At last, Princess Jasmine entered in her magnificent wedding gown. As she swept past Kasha, a dense wave of fragrance struck her full in the face.
“The bride and groom will now exchange the sacred gifts.”
At the Grand Archbishop’s direction, the lady-in-waiting who stood behind Princess Jasmine stepped forward and placed an ornate golden box in the princess’s hands.
The Crown Prince, smiling brilliantly, looked down from the dais — searching for his own attendant.
He was looking at Leon. But Leon, soaked in cold sweat, looked half elsewhere — as though he had already lost track of his own purpose. Only when the Commander of the Holy Knight Order jabbed an elbow into his side did Leon register the cue and step forward.
He mounted the steps and came to stand before the Crown Prince, drawing a pearl-white box from within his dress uniform.
His hands, trembling from exhaustion and pain, briefly made contact with the Crown Prince’s as he transferred it. In that same moment, their eyes met — both pairs violet, the same shade, but bearing nothing in common beneath the surface.
The Crown Prince smiled generously at Leon and clapped a hand to his shoulder.
“Thank you, cousin.”
Leon lowered his head — no expression — and came back down the steps at once.
His coolness was not lost on Princess Jasmine, who stood at the Crown Prince’s side. A faint crease formed between her brows. It was gone the instant the Crown Prince turned toward her, replaced again with her gentle, shy smile.
Leon returned to his position. Then, without warning, he flinched — a barely perceptible stagger.
It lasted less than a breath. But a handful of people in the room caught it. Their attention sharpened, then released again as Leon reassembled his blank composure.
All except Kasha, who had been watching him constantly — except when she needed to observe Princess Jasmine.
The ceremony continued. The gifts were exchanged, the vows spoken. The magnificent pair turned to the congregation and raised their hands.
“Long live the Crown Prince! Long live the Crown Princess!”
The cheers began inside the temple and swept outward to the plaza. Fireworks burst. Music began. Within moments, both inside the temple and in the square beyond, the world became a celebration.
As the procession descended the steps, the Crown Prince leaned briefly toward Leon and murmured,
“Come to the reception too, cousin. It’s been a while — we ought to catch up.”
Leon nodded in silence. The Crown Princess looked on with something faintly cold in her gaze.
And Kasha watched all of it with clear, measuring eyes.
* * *
The summer palace — famous as the loveliest in all the imperial grounds.
Kasha entered the reception venue on Daryl’s arm.
It was, predictably, magnificent and loud. A towering champagne fountain had been installed at the entrance connecting the reception hall to the central garden, drawing exclamations from every guest who passed.
“Why were you so insistent on attending the reception? The healer said you still needed rest—”
Daryl muttered, visibly unsatisfied. Kasha gave a small shake of her head.
“Brother. If Father had attended in person, it might have been different — but since he’s already absent, if we leave early as well… it will reflect poorly. In more ways than one.”
Count Rüschino had been unable to attend the wedding due to deteriorating conditions in the empire’s northeastern territories. Daryl tilted his head at her words.
“Father?”
“…Yes. Count Rüschino.”
Kasha replied without quite meeting his eyes.
“How long are you going to keep calling him ‘the Count’? You’re already calling me ‘Brother’ perfectly well. Hmm.”
He said it with something between reproach and satisfaction — and somehow managed to look quietly pleased about it regardless.
“Of course, I do present a more approachable image than our father. His expression alone is enough to frighten people…”
Daryl, who was famously said to be the image of that same frightening father, delivered this with great self-satisfaction. Kasha was still regarding him with quiet bemusement when a voice cut through the noise.
“Kasha!”
Daryl startled and hastily straightened his jacket. Kasha turned to meet Margaret.
“Margaret.”
“Miss Margaret.”
“Lord Rüschino.”
Daryl, red-faced. Margaret, looking at him with unmistakable fondness.
The way they looked at each other had, at least, grown more natural than before. Kasha was considering whether to engineer another opportunity for them to be alone when—
“Margaret! What are you doing standing here? We need to greet Baron Marquis—”
A thin woman appeared from somewhere and seized Margaret’s sleeve urgently. Viscountess Yonder — Margaret’s mother.
“Mother, I was just speaking with Lord Rüschino and Miss Kasha for a moment—”
“Come along. What do you think you’re doing, dawdling? Really.”
The Viscountess hauled Margaret away without another word.
Daryl watched them go, his fists clenching as though he might go after her — but Kasha stopped him.
“Brother. Don’t tell me you still haven’t formally made your intentions known to the Yonder household?”
“Of course I have. They simply chose to ignore it.”
Daryl’s voice had gone flat and unhappy.
“But why?”
The Rüschino family was no small force in the empire — known as the Emperor’s shield, they wielded considerable influence. For a mere viscountcy to turn down such a match made no obvious sense.
“I made inquiries. It turns out Viscount Yonder has accumulated a tremendous gambling debt. To Baron Marquis, specifically.”
“Ah. So that’s it.”
Kasha suppressed a sound of distress.
It’s about money, in the end.
Viscount Yonder was planning to sell his daughter to pay what he owed. And Baron Marquis, by every account circulating in the capital, was a depraved man with an ugly reputation.
The Rüschino lands, centered in the empire’s harsh and remote northeast, generated modest income at best. Paying off a viscount’s gambling debts would be beyond their means — and beyond their nature. Everyone knew that the Rüschino family did not engage in the kind of transactional marriage arrangements that involved large sums changing hands. Viscount Yonder would have known that too.
“Then what will you do? Stand by and watch Margaret be sold off to that man?”
“Never. I’ve already written to my father, asking whether I might access any portion of my future inheritance early, or use it as a dowry settlement.”
“You need to move quickly.”
Kasha watched the Viscountess drag Margaret away and frowned.
Then—
“My, the Young Lord looks remarkably displeased for such a joyous occasion! Someone might think he had a personal objection to the celebrations! Ha ha ha!”
A loud, pointed voice carried over the crowd.
The only member of the Grand Ducal house still present at the reception was Leon.
Oh. I meant to find Leon the moment I arrived.
Kasha quickened her steps toward the sound.
“What a preposterous thing to say, Marquis.”
“Is it? Ha ha ha! The Grand Duke himself seemed to leave the ceremony rather urgently — and now Lord Anthony and Lady Eve appear to be absent as well. My goodness — whatever could have been so pressing as to keep the entire family from celebrating with the empire?”
The voice belonged to Marquis Amari — a portly man with a slender, incongruous mustache and small, sharp eyes. He was, by common knowledge, the de facto leader of the Crown Prince’s faction. His jovial manner was entirely performance.
“My father is unwell.”
Leon answered briefly. He was in no condition for this kind of exchange — and he knew it.
But the Marquis had no intention of letting go.
“Dear me. Well then — perhaps Lord Leon, as the sole Ossilote representative in attendance, would honor us with a toast? I’m sure the Crown Prince would be most pleased.”
“I would, but I am also unwell today.”
“Goodness. What a coincidence. On this very day — the day the Crown Prince’s succession is so magnificently affirmed — every member of the Ossilote Grand Ducal family finds themselves in poor health. How very remarkable. Ha ha ha.”
Marquis Amari’s thin eyes gleamed as he laughed, deliberately guileless. He was fishing for a reaction, and they both knew it.
I cannot afford to be drawn into this. Not today, of all days.
Leon pressed his fingers to his burning temple and fought to stay composed.
He was failing.
I am going to lose control entirely.
He exhaled a scorched breath.
His body did not belong to him. Something like a mad demon was careening through his blood, setting fires wherever it touched. He burned all over, his vision blurred. The edges of everything were bleeding red.
The desire to put his hands on someone’s skin — anyone’s — was parching him from the inside. And yet the overwhelming stench radiating from the crowd made it impossible to breathe.
The combination — suffocation and want — was grinding his reason to nothing. He was a dormant volcano on the very edge of erupting.
Kasha’s warning came back to him, too late.
With so many people gathered… if your condition were to worsen…
Did you know? Did you know this would happen to me today? Surely not — surely—
Leon blinked through the heat clouding his eyes, fighting to think.
If things become dangerous — come find me immediately.
Her voice, somewhere in memory, faded. Someone had taken red paint to the backs of his eyes. The world was filling in with crimson. He had never experienced this before. He realized, with something cold beneath all the heat, that he was afraid.
And then — like a blow aimed at the very last of his resistance — a familiar, cheerful voice struck him from behind.
“You’re not giving my cousin trouble, I hope?”
A perfect smile, showing even teeth.
Crown Prince Nigel, clapping a hand to Leon’s shoulder.
“Of course not, Your Highness. We were simply suggesting that His Lordship offer a toast on behalf of the Grand Ducal house.”
“Oh, that’s a fine idea.”
The Crown Prince glanced at Leon with a bright, playful smile — waves of golden-brown hair framing those amused violet eyes.
“You don’t mind, do you, Leon?”
“…As you wish, Your Highness.”
Leon forced the words out through his teeth, purely to end the conversation faster.
Get your hand off my shoulder.
You always have the worst smell of anyone here, Nigel. You always have.
Something surged up without warning — raw, unfiltered rage.
He wanted to throw it open. Tear into every body in this room that was putting that stench in the air. Pull them apart.
Even if it meant his own destruction.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
He could hear his own heartbeat racing ahead of him. He felt reason slipping its last hold.
He lifted his head.
“Hm? Leon — the color of your eyes—”
The Crown Prince’s bewildered voice reached him, and around it, the murmuring of the crowd rising, louder, uglier, like the noise of demons—
Thud. Thud.
The last thin membrane of control was splitting in two.
“Leon.”
A calm, clear voice cut through everything.
“It’s me. It’s Kasha.”
In the center of a world that had gone entirely red, she was simply there. Standing amid all that terrible crimson light, her deep pink eyes absorbing it all, undimmed.
