He was not asking for permission to post his guards; he was informing you of a fait accompli. 

With a slight, almost dismissive nod, he turned and strode from the throne room, his dark cloak sweeping past the bodies of the fallen as if they were merely inconvenient clutter.

The moment he was gone, the spell of terrified silence broke. A low murmur of panic and confusion rippled through the remaining courtiers and guards.

Your father finally looked at you, his face ashen. "It is for the best—" he began, his voice thick with a feeble attempt at justification.

But the words were a spark on the tinder of your shock. The numbness shattered, and a torrent of adrenaline—from the coup, the near-death, the cold-blooded executions, the brutal transaction of your future—crashed over you all at once. A raw, guttural sound tore from your throat.

"How could you?!" you screamed, the words echoing in the vast hall. You took several urgent, stumbling steps toward the throne. "How could you just… give me to him?! That… that butcher!"

You barely registered the movement, only the firm, unyielding pressure as Fuma’s hand closed around your upper arm, pulling you to a gentle but absolute halt. "Your Highness," he murmured, his voice low, a warning and a plea fused into one.

Your father flinched, but his expression hardened into the familiar, impenetrable mask of the king, whom he suddenly remembered was. He would not be challenged, not again, not by you. "That is enough," he bit out, his voice like cracking ice. "You will compose yourself. You will go to your bedchamber. We will not speak of this further tonight."

"Compose myself?" you choked out, a hysterical laugh bubbling up. "Father, please—"

"Go. To. Your. Chamber." The command was final, leaving no room for argument. His eyes, weary, flickered to Fuma. "Ser Fuma. Ensure the Princess retires. Immediately."

A heavy silence fell. Fuma did not move for a moment, his grip on your arm the only sign of the conflict raging within him. You could feel the tension in his hand, the slight tremor that betrayed his stoic facade.

Finally, with a quiet, defeated exhale, his resolve solidified. "Your Highness," he said, his voice taut with a pain he would never voice. "Come."

His touch was firm yet careful as he began to guide you, not roughly, but with an irrevocable sense of purpose, away from your father, away from the horror, and toward the room you would never feel safe in anymore. 

You threw one last, desperate look over your shoulder, but your father had already turned his back, his shoulders slumped in a portrait of infuriating resolve. 

And Euijoo, your clever, gentle Euijoo, remained a statue of misery, staring at the blood-stained marble as if he could find all the world's failures written there.

The heavy throne room doors boomed shut, severing you from the scene of your betrayal and enclosing you in the cold, silent gloom of the corridor. The last thread of your composure snapped.

Your legs gave way, the strength fleeing them as utterly as hope had fled your heart. You crumpled to the cold stone floor, the white fabric of your skirts pooling around you like spilled water. The tears you had been choking back finally broke free, hot and relentless.

"Why would you take me?" The question was almost a scream that tore at your throat. You looked up at Fuma, who stood over you. Silent. As ever.

He didn't move. He simply watched, his face a mask of stoic duty, but his eyes—you swore they talked. Only you couldn’t understand their language. 

A sob wracked your body, and you wrapped your arms around yourself, as if you could physically hold the pieces of your shattered world together. The question fell from your lips again, quieter now, stripped of anger and filled with a desolation that hollowed you out from within.

"Why would you take me...?"

It was no longer an accusation aimed at him, but a plea whispered into the uncaring darkness. Why had he, the one person sworn to stand between you and any harm, been the one to escort you to your doom? Why did your father, your only family, be the one to sell you away to a monster? And why did your only friend stand there, in the storm of it all, without uttering a single word?

Fuma did not answer. For a long moment, he was only the faint clink of armor and the shadow he cast over you. Then, he moved. Slowly, reverently, he knelt before you, the metal of his greaves scraping softly against the stone.

The movement made you look up. A shaft of pale moonlight fell through a high window, illuminating his face, and for the first time, the impenetrable wall in his eyes was gone.

You saw it then, clear as the tear-tracks on your own cheeks: a deep, resonant sorrow. It was in the slight tension around his eyes, the barely perceptible softening of his lips. It wasn't just duty you saw there—it was regret. He was sorry. Sorry for his part in this, sorry for your pain, sorry for the powerlessness that bound you both.

With those eyes, he held your gaze, allowing you to see the truth in them, offering this silent confession as his only form of comfort. 

The silent understanding that passed between you in the moonlight began to slowly quell the storm inside. Your ragged sobs softened into hitching breaths, the tension draining from your body, leaving you hollowed out and unbearably weary.

Seeing the shift, Fuma moved again with that same deliberate grace.  In one fluid motion, his arms slid beneath your knees and back, and he lifted you from the cold stone entirely, holding you against his chest.

The world tilted, and instinct made you curl into him. 

But the embrace was all hard, unyielding metal and the faint, cold scent of steel and blood. There was no comfort in it, only a stark, physical reality. You would be denied the warmth of a friend forever.

Defeated, you let your head rest against the cold pauldron of his shoulder. The chill of the metal against your hot temple was a strange relief, a solid anchor that cooled the fever of your despair.

Fuma turned and began to walk, his steps steady and sure, carrying you as if you were weightless. Your chamber was not far, but the journey felt eternal. The grand, shadowed corridors slipped past, the only sound the soft, rhythmic clink of his armor and the whisper of your skirts against his greaves. 

You closed your eyes, the last of your fight extinguished, a prisoner but in the arms of her own guard, being carried to her cell. 

Fuma carried you the rest of the way to your bedchamber in a silence broken only by the sound of his footsteps and the faint, rhythmic creak of his armor. He moved with a steadfast certainty that felt like the only solid thing left in a world that had crumbled into chaos and betrayal.

At your door, he stilled. The rules of propriety, as ingrained in him as his combat stances, dictated that he go no further. A royal guard did not enter the princess’s private chambers.

He shifted his weight, preparing to set you down, his voice a low, stern rumble. "I will keep watch."

The finality in his tone sent a fresh jolt of panic through your exhaustion-numbed body. Your fist, which had been lying limp against the cold steel of his breastplate, clenched involuntarily, the knuckles pressing white against the metal.

"Please..."

The fragile whisper was slurred with spent tears and weariness. It was not a command from the princess, but a desperate plea from a frightened girl. You knew you could not stand on your own, but that was a secondary concern to the dread of solitude. 

It was an implicit, impossible request: Don't leave me.

Fuma froze. The muscles in his jaw tightened visibly. For a long, suspended moment, he did not move, did not breathe, the conflict between his sworn duty and the unspoken need in your voice warring behind his eyes. The silence stretched, thin and taut as a wire.

Then, with a resolve that seemed to shift the very air around you, he adjusted his grip. Instead of setting you down, he turned and, with a soft nudge of his shoulder, pushed your chamber door open.

He crossed the threshold, carrying you into the dim room. It was a quiet breach of a lifetime of rules. He did not look at you, his gaze fixed straight ahead, as if by not acknowledging the transgression, it could somehow remain uncommitted.

He carried you to your bed with a slow, almost ceremonial care, lowering you onto the cool silk as if handling fine china. The sheets were cool against your skin, and when you opened your eyes, the world had narrowed to the space he occupied.

You expected him to retreat instantly, to re-establish the professional distance that was the bedrock of his service. But he did not flinch.

He remained bent over you, one arm still tucked beneath your shoulders, his face hovering mere inches from yours. The proximity was so sudden, it stole the air from your lungs. This was the closest you had ever been to him, close enough to see the faint scar cutting through his lip, the dark, unwavering focus of his eyes in the moonlight filtering through your window.

Your gaze, unbidden, traced a path over his features, from the intense, unblinking darkness of his eyes, down to the surprisingly soft curve of his lips, then further, to where the collar of his tunic gaped open. There, in that small, vulnerable space, was the strong column of his neck. In your exhausted, dizzy state, your mind unconsciously mapped the landscape of his skin: the faint pulse beating at the base of his throat, the shadow of a vein trailing downward, a small, dark mole just above the line of his armor.

Perhaps it was the residual terror, or the sheer exhaustion that made your head swim, but a strange, lightheaded feeling washed over you. It was compounded by the way his eyes, usually so fixed on the middle distance, seemed to be studying your face with a new intensity, his gaze dropping for a fleeting, heart-stopping moment to your own parted lips.

The air grew thick, and in the quiet, you could hear the soft, controlled sound of his breathing, contrasting with the frantic beat of your own heart. The cold, imposing knight was gone, and in his place was a man, a breath away, and you felt a confusing, treacherous warmth curl deep in your stomach.

An invisible thread, taut and humming, seemed to pull you from the mattress towards him. It was like a magnetic force that arched your spine, drawing you up from the silks without a single conscious thought. 

Closer.

But in the space of a single heartbeat, a flash of clarity crossed Fuma’s eyes. He moved faster than you had ever seen him, recoiling from the bedside and your proximity as if it had burnt him.

The sudden distance was like an ice-cold draft rushing over you. You shivered. 

“I…” Fuma was not a man of many words, but it was rare for him to find himself at a loss for words when he tried. He dragged a hand through his hair, the gesture uncharacteristically ragged, his gaze fixed determinedly on the shadows in the corner of the room—anywhere but on you.

Pushing up onto your elbows, you watched him, your eyes wide and imploring, begging for the words he was so clearly fighting.

“It is not… proper for me to stay here.” The words were ground out, each one cold and final as a slammed door. The statement was a blade, and you felt its edge cleanly sever the fragile connection between you.

The sharp clank of his greave hitting the floor registered a moment too late; he was already turning away. You moved with a desperate instinct. Without thought, driven only by the terrifying prospect of being left utterly alone, your hand shot out and closed around his wrist.

Your fingers, small and trembling, locked against the hard leather of his vambrace with a strength you didn't know you possessed, pulling him towards you.

His wrist, locked within your grasp, was a tense, unyielding line. You could feel the coiled strength in it, the potential to easily break your hold. But he did not. He simply stood, his back to you, his breathing a low, steady sound in the quiet room.

The silence stretched, but then, the tension in his arm slowly bled away. A deep, weary sigh escaped him. He did not turn, but his head bowed slightly, as if in submission to a force greater than his vows.

With painstaking slowness, he turned his hand within your grasp until his fingers could gently, but firmly, pry yours loose. He crossed the room and dragged a heavy, high-backed chair from the corner, its legs scraping harshly against the stone floor. He placed it against the wall, a significant distance from your bed, well beyond the bounds of propriety or even easy conversation. It was a compromise: a silent declaration that he would stay, but the chasm between you would remain.

He sat, the leather of his gear creaking as he settled into the seat. He did not lean back, but sat rigidly upright, his hands resting on his knees, every line of his body still that of a sentinel on duty. His gaze, impenetrable once more, fixed on the window, on the night.

"Rest," he commanded, his voice rough, leaving no room for argument. "You are safe. I am here."

It was not the comfort you had craved, but it was a shield. It was enough.

You did not argue. The last of your energy was spent. Letting out a shaky breath, you slowly lay back down, curling onto your side, facing him. The cool silk of the pillow soaked up the stray, final tear that escaped your eye.

In the dim light, he was a silhouette of steadfast resolve against the moonlit wall. You watched the sharp line of his profile against the faint glow from the window. The terrifying images of the night—the blood, the betrayal, Nicholas's cold eyes—began to blur and recede, replaced by the solid, silent reality of his presence.

Your eyelids grew heavy, the weight of the day finally pulling you under. The last thing you knew before sleep claimed you was the sight of him, keeping his watch, a solitary guardian in the quiet dark.

A dull, leaden weight filled your limbs as consciousness returned, not with clarity, but with a groggy reluctance. The warmth of the mid-morning sun painted gold on your closed eyelids, its intensity speaking of hours already lost to sleep. You stirred, the silk sheets whispering against your skin, and your hand slid across the empty space beside you in the vast bed.

Then, memory crashed back in a nauseating wave. The coup. The blood. Nicholas. The betrothal.

And Fuma.

Your eyes flew open, darting toward the chair in the corner, your heart giving a foolish, hopeful lurch.

It was empty.

The high-backed chair was precisely where he had dragged it. The emptiness of it was just another abandonment on top of all the others. The fragile sense of safety he had offered in the night had vanished with the dawn, leaving only the cold reality of your new life.

Panic began to claw its way up your throat. You were truly alone.

Then, a sound—a gentle, almost hesitant knock.

"Enter," you called, your voice raspy with sleep and unshed tears.

The door opened just enough for your maid, Mira, to peek inside. Her face was pale, her eyes wide with a concern that seemed to deepen the shadows beneath them. "...Your Highness...? Can I come in...?"

But your gaze was riveted not on her, but on the sliver of the corridor visible through the doorway. There, standing rigidly at his post, was a familiar silhouette. Clad in his full armor, Fuma stood like a statue hewn from shadow and steel, his eyes fixed on some distant point down the hall. He did not look in, did not acknowledge you.

Still, your heart tightened, not with pain, but with a relief so potent it stole your breath. He was here. He had stayed. All night long, you presumed, standing guard just beyond the wooden barrier that separated your world from his duty. Not as close as you had desperately wanted him, not close enough to touch, but close nonetheless. 

The young girl slipped inside, closing the door softly and obscuring your view of him, but the image was seared into your mind. The cage door was locked, but your guard was still at his post. And for now, that fragile truth was the only comfort you had to hold onto.

For a moment, Mira stood there, silent, wringing her hands slightly, her gaze darting from your face to the rumpled bedsheets and back again. She looked as if she wanted to rush forward and embrace you, or perhaps to fall to her knees and weep. Instead, she remained frozen, trapped by protocol and the sheer scale of what had transpired.

The silence stretched, thick with everything that had been shattered. It was you who broke it, your voice softer than you intended.

“Mira…” you began, and she flinched as if you’d shouted. You pushed yourself up against the headboard, pulling the sheets tighter around you. “Are you… Were you hurt? Last night.”

The question seemed to startle her even more. Her eyes, wide and liquid with unshed tears, finally met yours. It was not the question of a princess to a servant, but of one survivor to another.

“Oh! No, Your Highness. No, I…” She shook her head, a little too vigorously. “I was in the servant’s quarters. We barricaded the doors. We heard… the shouting. The… the sounds.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “But they never came for us.”

She took a tentative step closer. “It was the waiting that was the worst. Not knowing if… if you…” She couldn’t finish the sentence, her loyalty and fear stopping the words in her throat.

“I’m alright,” you said, the lie tasting bitter. You were not alright. You were betrothed to a wolf. But you were alive, and so was she. In the new, terrifying economy of your world, that felt like a small, precious victory. “I am glad you are safe.”

The simple, genuine concern seemed to unlock something in her. Her professional composure crumbled, and she gave you a look of such profound sympathy it nearly broke you all over again.

"Oh, Your Highness," the maid started, her voice trembling as she wrung the edge of her apron. "I have been asked to get you ready... Pardon me for such insulting words, but how could His Majesty ask for you in such a state...?" she whispered, the confession meant for your ears alone.

The words cut through your despair like a spark in the dark. You raised your head quickly, your heart giving a sudden, painful throb of hope.

"Father?" you asked. "He wishes to see me?"

Mira nodded, her eyes wide with a shared understanding. "A messenger came not long ago. You are to attend him in his private study as soon as you are able."

His private study. Not the throne room for another public decree. Not the hall for a formal audience. 

The study—the place of quiet counsel, of fatherly conversations. A place for apologies.

The thought took root in your weary soul, like a desperate, flowering vine of possibility. He had seen the horror in your eyes last night. He had felt the weight of his decision. He was your father. He must have spent the night wrestling with his conscience, and now, in the clear light of day, he wished to make it right. To call off the betrothal. To find another way.

The leaden weight in your limbs vanished, replaced by a frantic, buzzing energy. You threw the silken covers back, your feet meeting the cold floor with a new purpose.

"Then we must not keep him waiting," you said, your voice gaining a strength it hadn't possessed moments before. "Quickly, Mira. My simplest day dress. Nothing more."

You moved to your vanity, catching a glimpse of your own reflection—pale, with shadows under your eyes, but with a new, determined light in them. The empty chair in the corner was forgotten. Fuma's silent vigil outside the door was a comfort, but it was this new, fragile hope that truly propelled you forward. 

He was going to apologize. He was going to fix this. He had to.

Mira worked with quiet, efficient hands, her touches gentle as she helped you into a simple, high-necked day dress of dove grey wool. The lack of adornment felt appropriate; it was not a day to celebrate. She said nothing more, but her worried glances in the mirror spoke volumes. You, however, remained silent, your jaw set with a determined hope that felt like the only solid thing inside you.

When she was finished, you took a steadying breath and turned toward the door. The hope was a fluttering, fragile bird in your chest, but you clung to it.

You opened the door to find not just Fuma, but two knights. Fuma stood as if carved from stone, but the night had chiseled away at him. The dark circles under his eyes were like bruises against his pale skin, and a weariness seemed to emanate from him that went beyond mere physical exhaustion. 

He was upright, his posture perfect, but it was the rigid stillness of a man holding himself together by sheer will alone. He did not look at you, his gaze fixed elsewhere.

Beside him stood Kael, a royal guard of fifteen years, his face like a roadmap of old scars and loyalty. The presence of the older, trusted knight was both a comfort and a confirmation of the unspoken shift—Fuma was being relieved, however temporarily.

"Your Highness," Kael said. He bowed his head slightly. "I am to escort you to the King's study. Ser Fuma will stand down for a few hours."

Your eyes darted back to Fuma, willing him to look at you, to offer some silent reassurance. But he remained a statue, his avoidance a louder statement than any words. The sight of him, so clearly shattered yet still standing his ground, made your heart ache. But the pull of the potential apology waiting in your father's study was stronger.

"Very well," you said, your voice thankfully even. You stepped forward, falling into step beside Kael. You heard the soft rustle of skirts as your maid, Mira, fell a few paces behind you.

The walk through the sunlit corridors felt different this morning. The palace was too quiet, the usual hum of court life subdued, as if the very stones of the walls were holding their breath. 

Once you have reached it, Kael’s knuckles rapped firmly against the heavy oak of the king’s study door. The sound echoed in the too-quiet corridor, and you held your breath. This was it.

“Enter.” Your father’s voice was muffled, but it was his.

Mira, standing behind you, offered one last, encouraging look. You clutched it to your heart like a talisman, then pushed the door open.

The study was dim, the curtains only half-drawn. For a fleeting, beautiful second, your eyes went straight to the familiar, weary figure of your father standing by the fireplace, his back to you. A wave of relief so potent it made you dizzy as it washed over you. 

He could not face you for what he had to say. He was ashamed. He was sorry.

And then, your gaze shifted to the high-backed chair opposite him.

And the world stopped.

Nicholas stood as a pillar in the room’s new architecture. He was near the window, the morning light carving out the sharp lines of his face. He held a small, heavy-looking astrolabe from your father’s collection, turning it over in his hands with an artisan’s curiosity. He wasn't admiring it. He was appraising it.

At the sound of the door, his head lifted. There was no dramatic pause, no theatrical smile. His gaze simply found you, and in that look was a calm, settled certainty that was more terrifying than any gloating victory. It was the look of a man watching a puzzle piece slide into its predetermined place.

Your hope didn't break; it annihilated, leaving a hollow, airless space in your chest. This was not a summons for reconciliation. It was an audience to finalize a transfer of power.

He had called you here to demonstrate his compliance.

The king finally turned, and his face was a mask of pale resignation. He looked at you, then quickly away, his eyes darting to Nicholas in a silent, pathetic plea for... what? Approval? Mercy?

“Daughter,” he said. “Thank you for coming.”

Nicholas stepped forward. He placed the astrolabe on the desk with a soft, definitive click. The sound was absurdly loud in the quiet. He looked directly at you, and a cold, seamless smile grazed his lips.

"Good," he said, his voice a low hum that seemed to vibrate in the space between you. "Now we can begin."