I released a slow and weary sigh, for my promenade with the Sovereign of Thalmyra had been cruelly interrupted by the sudden arrival of a chambermaid, who declared herself charged with summoning me without delay. Thus was our discourse severed, and the question His Majesty, King Drusilla, had laid before me remained unanswered.
No triumph accompanied my silence. No relief. Only a quiet, persistent disappointment lingered within my breast. A full year had passed, and still I found myself incapable of speaking plainly when the subject turned to my late mother.
My hand tightened at my side, fingers curling into a restrained fist.
Why did I persist in naming her mother? The word carried a tenderness she had never earned.
"Your Highness…" the maid murmured, hesitant yet dutiful, awaiting my command.
Only then did memory return to me. I stood before the grand entrance of the Queen's palace.
I turned to the chamberlain.
"Announce me."
The towering doors parted with solemn grandeur. I entered—and at once my gaze met hers.
The woman I dreaded beyond all others in this wretched world.
Margret Reid.
"Good afternoon… Mother," I said, each syllable forced through clenched teeth.
She smiled—sweetly, falsely, exquisitely cruel.
"Good afternoon, my dearest daughter. Tell me, how have you fared in my absence?"
Her tone dripped with affection so practiced it bordered on mockery.
I closed my eyes briefly and exhaled, mastering the irritation rising within me.
"You seldom wait to summon me when you desire sport," I replied mildly, letting my gaze wander about the chamber. "Therefore, I must conclude one of two things—you are either confined… or dying."
My eyes returned to hers, sharp and unwavering.
"And as you possessed sufficient vigour to scream at the maids throughout the night, we may safely dismiss the latter."
Her expression contorted, elegance cracking beneath naked fury. I had struck true.
"That insolent girl ruined one of my gowns!" she spat, her face flushed scarlet.
"How tragic," I answered coolly. "Yet I suspect Father's decision to keep you under watch for nearly a week concerns matters somewhat… greater than stained silk."
Outwardly, I remained composed. Inwardly, my fists trembled, nails biting into flesh as I fought the urge to yield to anger.
"Enough!" she shrieked.
A vase flew past me and shattered violently against the wall. Porcelain exploded into fragments.
Yet something felt amiss.
She had broken too quickly.
Too easily.
A faint smile touched my lips as servants hurried forward to gather the wreckage.
"Good heavens," I said lightly, "whatever afflicts my dearest mother so grievously today?"
"You vile wench!" she screamed.
I winced theatrically. "My. Such language."
"It is her fault!" she cried, voice cracking with desperation. "I was meant to be Queen first!"
My smile vanished.
My heart tightened painfully within my chest.
"…Whose fault?"
"Your wretched mother's, of course! Who else?" she roared, overturning a table laden with ceramic vases. Blue flowers scattered as porcelain shattered across the marble floor.
I stared downward.
Water crept toward my feet. Broken fragments lay strewn among crushed blue blossoms.
A strange stillness overtook me.
This felt… familiar.
______________________________________________________________________________
"My lord," a maid called from the doorway, bowing low. "I have brought a change of garments for you."
"Leave them there," Cassian replied without turning, his attention fixed upon fastening the clasps of his coat.
The maid obeyed at once, retreating silently.
Beside him stood a man, dressed in somber black, a neatly folded cravat draped across his hands. His expression carried unmistakable concern.
"My lord," he began carefully, "I must advise against visiting the palace at present. The atmosphere there is… strained."
Cassian accepted the cravat and began tying it with practiced ease. "I shall visit whenever it pleases me, Anthonie," he answered mildly. "His Majesty himself declared the palace to be as my own home. It would be discourteous not to appear."
Anthonie released a heavy sigh, brows knitting. "Then I beg you—ensure Her Highness does not hear you say such a thing."
Cassian stilled.
For a fleeting moment, the image of her rose unbidden in his mind: the sharp line of her gaze, the frost beneath her composure, the faint downturn of her lips whenever she looked upon him.
"…I would only irritate her," he murmured. "Would I not?"
"Precisely—" Anthonie paused, faltering. "Well… yes. The princess does not appear particularly fond of your company."
"I am aware," Cassian said lightly, resuming his dressing. "She reminds me at every opportunity."
He smoothed his sleeve, voice softening almost imperceptibly.
"Yet I shall endure every cold word she offers… if only it allows me to remain near her. Near the most beautiful flower in this kingdom."
Anthonie stared at him in disbelief. "My lord, if matters continue thus, you shall only wound one another. What fascination could possibly compel you to suffer so willingly?"
Cassian interrupted abruptly. "Anthonie… have you truly seen her?"
"Well… only during festival processions," Anthonie admitted, scratching the back of his head. "I entered your service not long ago."
Cassian smiled faintly to himself before turning and taking a hat from Anthonie's hands, adjusting it before a mirror.
"That explains it," he said quietly.
"But my lord—"
"You do not understand," Cassian continued, finally turning toward him, fully dressed. "I will not stop. Nothing you say will alter my resolve. You cannot comprehend how long I have wished to stand at her side."
His expression softened, though determination burned beneath it.
"And now that I am close—closer than ever before—I shall seize every opportunity granted to me."
Anthonie bowed as Cassian strode toward the door with renewed purpose.
"Upon my word," Anthonie muttered, hastening after him, "his lordship is entirely beyond redemption."
"Brief me upon my engagements before we reach the palace," Cassian said, not slowing his pace.
Anthonie hurried beside him, still recovering his breath. "Very good, my lord. You are expected at Crest Tea House for a meeting with the Duke of Fallinghon. Thereafter, Her Ladyship your mother has arranged an introduction with a young lady of ducal standing—an hour following. At present, however, you are to—"
He stopped abruptly.
Cassian had halted mid-stride.
"My lord?" Anthonie asked cautiously. "Is something amiss—Good heavens!"
Following Cassian's gaze, Anthonie turned—and nearly forgot himself.
Seated calmly at a small table within Cassian's drawing room was a figure clothed in silk so pale it seemed to gather and reflect the morning light itself. Porcelain teacup poised delicately between gloved fingers, she drank with effortless composure, as though she had always belonged there.
Anthonie straightened at once, nearly stumbling into a bow.
"Y-Your Highness?" he stammered. "Wh—what an unexpected honor… I mean—welcome, Your Highness. To what do we owe the distinction of this visit?"
"Hmm?" she said mildly. "I came to see Lord Cassian. Who else would warrant such inconvenience?"