---
The crescent moon cast soft, wafting rays across the night sky. A cool wind stirred, and apart from the occasional mewing and hooting of nocturnal creatures, the world lay in quiet stillness.
A figure slipped stealthily through the shadows and into a cramped alley. Not far behind, another figure hobbled awkwardly, struggling to keep up.
The stealthy figure paused at a dead end, crouching to run his hands over the ground as if searching for something. His fingers found a hidden latch, and with a sharp pull, he lifted a concealed door and climbed down into the darkness.
Moments later, the second figure staggered up to the spot. After several attempts, she managed to pry open the door, panting as she descended into the tunnel.
"What am I even doing?" Qaya muttered between ragged breaths, still trailing after Zachary.
Weeks ago, if anyone had told her her life would turn out like this, she would've laughed in their face and told them to rein in their imagination. Yet here she was, tiptoeing through a musty, sticky tunnel that smelled of damp earth and mold.
Why was she doing this?
Qaya hadn't forgotten: if not for Zachary, she wouldn't be a fugitive. As much as she knew Awin to be a manipulative, lying, cheating bastard, she had reasons to suspect Zachary too. He had been evasive ever since they left, keeping secrets and sneaking about behind the King's back.
And Qaya wasn't about to rest until she uncovered what schemes Zachary was hiding.
Up ahead, Zachary stopped by a small door and slipped inside. Qaya crept closer but found it locked. She crouched by the door, straining to listen, but the voices were muffled. Leaning in, she peered through a small crack—
And gasped softly.
A man was tied to a pole, his face and body covered in lash marks and blood. He hung limply, unconscious, his breathing shallow but audible.
Zachary pinched the bridge of his nose, frustration etched on his face as he turned to the men around him.
"Tell me you have something."
The men exchanged uneasy glances until one muttered, "It's not like that. He passed out from the pain—he hasn't woken since."
Zachary grunted, displeased. "You've done all this and haven't gotten a word?"
He stepped toward the bound man, reaching for a dagger.
Qaya sucked in a sharp breath—this time too loud.
One of the men snapped to attention and, without warning, hurled a dagger through the crack in the door. It grazed her arm as she barely dodged.
"Who's there?!" he barked.
Zachary spun around. "What?"
"Someone's out there," the man growled, moving to strike again—but Zachary raised a hand to stop him.
Meanwhile, Qaya slid to the floor, her legs trembling like jelly, her face pale and slick with sweat. She had almostdied.
"What are you doing here?"
She jerked her head up to see Zachary standing over her, his expression dark with worry and frustration.
"I should be asking you that," she shot back, rising shakily to her feet.
Zachary's lips quirked in a dry smile. "You know, I'm starting to think you enjoy following me."
Qaya rolled her eyes. "You haven't given me much reason not to."
His smile thinned. "Flattered as I am, you need to go home. You shouldn't be here."
He turned, but she caught his sleeve.
"I'm afraid I can't—not after what I've seen."
Annoyance flickered across Zachary's face. "I told you, I have personal business to attend to."
"Personal? Looks more like treason. Are you trying to usurp Awin's throne? I may not like the man, but I don't appreciate being made a fugitive for you."
Zachary's eyes darkened with hurt. "*What?*" His voice was low, incredulous. "Is that what you think of me? I thought I was just some hound doing his master's dirty work, but now you say this? Even a hound wouldn't stoop to that."
"Why are you so offended? I—"
"If you must know," Zachary cut in sharply, "the man in there is a member of De Gei Jaune. We captured him after burning their lieutenant's den and are trying to get vital information."
"Oh…" Qaya faltered, guilt prickling at her chest. "But... that doesn't make this okay. We were given this task as a team. Why hide it from us?"
"Think what you want, Miss Heris. I have work to do."
He turned and strode back inside.
But anger flared in Qaya's chest, hot and unrelenting. She followed, fists clenched.
"Just what exactly do you take me for?!"
Her words startled everyone. Zachary gestured for his men to leave them alone and turned his back to her.
"I feel bad for accusing you of treason," she continued, voice trembling. "But you make it so easy to suspect you. Always secretive, always hiding things. How can I trust you when you won't trust me?"
Zachary opened his mouth, but Qaya pushed on.
"And there's the other thing— You have a soft spot for me?"
He sighed, rubbing his neck. She wasn't backing down.
"I won't deny it," he muttered. "But it's not what you think. When I worked for Awin, I turned a blind eye to every wicked thing he did. I made excuses—'it's not my fault,' 'my hands are clean.' But when I saw you cry over the Qaya Wright case... I couldn't ignore it anymore. You gave me the courage to stand against him. That's why I care."
"Oh…" Qaya said, her tone low, showing something between embarrassment and disappointment. "Thanks for the clarification."
"And I'm sorry I doubted you," she added softly. "I've been... angry, overwhelmed. I guess I wanted someone to blame."
Zachary smiled gently. "So all those awful things you said, you didn't mean them?"
Qaya flushed, hiding her face. "Please. Water under the bridge."
He laughed—a deep, genuine sound—and for the first time, Qaya smiled back.
"So... back to being a prince?" she teased as they walked toward the guesthouse.
"Seems so," he replied, raising an eyebrow.
"What was it like—being a prince?"
He shrugged. "I don't remember much. Just sadness and pain. The good memories are all buried."
"I think I know what you mean," Qaya whispered.
---
In Jaslin's Room, the Guesthouse
"Mind if I join you?"
Jaslin turned sharply at the sound of Rivan's voice, her hand still wrapped around a half-empty wine glass. He leaned casually against the doorframe, a crooked smile on his lips, though there was something guarded in his eyes.
"I do mind," she replied coolly, but Rivan stepped in anyway, ignoring the warning in her tone.
With deliberate ease, he dropped into the chair beside her and poured himself a glass from the same decanter, raising it in a mock toast before knocking it back in one gulp.
"That's good wine," he muttered, almost as if to himself.
Jaslin watched him warily. "What are you doing? Is this your idea of consolation? Because if it is, it's not working. I want to be alone."
"Nope," he said, pouring himself another glass and swirling the crimson liquid as though inspecting it. His smile faded as he stared into the depths of the wine. "This is for me."
For a moment, something about his posture—slumped, heavy—made her pause.
"Really?" she asked, skeptical, tilting her head as she studied him.
He gave a slow nod, eyes glimmering with something unspoken. Then, as if to distract himself, he downed the next glass too fast, the liquid catching at his throat.
"I've been stabbed, slashed... left for dead more times than I care to count," he said hoarsely, not looking at her. "Once, I lay on a slab of ice, half-frozen and half-conscious, fighting off hypothermia."
Jaslin blinked, thrown off by the sudden shift in mood.
"Okay," she thought wryly, watching as he reached for yet another pour. "He's really drunk."
"But you know…" Rivan continued, voice softening to a bitter whisper, "none of that—not the blades, not the cold—hurts like unrequited love."
He rubbed at his eyes, as though erasing something only he could see, and gave a smile so sad it tugged unexpectedly at her heart.
Jaslin hesitated before reaching out to pat his hand—awkwardly, as though afraid he might shatter. She wasn't used to this side of him. Neither were words easy to find when the room seemed so saturated with his quiet despair. And perhaps, if she was honest with herself, the wine was loosening her own edges too.
"You know," she murmured, her fingers brushing against his knuckles, "it's hard to believe that the Rivan Ceria—stormbreaker, commander, the desire of countless ladies—could love without return."
He let out a low chuckle, hollow around the edges. "You flatter me," he whispered, but his voice was showed he wanted to say much more.
Jaslin studied him in silence, sensing he was holding back the name of whoever haunted him, but she didn't press. This much vulnerability was already more than she'd expected, and she wasn't sure she could handle more either.
"Thank you," she said softly, scooting closer, her shoulder brushing his.
His brow creased. "For what?"
"I see it now," she admitted, glancing away, her voice nearly a whisper. "This was your way of comforting me… by showing me I'm not the only one who hurts. By making sure I don't feel alone tonight."
Rivan's lips parted slightly, but whatever words he meant to say died in his throat.
Jaslin gave a small, wavering smile and leaned in, her breath warm against his cheek. "I'm so grateful, Rivan. Grateful enough to… repay you."
She didn't say how—and in that wine-soaked haze, neither of them asked.
The Next Morning
Morning light filtered through the curtains in soft golden streaks, warm and gentle. Outside, a bird's song laced the air with lilting sweetness—mocking, perhaps, in contrast to the heavy silence in the room.
Jaslin groaned, turning her face away from the sunlight, her temples pounding in protest. She stirred, attempting to rise—only to freeze as she felt a heavy arm draped across her waist.
Her breath caught, panic rising.
Slowly, as though afraid of confirming her suspicions, she turned her head—and there he was. Rivan, fast asleep beside her, tousled and blissfully unaware.
"Heavens help me," she muttered under her breath, heart hammering as memories from last night came rushing back in a chaotic tangle of fragmented scenes—his smile turned somber, the gentle touch of lips, and... oh gods, how had it escalated?
She nudged him. "Rivan. Wake up."
He let out a low grunt and turned, muttering something incoherent, tightening his arm around her before she shoved it away.
"I said wake up!" she snapped, jabbing him sharply in the ribs.
That did it. Rivan bolted upright, blinking wildly at his surroundings. The moment his gaze landed on Jaslin, sitting up beside him with disheveled hair and flushed cheeks, realization dawned—and horror followed.
"What—" he croaked, his throat dry, eyes wide.
She watched as the memories hit him too. His face went pale, then red.
"Oh gods," he whispered, running a hand through his tangled hair. "What happened?"
But even as he asked, he knew. The kiss that was supposed to be innocent—a thank you, a comfort—had spiraled beyond anything either of them had planned.
"Rivan, you fool," he cursed silently, sinking his head into his hands. "You were supposed to be there for her, not—"
"I'm sorry, Jaslin—Miss Heris," he stammered aloud, switching into formal mode in his flustered panic. "I'll take responsibility. For everything."
Jaslin blinked at him, one brow arching.
"Responsibility? Rivan, isn't that a bit much?" She tilted her head, rubbing her temple. "To the best of my knowledge, we didn't go beyond... well, kissing. No need to make a mountain out of a molehill."
Rivan stared at her like she'd just spoken in an alien tongue. "Molehill?" he echoed, incredulous.
Was he the conservative one?
Jaslin sighed, a small smirk tugging at her lips despite herself. "Relax, Rivan. Whatever happened, we were both drunk and... hurting. No need to turn this into a dramatic scandal."
Still, the heat in her cheeks and the way neither of them could quite meet the other's gaze said enough about the tension lingering between them.
Outside, the birds kept singing, oblivious to the storm quietly brewing in that sunlit room.
---
Somewhere in Citë
Melinda folded the newspaper with deliberate care, a small, satisfied smile curving her lips. The fugitives are still at large. That was all she needed to read. Her plan remained intact—untouched, undisturbed.
Seated on a sun-drenched terrace of one of Porto Jamon's most exclusive cafés, Melinda looked every bit the part of an elegant noblewoman, despite her stormy thoughts. It hadn't been long since her arrival in the city, but with the kind of resources she commanded, she was certain she would soon find Qaya and the others.
"The heavens must really be on my side," she murmured, adjusting the lace cuff of her glove.
She waved lazily to summon the waiter, expecting to order one of the café's famed delicacies. But instead of the parchment-thin menu, the man handed her a letter—unmarked, sealed with dark wax.
Her brow furrowed as she broke the seal and scanned the contents, her frown softening into something between satisfaction and apprehension.
"Well," she whispered to herself, "it's nice to know that Awin is checking up on me."
Though she said the words lightly, her eyes sharpened. She knew better than anyone that Awin's concern wasn't born from affection. No, he saw her as a dangerous piece on the board—one that might need to be removed at any moment. Contingent liability, as he liked to say. But voicing that thought would ruin the pleasant illusion she was trying to maintain.
Setting the letter down, she turned to the so-called 'waiter'—a courier, obviously, not part of the café's regular staff.
"Tell the king I have a proposition for him," she said smoothly, swirling the delicate crystal glass of pale fruit wine she had been nursing.
Though her voice remained calm, her fingers twitched ever so slightly against the stem of the glass. After all, Awin's letter had not been friendly—it carried the sharp edge of warning, demanding to know what she was doing in Porto Jamon. Of course, she couldn't exactly confess to plotting the death of his fiancée. She needed to shift his attention.
"Tell him," she went on, tilting her head, "to stop worrying about me and start worrying about how his darling fiancée is busy playing house with a traitor. Yes, I know where the lot of them are. And I will share that precious bit of information—if the king agrees to grant me one wish on my birthday."
The courier nodded, pulling out a small notepad, jotting her words with sharp, efficient strokes. He glanced up with a professional smile, bowing slightly.
"Your order will be ready shortly, my lady."
As he left, Melinda exhaled slowly, allowing herself to relax.
Minutes later, the food arrived—served on silver trays gleaming in the late afternoon sun. A platter of braised swan breast glazed with plumwine reduction, delicate moonflower petals stuffed with spiced cheese and honeyed figs, and a crystal bowlof sunberry compote with sugared mint leaves.
Melinda wrinkled her nose at the artistry of it all—far too dainty for her tastes—but she was in too good a mood to care. She toyed with a bite of the moonflower petals, savoring the sweet-salty tang, even as her mind raced with possibilities.
---
The Jamon Residence — The Guesthouse
The air around the table was brittle with tension, like a string pulled taut and ready to snap. The clinking of cutlery against plates was the only sound filling the room, save for the occasional uncomfortable cough.
Zachary was the only one unaffected by the heavy atmosphere, lazily twirling a fork between his fingers as he leaned back in his chair.
"I spoke with the lady of the house this afternoon," he drawled, finally breaking the suffocating silence. His deep, casual voice drew everyone's attention like a sudden clap of thunder.
Four sets of eyes turned toward him, expectant, wary.
"She's invited us—or rather, the three of you," he added with a look of mock offense . "I'm just there to assist Ivan."
Jaslin tensed. "Invited us to what?"
"To the debutante ball," Zachary replied smoothly.
"Why?" Jaslin asked sharply, her voice cutting through the room. She had no desire to see Talmia—especially not at some grand affair. Just hearing the name brought back every bitter memory of how Talmia had twisted her relationship with Mahalia... or was it Qaya? Jaslin wasn't sure what to think anymore, but she knew one thing—she hated it.
Zachary shrugged, clearly amused by their discomfort. "Her daughter's coming out to society. Mahalia is expected to play the role of her governess, and you two," he gestured lazily to Jaslin and Qaya, "are supposed to be her dear relatives. It would look suspicious if you didn't show."
Qaya sighed, nodding as understanding dawned. "When is it?"
"Tomorrow night."
"What?!" Qaya and Jaslin shouted in unison, their voices rising above the room's tension.
Rivan blinked, startled by the sudden outburst. "Is something the matter?" he asked, genuinely perplexed.
"Is that even a question?" Jaslin turned to him with a mixture of disbelief and irritation.
"We have less than 18 hours to prepare!" Qaya added, exasperated, giving Jaslin a sideways glance that spoke volumes—neither of them was in any state of mind for high society games.
Zachary chuckled, propping his chin on one hand. "Just wear something sensible. It's a debutante ball, not your coronation. No one expects you to dazzle."
Qaya shot him a withering look, scoffing under her breath. "Of course, the men wouldn't understand."
She picked up her fork again, stabbing a piece of roasted partridge with more force than necessary, as though the bird itself were to blame for the whole affair.
Jaslin remained quiet, her mind already racing through the unspoken tension, wondering if they could keep up the charade one more night.
---
To be continued