Act 1 : The Grand-Duke's Daughter

The Zephirion Empire stood at the pinnacle of civilization, its banners stretching across vast lands, from the frigid northern highlands to the fertile southern plains. For centuries, it had remained the most formidable empire, its military strength unmatched, its economy flourishing through trade and agriculture. Even so, within its gilded cities and towering castles, unrest brewed—not from war or invasion, but from the ever-shifting tides of nobility and courtly intrigue.

The empire prided itself on order and stability. Roads were well-maintained, merchants thrived under structured trade policies, and scholars gathered in grand halls of knowledge. The common folk, while not spared from hardship, lived in relative balance—most finding work in agriculture, crafts, or the bustling marketplaces of the capital, Elarion. Though poverty still lingered in the shadows, the empire's wealth was enough to prevent large-scale famine or rebellion.

However, true power was not held by the people, but by the Imperial Court. Behind the empire's apparent peace lay a battlefield of whispered conspiracies, veiled threats, and power struggles between noble houses. The greatest source of tension? The imperial succession.

Emperor Cassiar Zephirion was a man who had shaped the empire with his own hands. He was a ruler of strength and vision, a man whose calculated strategies had solidified Zephirion's power across nations. His reign had been long and prosperous, yet one matter loomed over his legacy: the issue of succession.

By law and bloodright, the throne belonged to his firstborn, Crown Prince Alistair Zephirion, the only son of Empress Genevieve. A boy born into privilege, raised with the expectation of ruling an empire. And yet—he was far from the ideal prince.

Alistair was reckless.

A troublemaker. A rogue. A disappointment to those who expected dignity from the heir to Zephirion's throne.

He drank excessively, fought in taverns, and entertained mistresses without discretion. More than once, he had been found in the arms of a woman in broad daylight, in full view of the public, and had made little effort to hide his indulgences. On numerous occasions, he had gotten into physical altercations with noblemen, challenging them in the streets over the slightest offense.

There were whispers that the Crown Prince had no regard for his own future, that his behavior was an act of self-destruction rather than carelessness. Some wondered if his defiance was meant to provoke the court, as if daring them to strip him of his title. But no matter how much discontent surrounded him, his claim to the throne remained unchallenged by law.

Not by law—but perhaps, by influence.

Because where Alistair stumbled, another prince rose to prominence in his shadow.

Prince Xavier Zephirion, the Emperor's second son, was everything Alistair was not.

The product of Cassiar's union with Lady Celine, a concubine of common birth, Xavier had no right to the throne by tradition. But in the eyes of the people, he had earned his place through merit alone.

Unlike his older brother, he was disciplined, refined, and deeply respected. He carried himself with humility, spoke with wisdom, and treated nobles and commoners alike with kindness. He was a man of study and military training, a prince who had dedicated himself to the empire not because he sought power, but because he believed in duty.

It was because of these virtues that many nobles had begun to whisper of a different future—a future where the second prince, not the first, would wear the crown.

The imperial court had become a battlefield long before a sword had ever been drawn.

Two factions had emerged over the years, their influence growing with every mistake Alistair made and every success Xavier achieved.

The Imperialists, led by Empress Genevieve, were devoted to preserving the traditional order. They stood by the Crown Prince, insisting that Alistair's position was his birthright, no matter how unfit he seemed. His mistakes, they claimed, were nothing more than the recklessness of youth—something that time and responsibility would temper.

To the Imperialists, supporting Xavier was unthinkable. He was the son of a concubine, a child born outside of the sacred bond of imperial marriage. No matter how virtuous he was, he would always be a shadow beneath the Empress's son.

But opposing them were the Reformists.

Composed of powerful noble families who sought change in the empire, the Reformists believed that the throne should not belong to a man simply because he was born first. They saw Alistair's behavior as a threat to the empire's future, while Xavier represented a path toward a more just and stable rule.

At the center of this movement stood House Krajenbrink, one of the wealthiest and most influential families in Zephirion. Their loyalty to Xavier had solidified the movement's strength, and their daughter, Lady Celeste Krajenbrink, had even been betrothed to the Second Prince.

To the court, this was more than a simple engagement. It was a political statement—a declaration that House Krajenbrink saw Xavier as the true heir.

And the people were beginning to agree.

Despite the court's growing unrest, Emperor Cassiar had never once moved against his firstborn son.

No matter how much Alistair tarnished his name, no matter how many voices called for his removal, the Emperor never questioned his position. Some believed it was because of his devotion to Empress Genevieve. Others thought it was his stubborn belief in the imperial bloodline.

But there were those who suspected something deeper—something hidden beneath the surface of the imperial court.

For now, the empire remained in delicate balance. But as time passed, one thing was certain.

The struggle for the throne of Zephirion was far from over.

For all the court's whispers about Emperor Cassiar Zephirion's judgment, not a single soul truly understood the man.

To the nobles, he was a paradox—an emperor of unshakable power and strategic brilliance, yet a man who seemingly refused to act when it mattered most. They ridiculed his silence regarding the Crown Prince's disgraceful behavior, calling it his one great flaw. In all other matters, Cassiar was a ruler to be feared and respected. He had shaped the empire with an iron will, crushed rebellions without mercy, and expanded Zephirion's dominion with masterful diplomacy and war. Yet, when it came to his own son, he remained maddeningly indifferent.

What the court failed to realize was that his silence was not born of weakness—but calculation.

Yes, Alistair was a constant source of frustration, responsible for his father's daily headaches and dangerously rising blood pressure, but Cassiar did not remove him from succession because of a single reason.

The Caelum Family.

*

To understand the Emperor's decision, one had to first understand the power structure of Zephirion's nobility.

At the highest peak stood the Imperial Family, rulers of the empire for over two centuries. No matter how much the court judged or questioned Cassiar's decisions, none dared challenge his authority. His power was absolute. The only stain upon his rule was his reckless heir, but even with that imperfection, no one could deny that Cassiar was the mightiest force in Zephirion.

Below him, power was divided among three great noble houses, each governing a crucial aspect of the empire.

Firstly, The Empress's family. They were one of the oldest noble bloodlines, their influence stretching back to the earliest days of the empire. They controlled Zephirion's economy and agriculture, overseeing trade, tax policies, and food distribution. Their lands were the empire's heartland, feeding both the nobility and commoners alike. Their economic stability was the reason the people did not starve, even in times of war.

Despite their devotion to tradition—and their unwavering support of the Crown Prince—their true strength lay in their ability to control the empire's financial pulse. With one command, they could strangle entire industries, making them one of the most dangerous factions in court.

Second only to the Imperial Family, the Caelum Family was a name spoken with both reverence and fear.

Their influence was not found in courtly games or wealth but in the empire's greatest army.

The head of the family, Grand Duke Rhadrian Caelum, was a blood relative of the Emperor, descended from a sibling of Cassiar's grandfather. Though the blood connection was distant, it was strong enough to place the Caelum Family just beneath the Imperial House in status.

Unlike other noble families, the Caelum bloodline had long chosen neutrality. They had never involved themselves in political strife, refusing to take sides in succession battles or imperial disputes. Their sole loyalty was to the strength of the empire itself. For that reason, their forces had remained untainted by noble alliances, making them Zephirion's most elite military force—an army second only to the Emperor's own command.

The Grand Duke, Rhadrian Caelum, was not only the empire's most formidable military leader but also a man who had chosen detachment over ambition. His family's tradition of neutrality meant that no emperor could ever claim the Caelum forces as their own, ensuring that the military was never corrupted by succession politics.

But that was precisely what Emperor Cassiar intended to change.

Rhadrian had a daughter, a young woman of Alistair's age. In theory, she was the perfect match for the Crown Prince—a union that would finally tie the empire's strongest military to its future ruler. But there was one problem.

She was never in Zephirion.

By all accounts, Rhadrian's daughter was a wanderer, an adventurer with no desire for courtly life. She roamed across continents, never staying in one place for long, untouched by duty or obligation. Even the Grand Duke himself claimed ignorance as to when she would return.

And so, when Cassiar formally requested the marriage, Rhadrian gave his answer.

"It is her choice, not mine. When she returns, she will decide."

It was a refusal hidden beneath careful words.

But the Emperor was not a man who accepted refusal lightly.

If he could secure this marriage, the benefits would be immeasurable.

Alistair would gain the favor of the military.

The Caelum forces would finally be bound to the Imperial Family.

The nobility—those who doubted his judgement—would finally be silenced.

The court could question his will as a father, but they would not question him any longer if he accomplished his one only mission: breaking the Caelum Family's neutrality.

But Rhadrian remained unmoving, and his daughter remained absent.

And lastly, the Krajenbrink Family. While the Empress's family controlled the economy and the Caelum Family commanded the military, the Krajenbrink Family controlled trade, commerce, and industry.

Known as the wealthiest noble house, they had amassed a fortune beyond compare by dominating Zephirion's most vital exports: Agriculture & food supply; Ensuring the empire's cities remained fed. Maritime trade; Controlling the ports and naval routes that connected Zephirion to the rest of the world. Weapons & resources; Managing the steel, iron, and arms trade that kept Zephirion's military at its strongest.

They were not merely merchants. They were the reason Zephirion's economy flourished, and their influence stretched far beyond courtly politics. Their ability to secure the finest materials for the empire was what ensured its armies remained strong, its people fed, and its treasury overflowing.

And yet, the Krajenbrinks had placed their allegiance behind Prince Xavier.

Their daughter, Lady Celeste Krajenbrink, was engaged to the Second Prince, a political maneuver that solidified their loyalty to the Reformists.

This was yet another reason why securing the Caelum Family was crucial.

If Cassiar could bring the Caelum forces to Alistair's side, it would disrupt the Reformists' growing power. It truly doesn't mean that the Emperor disapproved of his second son, but as a ruler, he also needed to keep the balance of the Noble family influential. The Reformist' side has already gained too much support from the people from Xavier merits and that only has caused a lot of drama. Even the common people starting to act and oftenly sending a request to change the rightful heir to his second son. 

But none of it would matter unless Rhadrian finally gave his approval.

For years, Cassiar had tried to force the Grand Duke's hand, but every attempt had been met with the same infuriating response.

"We must wait for her return."

But when?

Even Rhadrian did not seem to know, and Cassiar had begun to suspect that the man was simply stalling on purpose.

But he could not afford to wait forever.

The court was turning against him, the Reformists were gaining ground, and every day that passed was another day where Alistair's position weakened.

And so, the Emperor waited—impatiently, restlessly—but he would not wait much longer.

Then, one day, just as his patience wore thin and desperation began to creep in, a letter bearing the Caelum family's emblem arrived.

It was brief—just a few lines of text—but its weight was immeasurable. Every word carried power, authority, and finality, yet beneath its formality, it was a breath of relief for Emperor Cassiar.

The message was simple, yet it changed everything.

Grand Duke Rhadrian's daughter had returned.

And she had accepted the Emperor's proposal.

***

The Caelum manor in the capital city was vast and imposing, its walls standing as a silent testament to the family's centuries-old dominance. Yet within one of its elegant chambers, the atmosphere was unusually heavy.

A young woman stood by the window, her gaze lost in the expanse of the city beyond. Moonlight streamed through the glass, casting a silver glow over her delicate features.

She was draped in an elegant yet simple gown, her long, dark hair cascading over her back like silk. Her posture was poised, yet there was an undeniable air of distance about her—as if she did not belong to this place.

Behind her, Grand Duke Rhardian Caelum approached with quiet steps. He watched her for a long moment before speaking, his voice low yet weighted with unspoken concern.

"Are you certain you want to do this?" he finally asked. "I have troubled you enough. If you wish to step away from this, I will inform the Emperor that you have changed your mind."

For a moment, she did not reply.

Then, slowly, she turned to face him.

Her crimson eyes—striking, piercing—met his with quiet resolve.

"It's alright," she said softly. "You have ignored the Emperor's request for too long. If I am to be of use to you, then so be it. I see no reason to refuse."

Duke Rhardian's expression tightened, but he did not refute her words. Instead, he let out a breath that was neither relief nor surrender.

"I don't know how else to repay you. I have already asked too much of you."

The girl offered a small smile. "It's alright. You have given me a home, a place to belong. That is more than enough."

The Duke studied her for a long moment before his gaze drifted, his mind pulling him back to the events of a few months ago.

*

Grand Duke Rhadrian was on his way back from the capital city to his estate. It was a solemn journey. The Caelum Duchy, situated beyond the capital's bustling center, was a vast land of disciplined order, stretching across the empire's northeastern borders. The journey from the imperial palace took nearly a week by carriage, though a warp gate could have shortened it to mere moments. Yet, Grand Duke Rhadrian Caelum chose the long ride—he needed time to clear his mind.

The Emperor's summons had been the same as before: a request—no, a demand—for his daughter's hand in marriage to the Crown Prince. As both the Emperor's kin and his most trusted friend, Rhadrian had never taken these matters lightly. His family had remained neutral in imperial politics for generations, yet Cassiar Zephirion was asking him to tip the scales.

The nobility was fractured. Nearly seventy percent of the court supported Prince Xavier, drawn to his talents, his composure, and the influence he wielded over political alliances. In contrast, Crown Prince Alistair stood on unstable ground, criticized for his impulsive behavior and lack of strategic foresight. But if the Caelum family sided with him, it would restore balance to the imperial court. Their military strength alone could silence the opposition.

And Rhadrian understood the necessity of balance. A fragmented nobility, left unchecked, could lead to chaos. What good was neutrality if it resulted in ruin?

Yet, there was one problem—his daughter, Evelyn Caelum, did not exist as the world believed her to be.

The world knew Evelyn as the reckless daughter of the Grand Duke, a noblewoman who despised the capital's restrictions, preferring the life of an adventurer. She was spoken of with disdain—an irresponsible child who brought no honor to her family. But in truth, she had never once set foot beyond the estate's walls.

Because Evelyn Caelum had been dying.

It had begun ten years ago, the same year Duchess Caelum succumbed to an illness no physician could name. Soon after, Evelyn exhibited the same symptoms—a slow, agonizing decline, her body weakening, her skin growing pale, her once-vibrant spirit fading. Rhadrian had fought desperately, searching for cures in every corner of the empire, but no remedy existed.

And so, to protect his daughter—and the legacy of the Caelum family—he created a lie.

He told the world that Evelyn was a free spirit, wandering across distant lands, avoiding the capital because of her disdain for noble politics. In reality, she was confined within the estate, hidden away from prying eyes, while rumors of her travels spread to maintain the illusion of her existence.

If the truth had ever come to light, it would have meant the downfall of the Caelum Duchy.

Rhadrian was still deep in thought when a chill ran down his spine. A presence. Unfamiliar. Unsettling.

The thick canopy of the forest cast heavy shadows across the road as the carriage made its way through the Blackthorn Woods, a vast expanse that bordered the Caelum territory. The ride had been smooth—until now.

The horses grew restless. The guards exchanged wary glances.

Then, without warning—an ambush.

A hundred figures emerged from the darkness, faces concealed behind stark white oval masks. They said nothing. Gave no warning. No demands.

And then—they attacked.

Anyone foolish enough to challenge Grand Duke Rhadrian Caelum was bound for death. With only five guards, he cut through the masked assailants with practiced precision. The battle was swift and ruthless. The so-called enemies fell one by one, until only ten remained.

But then—something changed.

The survivors stopped their assault. Their bodies stilled unnaturally, and then—low, guttural whispers filled the air.

Words—in a language no human should have known.

The moment the chanting ceased, a sinister energy erupted from them.

Dark tendrils of smoke curled around their bodies, thick, inky black with an unnatural purple glow pulsing beneath the surface. The air crackled with a sharp, electric hiss—lightning, but wrong. Not the raw force of nature, but something far more insidious.

The very ground beneath them twisted, the trees groaning as if something unseen was pressing against reality itself.

And then—they moved.

Not like humans. Not like soldiers. Like something possessed.

For the first time in years, Grand Duke Rhadrian felt a sliver of doubt.But before the nightmare could unfold further, the dark energy flickered—and then vanished.

The ten men collapsed—whether dead or merely unconscious, Rhadrian could not tell. His stance remained defensive, blade still in hand, his breathing steady but tense.

Then—a girl stepped forward.

At first, he nearly mistook her for his daughter Evelyn. She bore the same slender frame, the same long black hair, the same pale complexion. But there was one difference—her eyes.

Crimson.

Deep, unnatural red—not of mortal blood, but of something beyond human. A color that should have been terrifying—yet, somehow, mesmerizing.

"You're safe now," she said, her voice calm, almost detached. "You may go. Those men were possessed."

Rhadrian's grip on his sword tightened. "Possessed? By what?"

She hesitated. Just for a moment. Then—a sudden tremor ran through her body.

A sharp inhale. A staggered breath.

And before he could demand more, she collapsed.

*

The Grand Duke's mansion, normally steeped in solemn quiet, had been unusually restless for the past three days. Whispers filled the corridors, spreading from servant to servant, from guard to steward. The cause of this unease was none other than the mysterious girl the Duke had brought back with him on his return from the capital.

Rumors swirled like a gathering storm. The guards who had accompanied the Duke on his journey claimed she was dangerous—something about the way she had appeared, the eerie stillness of her unconscious form, the unnatural pallor of her skin. The maids exchanged wary glances as they passed by the chamber where she was laid unconscious, some avoiding it entirely. After all, why would the Duke—known for his sharp instincts and calculated decisions—take in an unknown girl with no name, no clear identity?

Yet, despite their concerns, Grand Duke Rhardian himself showed no signs of doubt. Every day, without fail, he visited the girl's room, right after tending to his own daughter. He never spoke of his reasons, never acknowledged the murmurs, only watched and waited.

And then, on the third day, she woke up.

The heavy silence that had settled over the estate broke as the news spread. The girl, who had been as still as death, had finally opened her eyes.

When the girl finally stirred, the room was empty save for the soft glow of morning light filtering through the grand windows. For a moment, she simply lay there, her mind clouded with remnants of pain. The last thing she remembered was the weight of exhaustion pulling her into darkness—her body refusing to move, her vision blurring as crimson flickers danced before her eyes.

Now, she was awake. And she was somewhere unfamiliar.

Pushing herself upright, she took in her surroundings. The chamber was spacious yet minimal in its decor—refined, elegant, and undeniably aristocratic. Heavy velvet curtains, embroidered in intricate gold, framed the tall windows. A grand armoire stood in one corner, a set of plush chairs near the fireplace in another. The bed she laid upon was soft, its silk sheets a stark contrast to the rough, straw-filled bedding she was used to.

Her fingers traced the fabric absentmindedly before she finally swung her legs over the side of the bed. Her body still ached, but the overwhelming fatigue that had once gripped her was gone. With cautious steps, she made her way toward the door.

Outside, the mansion was alive with hushed whispers and lingering stares. Servants stopped mid-task as she passed, their expressions ranging from curiosity to outright suspicion. Guards stiffened, their hands twitching toward their weapons out of instinct. The girl paid them no mind. She wandered through the corridors, taking in the grand architecture, the high ceilings adorned with intricate chandeliers, the polished marble floors that reflected the morning sun.

This was a place of wealth. Of power.

And it was certainly not a place she belonged.

Yet, no one stopped her as she continued her quiet exploration. She followed the winding hallways until the scent of fresh earth and flowers led her to a vast garden. Rows of tulips, vibrant and swaying gently in the breeze, stretched before her, their colors rich against the well-manicured greenery.

Beyond them, seated on the patio, was the Grand Duke.

He sat in a high-backed chair, a small round table at his side, a porcelain teacup resting atop it. His posture was composed, yet there was an unmistakable air of expectation about him. Though he had yet to turn around, she knew he was aware of her presence.

"I knew my instincts were not mistaken." he said at last, his voice deep and measured. Then, he finally turned, meeting her gaze.

The girl did not flinch under the weight of his piercing purple eyes.

"I know you mean no harm," he continued, studying her carefully. "I can feel it."

She remained still for a moment before finally speaking. "Where is this? Is this your estate?"

"It is," the Duke confirmed. "This is my home. My territory. There is nothing for you to fear here." A small smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "Come, sit."

Without hesitation, she moved forward, taking the seat beside him. The Duke watched her with an intensity that most would find unnerving.

Three days. That was how long she had been unconscious. Three days he had spent searching for any trace of her identity. Yet, there was nothing. No records. No name. Nothing but rumors from a nearby village, where the girl had been seen living within the walls of a humble church. The villagers claimed she had been their protector—fending off bandits, aiding in the harvest, hunting just enough to survive.

But to the Grand Duke, that explanation did not suffice.

Despite the plainness of her attire, despite the frailty of her form, there was something about her that stood apart. The way she carried herself, the poised stillness in her movements—it was not the behavior of a mere wanderer. It was something learned. Refined. A dignity that even among nobles was rare to find.

"Do you have a place to return to?" he asked after a moment.

She nodded. "I live in a church, not far from here."

Honest.

The Duke's lips curled slightly. He was beginning to admire her. There was no fear in her, no hesitance in her answers. Even now, as she sat before him in an unfamiliar place, surrounded by unfamiliar people, she remained unwavering.

"Would you like to make a deal with me?"

The girl, still composed, lifted the teacup before her, taking a slow sip before placing it back on the table. She did not respond immediately. Instead, her gaze drifted toward the tulips.

"Do you like tulips?"

The Duke exhaled lightly. "My late wife did."

A moment of silence stretched between them before the girl finally spoke again.

"I saw your daughter before coming here," she murmured.

For the briefest second, something in the Duke's expression shifted. It was subtle—so subtle that most would not have caught it. But the girl did.

He quickly masked it with a smile. "Yes. My poor, beloved daughter."

"She is cursed."

The Duke's fingers stilled against the handle of his cup.

"And why should I believe you?" His voice remained calm, but there was an unmistakable weight behind his words.

The girl finally turned her gaze back to him, crimson eyes meeting violet.

"You don't have to believe me," she said simply. "I just want to let you know that she is cursed."

A slow breath escaped the Duke. "Do you know how to cure her?"

She nodded. "But it will take ten years. The curse has been left untouched for too long."

A deep silence settled over the garden. The Duke studied her carefully, weighing the possibilities, the risks.

And then he asked the question that had lingered in his mind since the moment they met.

"Who are you?"

The girl's gaze drifted again. "That is a question I ask myself every day," she admitted. "I do not have an answer for you."

The Duke did not respond immediately. He observed her, taking in every small detail—the way she sat, the way she spoke, the way she carried herself with quiet assurance.

"Can you truly heal my daughter?" he finally asked.

"I can," she confirmed. "If she has the will to live, then I can cure her. But it will take time."

The Duke leaned back in his chair, fingers tapping lightly against the armrest. "And what do you want in return?"

"A horse."

His brow arched slightly. "A horse?"

She nodded. "The villagers are too poor to own one. They need it for transportation. The nearest doctor is five days away, and many die on the journey. It is not your fault that they live in poverty—it is the consequence of their own past mistakes."

"Then why do you want to help them?"

She met his gaze once more. "Because I can. If you grant me my request."

For the first time, the Grand Duke chuckled.

There was something about her—something he found both amusing and admirable. Despite her appearance, despite her apparent lack of status, she had a presence that demanded acknowledgment.

"I will grant your request," he said. "And anything else you might ask of me."

She remained silent, waiting.

"But in return, I have one more proposal," he continued. "I want you to stay here and pretend to be my daughter."

He did not sugarcoat it. He explained everything—the Emperor's demand, the political balance, the need for an heir. He told her of the real Evelyn, of the sickness that plagued her, of the fragile state she was in. And he told her why he needed someone to take her place.

The girl listened without interruption.

Finally, after a long pause, she spoke.

"If I agree," she said, "will I be allowed to visit the Grand Church in the capital?"

"You may go wherever you wish," the Duke assured her. "If you become my daughter, I can give you the world itself."

A faint smile touched her lips. "Then so be it."

The Duke stood, looking down at her. "I have not yet asked for your name."

She remained seated, her crimson eyes steady. "I have been called by many names," she said. "But you may call me Krystalyn."

The Duke smiled. "A beautiful name."

***

The capital of Zephirion, Elarion, was a place of opulence and struggle, woven together in an intricate dance of status and survival. The city pulsed with life from dawn to dusk, its grand avenues lined with white-stone buildings that gleamed under the morning sun. Towering mansions, draped in ivy and gold, lined the noble district, where carriages rolled smoothly over cobbled streets, and footmen in crisp uniforms attended to their masters with practiced precision.

In this world of excess, noblemen occupied their days with courtly politics, business ventures, or leisurely pastimes such as hunting and dueling. Those with official titles attended councils or supervised their sprawling estates. Others, less burdened by responsibility, spent their time indulging in fine wines, theater performances, and intellectual debates at exclusive salons.

Noblewomen, meanwhile, orchestrated social gatherings that defined their influence—afternoon tea parties where gossip was currency, evening soirees glittering with jewels and whispered intrigues, and grand balls where alliances were forged through carefully choreographed dances. The unwed ladies, trained in etiquette since childhood, played their roles with delicate smiles, hiding their ambitions beneath silk and lace. Behind closed doors, mothers schemed for their daughters' futures, seeking the most advantageous matches, while rival families waged silent wars through rumors and scandal.

Yet, beyond the wealth and refinement, the commoners of Elarion lived in an entirely different world. The lower districts bustled with artisans, merchants, and laborers who toiled from sunrise to sunset to keep the city running. Blacksmiths hammered steel in sweltering forges, bakers filled the streets with the scent of fresh bread, and tailors stitched elaborate gowns that they could never afford to wear. Street vendors called out their wares in the crowded markets, selling everything from exotic spices to handwoven trinkets.

The gap between nobility and commoners was never more evident than in their struggles. While the elite worried over court gossip and marriage prospects, the poor fought to survive the winter, to pay taxes that bled them dry, and to avoid the ever-watchful eyes of the city guards who ensured that power remained in the hands of the privileged. And yet, both classes had one thing in common—a fascination with scandal.

Today's scandal? The Crown Prince of Zephirion. As always.

At the very heart of Elarion stood the Moonlit Fountain, an elegant marble structure where lovers gathered to toss coins and whisper wishes beneath the starlit sky. It was said that a single silver coin, thrown under the light of the full moon, could grant the deepest desire of one's heart.

But today, the fountain was not a place of romance. It was a place of bewilderment.

For there, lounging on the stone ledge like a common drunkard, was none other than Crown Prince Alistair Zephirion.

He had been there since midnight, or so the whispers claimed. Some said he arrived alone, muttering to himself after drinking his fill in the noble district. Others insisted they saw him staring at the moon, lost in thought, before collapsing onto the fountain's edge, his coat draped carelessly over his body like a discarded blanket.

Now, as the sun climbed higher, people gathered at a distance, torn between fascination and secondhand embarrassment. A prince should not be seen like this. Not sprawled out like some aimless vagabond, his shirt unbuttoned at the collar, his boots scuffed from God knows what misadventures he had the night before.

And yet, no one dared approach him—except for one man.

A knight approached, his polished boots clicking against the stone pavement. Unlike the others, he was unbothered by the spectacle before him. If anything, he looked annoyed, as if this were just another tedious task in his already exhausting life.

"Your Royal Highness," the knight drawled, folding his arms, "I hate to interrupt your… profound moment of self-reflection, but would you kindly get up and go back to the castle?"

Prince Alistair cracked open one golden eye and groaned.

"Ugh. Lucian, must you always ruin my mornings?"

Sir Lucian Verdon, one of the prince's long-suffering knights, let out a heavy sigh. "Your Highness, it's not morning. It's almost noon. And you've been lying here since last night." He glanced at the gawking commoners. "The people are beginning to question whether or not you've been exiled from the palace."

Alistair yawned. "That wouldn't be such a bad idea."

"Your Highness." Lucian's voice dropped to a warning tone. "His Majesty is expecting you."

At that, Alistair finally sat up, rolling his shoulders with exaggerated laziness. "Let me guess… another lecture about duty? Another insufferable meeting about marriage?" He spat the word as if it were poison. "I swear, if I have to hear one more discussion about 'the future of the empire,' I might actually die."

Lucian pinched the bridge of his nose. "I do not doubt your ability to dramatize your suffering, Your Highness. However, I would like to keep my job, so if you would be so kind as to—"

"I hate politics, Lucian. I hate the nobles, I hate the court, and I hate how everyone acts as if my entire purpose in life is to sit on a gilded throne and produce an heir."

Lucian exhaled sharply. "Well, that is quite literally your purpose, Your Highness."

Alistair groaned again, dragging a hand through his disheveled hair. "And now I'm expected to marry the Grand Duke's daughter?" He scoffed. "I've never even met her. For all I know, she could be a lifeless doll like the rest of them—perfect posture, empty words, eyes that only see power."

"Then meet her," Lucian said flatly.

Alistair waved him off. "I'll pass. I'd rather jump into this fountain and drown."

Lucian gave him a long, unimpressed stare. "...Shall I push you in, then?"

Alistair smirked. "Tempting, but no." He finally stood, dusting off his coat. "Fine, fine. I'll go back. But only because I'm feeling merciful today."

Lucian muttered something about divine punishment under his breath.

But just as Alistair took a step toward the palace, his eyes caught movement.

From the shadowed alleyway near the market, a woman stood—dressed in red, wearing a wide-brimmed hat, tilting it just enough to reveal a teasing smirk beneath the fabric.

She lifted a hand.

And waved.

Lucian turned, following his gaze. "Your Highness—"

But the prince was already gone.

*

The Crown Prince only returned when the sun began to set, dragging the scent of wine and debauchery with him.

Lucian had searched for hours, combing through every known haunt, until at last, he found his wayward liege in an inn, draped in silken sheets with a half-naked woman curled against his chest.

Lucian pinched the bridge of his nose. "Your Highness, if I may be so bold—"

Alistair cracked one eye open and smirked. "You may not."

"—It is far past time you returned to the palace." Lucian crossed his arms. "And before you say anything ridiculous, let me remind you that His Majesty will not be amused if I report that you were—" He motioned vaguely at the disheveled state of the prince and the woman beside him. "—indisposed."

The woman, still drowsy, traced lazy patterns over Alistair's chest. "Mmm, must you leave, Your Highness? The night is still young."

Alistair sighed dramatically, tilting his head toward Lucian with a look of pure suffering. "See? Even she understands."

Lucian scoffed. "Forgive me, woman, but the Crown Prince has an appointment far more pressing than your… entertainment." He grabbed the prince's discarded coat and tossed it at him. "Get dressed. Now."

Alistair groaned, rubbing his temples. "You're unbearably persistent, Lucian. Have you considered taking up a less exhausting profession?"

"I would if my current one didn't involve chasing a grown man across the city like a lost mutt."

A dry chuckle left Alistair's lips, but seeing that Lucian was unwavering, he finally pried himself from the bed, stretching languidly. "Fine, fine. Let's get this over with."

Lucian turned on his heel. "I'll have the maids 'fix' you before you see His Majesty. You look like you lost a brawl with a wine barrel."

"Who's to say I didn't?"

Lucian merely sighed as they left.

*

After being forcibly 'fixed'—bathed, dressed, and made to look like an actual Crown Prince again—Alistair finally made his way to the throne room. But instead of the Emperor's tall, commanding figure, he found himself facing someone entirely unexpected.

A woman.

She stood beneath the grand arched window, where the night sky stretched endlessly beyond the imperial palace. The moonlight, which should have bathed her in silver, instead seemed to dim around her presence. It was as if she did not glow—but consumed the light itself. The shadows curled at her feet, embracing her as though she belonged to them.

His instincts flared. His fingers twitched toward the hilt of his sword.

"Who are you?"

The woman turned, and for the first time, he was met with eyes of deep crimson. Unreadable. Unshaken. And then, she bowed. Not like a noble pandering for favor. Not like a girl presenting herself to a prince.

She bowed like a monarch in her own right.

"It is a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance, Your Royal Highness." Her voice was smooth, deliberate. "My name is Evelyn Valeria Caelum, daughter of—"

"The explorer daughter of Grand Duke Rhadrian Caelum."

Alistair interrupted with an unimpressed tone, watching for any sign of surprise on her face. There was none.

Instead, she straightened, looking at him with quiet, assessing eyes.

He had asked Lucian about her before coming here. He had heard the stories. The noble daughter who had never been seen in the capital. A girl raised in solitude, protected fiercely by her father. A woman who had never attended court nor participated in the social affairs of the aristocracy.

An outcast. A ghost. A recluse. Some said, an Adventurer.

And yet—

Alistair's gaze swept over her once more.

She carried herself with a dignity he had never seen before.

Before now, he had assumed they were the same—two people resisting the roles forced upon them, running from the chains of duty. But as she stood there, unfazed, he realized something strange.

She was not running.

She was waiting.

"Well?" Evelyn spoke again. "You called me here, Your Highness. You may speak your piece."

He scoffed, walking closer. "You're rather demanding for someone who has spent their life hiding."

"I do not hide. I simply do not entertain."

"Ah," he mused, circling her now. "So you're what? Some noble martyr? Choosing to stay away from court because you're too good for it?"

Evelyn tilted her head slightly, as if studying him. "Do you hate nobility, Your Highness?"

Alistair narrowed his eyes. "Should I not?"

Evelyn did not answer immediately. Instead, she turned back to the window, gazing at the empire beyond. "The nobility of today is a hollow shell of what it was meant to be. It has rotted from within."

Alistair raised a brow. "Strong words from a duke's daughter."

"You misunderstand." She glanced at him. "I do not hate nobility. I hate what they have become."

Silence hung between them.

Alistair clicked his tongue, shaking his head. "And I suppose you think you're different?"

She turned to face him fully now, her midnight blue gown flowing like liquid night. "If nobility were as it should be—if it were defined by responsibility, strength, and the willingness to uphold dignity rather than exploit power—then yes, Your Highness." Her crimson eyes gleamed. "I am different."

Alistair found himself at a loss for words.

For the first time, he was staring at someone who did not beg, did not waver, did not try to charm or manipulate him. She did not look at him with fear, nor admiration, nor disdain.

She simply was. A noble, in the truest sense of the word.

His lips curled slightly. "And yet, you are here because your father seeks to wed you to me."

Evelyn met his gaze unflinchingly. "No, Your Highness. I am here because the Emperor seeks to wed me to you."

A dry chuckle escaped his throat. "Do you despise the thought as much as I do?"

She did not smile, but there was something—just the faintest flicker of amusement in her gaze. "Would it soothe your ego to hear me say yes?"

Alistair let out a genuine laugh, stepping away. "I see now why my father is so insistent. He thinks you'll tame me."

"That is not my concern."

His laughter faded, and for a long moment, they simply regarded each other.

Alistair finally sighed, running a hand through his hair. "You're nothing like I imagined, Young Lady Caelum."

"And you are exactly as I imagined, Your Highness."

He blinked at that, before smirking. "You wound me."

Evelyn tilted her head slightly. "Do I?"

Alistair chuckled again. He could already tell. This woman—this strange, unreadable woman—was going to make his life much more complicated.

And his father wanted him to marry her?

Unbelievable.

---------- To Be Continued ----------