Healing...

Later that evening, the annex had fallen into a hush, the sky painted in tones of fading indigo and gold.

Octavius found himself unable to sleep. His mind lingered restlessly on the garden—on his mother's words, on Leila's eyes, and on the way his heart had thudded, unbidden, in her presence. He left his chamber, drawn not by purpose but by instinct, his steps quiet along the marble hall that bordered the inner courtyard.

The annex's garden glowed under soft lantern light, casting elongated shadows among the trimmed hedges and flowering trees. And there—just as he approached the terrace—he saw her again.

Leila stood by the same fountain where Apollonia had taken her first steps earlier. She was cloaked lightly, a shawl drawn over her shoulders. Her back was to him, but her posture betrayed a quiet stillness, as though she, too, sought solace from a mind that refused rest.

He cleared his throat softly so as not to startle her.

Leila turned, her expression briefly surprised—then softened. "Lord Octavius."

"You should be inside. It's grown cold."

"I know." She smiled faintly. "But the quiet helps me think. Apollonia fell asleep quickly tonight. It felt strange… having a moment to myself."

He nodded and joined her, keeping a respectful distance as they stood beneath the darkening sky. The fountain burbled beside them, a gentle backdrop to their silence.

"You were very kind today," she said at last. "Lady Aurora… she's strong, but she needed that moment of light. You gave her that."

"I should have been there earlier," he replied quietly. "For all of them. For her. For Ty. For Luce. But I wasn't."

"You were hurting too."

His eyes flicked to her, surprised. There was no judgment in her voice—only understanding.

"I've seen it," she continued. "You carry your guilt like a wound that won't close. But guilt can't heal what's already broken."

Octavius inhaled slowly, eyes fixed on the fountain's glimmering surface. "Do you think I'm beyond redemption?"

"No," she said without hesitation. "I think you're afraid of seeking it."

He turned to look at her, truly look at her. The wind brushed through her hair, carrying the soft scent of lavender from the gardens. In her lilac eyes, he saw no pity—only quiet strength, and something deeper, unspoken.

"I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable earlier," he said. "My mother tends to... presume things."

Leila laughed softly. "She's not wrong though, is she?"

His breath caught. For a second, he didn't know how to answer. The honest reply rested at the edge of his lips—raw and real. But he feared it. He feared what it would mean to admit it aloud.

"She sees too much," he murmured instead.

"I don't mind," Leila said gently. "She's the only one who's ever made me feel... accepted here."

The silence between them stretched—comfortable, this time. Honest.

"She thinks highly of you," he said.

"She told me about how you fell into the fountain as a child," she teased, her tone light but warm.

He groaned. "I'll never live that down."

"I think it's a sweet memory." Her eyes glimmered. "Proof that you were once carefree."

He looked at her again, longer this time. "Do you think I could be... that way again?"

Leila's gaze softened. "In time. If you allow yourself to be."

He took a breath, and this time, he didn't look away.

"You've changed me, my lady," he said quietly. "Without even meaning to."

She lowered her eyes, her expression unreadable. "I'm not sure I'm ready to change anyone."

"Then just be beside me," he whispered. "As a friend… or more, if the day ever comes."

Her cheeks flushed softly in the dim light, but she didn't retreat.

"I'll stay," she said. "As long as you need someone who understands what it means to endure quietly."

Their hands did not touch. Their hearts did not yet declare anything bold. But the silence between them carried something stronger than words.

------------>

The Training Courts of the Inner Barracks, Late Morning....

Lucerne stood beneath the arched colonnade, adjusting the leather bracers on his forearms. The morning sun was veiled behind pale clouds, and the metallic clinks of sparring filled the training court. He had finished his morning drills and dismissed his page duties when a shadow fell over the polished tiles before him.

He turned—stiffening slightly.

Princess Melody stood a few paces away, arms loosely at her sides, dressed not in royal garb but a modest riding tunic of deep plum. Her blonde hair had been tied back in a braid, and her silver eyes were unreadable, calm like still water yet with a depth few dared to measure.

"Your Highness," Lucerne bowed low.

"You've been avoiding me," she said simply, her voice neither cold nor warm.

Lucerne straightened slowly. "I did not wish to impose, knowing the circumstances."

"And yet, we're still betrothed." There was no bitterness in her tone—only a patient kind of honesty that unsettled him more than anger would have.

He looked away. "I thought it best to give you distance."

"Why?"

He blinked. "Because I know how much disgrace my family has brought."

Melody studied him for a long moment, then walked toward the edge of the courtyard. "And yet you still train. Still serve His Majesty. You still show up… every day."

"I have to prove myself."

"To whom?" she asked quietly. "To me? To the Empire? Or to yourself?"

Lucerne was silent.

Melody's expression remained neutral, but something shifted in her voice. "Do you resent the engagement?"

"No," he said at once, too fast. "No… I only feared you might."

She didn't answer immediately. The wind stirred between them.

Then—"I chose to keep it, Lucerne. Not because I was forced. Not out of affection, either. But because this is the one way I can exercise control over something that's already been decided for both of us."

Lucerne's brows furrowed. "Then… what do you want from me?"

Melody turned to face him fully.

"Honesty," she said. "And patience. If you're going to stand beside me someday, I need to know the real you. Not the shadow of your house. Not a boy living in his older brother's footsteps. You."

He swallowed, uncertain of what to say.

"You're not the only one who feels trapped," she added. "But at least we don't have to be strangers in this prison."

For the first time, Lucerne saw not the imperial princess, but a girl near his own age—guarded, sharp, and lonely.

He gave a short nod. "Then I won't avoid you again."

Melody's eyes flicked upward briefly, and a ghost of a smile crossed her lips. "Good. I hate chasing people."

---

The Annex Gardens, Afternoon...

Tiberius lay sprawled on the grass beneath a canopy of white-blossomed trees, his tunic grass-stained and slightly rumpled. A carved wooden sparring dummy stood forgotten beside him.

A cheerful babble caught his attention.

Apollonia was toddling toward him, arms unsteady but determined, her cheeks flushed with victory.

"Hey, troublemaker," he grinned and sat up.

She nearly tripped over a tuft of wild clover, but Tiberius scooped her up effortlessly, lifting her into his lap. The toddler squealed with laughter, tugging at his dark brown curls.

"Easy, easy! You're more fearsome than a Cerberan wolf."

Apollonia chirped something unintelligible and patted his cheek.

"You're not even two and already bossing me around," he said, feigning wounded pride.

Leila approached moments later with a soft smile. "She's taken quite the liking to you."

"She's brilliant," Tiberius replied without hesitation.

Apollonia leaned her head against his chest, her tiny fingers gripping the front of his tunic.

Tiberius's voice softened. "She's like the little sister I never had."

Leila looked at him, surprised.

"You're good with her."

He shrugged, though a small prideful smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "She's the only one in this estate who doesn't treat me like a child or a nuisance."

"You're not a child," Leila said gently. "Not anymore."

He blinked, unsure how to respond. The validation meant more than he'd admit.

"Do you think she'll be safe here?" he asked quietly.

Leila didn't answer immediately. Her gaze drifted to the trees, the guards in the distance, the ever-present feeling of being watched.

"With you and your brothers near," she finally said, "I think she'll be safe enough."