Between the open window sashes, transparent white curtains fluttered in the afternoon breeze.
The walls were covered in warm beige wallpaper, and a floor-to-ceiling bookcase stood crammed with volumes of every size.
The study in the capital townhouse was smaller than the Duke's study in the castle, but the space felt brighter—more open somehow.
Gerald settled into his chair and listened to Olive's report.
"Mr. Zero will arrive within ten days, along with the gift you prepared."
"What condition is the gift in?"
"Frozen solid." Olive smiled meaningfully.
"Excellent."
"Fortunately, Mr. Zero found the entire endeavor amusing—otherwise, he might have kicked up a fuss and refused outright." Olive shrugged, as though the mere thought gave him a headache.
"And the woman?"
"We're still searching for Gelmia." Olive's tone turned serious. "The trail has gone cold."
"Slowly."
"My apologies, Your Grace. It appears she has powerful support behind her. She's lying low—tail between her legs—leaving no trace."
Olive bowed his head guiltily. Finding this woman was a priority, but leads were scarce.
"Speed up."
"Yes, Your Grace."
When Olive looked up, the Duke had already risen from his chair.
"Where are you going?"
"To Marin."
The answer was clipped, final.
"I... beg your pardon?" Olive stared after him, bewildered.
"Any other business?"
"The palace sent an invitation requesting your return—"
"Ignore it."
The Duke's voice could have frozen fire.
"Yes. Understood."
"Anything else?"
His eyebrows rose with evident displeasure.
*In this mood, better to say nothing.*
Olive swallowed whatever he'd been about to add and arranged his features into his usual soft smile.
"Nothing, Your Grace."
The report tucked under his arm could easily wait until tomorrow.
Since arriving in the capital, Olive had resumed reading reports himself. Unlike the ducal castle, the capital crawled with spies; the Duke had decided to keep Marin's abilities as hidden as possible.
Gerald nodded—*all clear*—and departed.
His footsteps receded down the corridor, quickening with each step.
A smile touched Olive's lips.
*How eager he is.*
The thought surprised him. He didn't know the precise nature of the contract between the Duke and Marin—but what if His Grace was genuinely attracted to her?
Olive chuckled quietly in the empty office.
---
## — The Garden —
The moment the young man—face half-hidden behind a black scarf—declared himself the Crown Prince, Elmis's blade froze a hair's breadth from his throat.
"Order your servant to lower her sword. *Immediately.*"
The self-proclaimed prince glanced at the steel kissing his neck, then slowly reached up and pulled off the scarf, exposing his face.
His expression said: *Well? Surely you recognize me now.*
Marin and Daya exchanged uncertain glances.
"Daya, have you ever seen a portrait of the Crown Prince?"
"No. And you, Teacher?"
"Neither have I."
*If they didn't know what he looked like, how could they possibly identify him?*
Curly golden hair. Eyes of pure, molten gold. Clearly defined scarlet lips. Broad shoulders, long legs—the proportions of classical sculpture.
The young man before them was so devastatingly handsome that one could almost taste something honeyed and intoxicating in the air around him.
Hearing that he wasn't recognized, confusion flickered through those golden eyes.
He was still considering how to prove his identity when the blade at his neck abruptly vanished.
Elmis dropped to her knees, head bowed in formal prostration.
"Elmis greets His Highness the Crown Prince. I mistook you for an assassin and committed an unforgivable error. I humbly apologize."
"No. I was the one who approached with my face covered. You were simply doing your duty. Rise."
Marin and Daya scrambled to their feet, startled.
*Elmis's primary duty was security*—she knew the faces of every key figure in the empire.
"Marin of House Shuvents greets His Highness the Crown Prince."
"Daya of House Adria greets His Highness the Crown Prince."
Both grasped their skirts and dropped into curtsies—but the prince stopped them with a quick wave.
"Please, rise."
As they straightened, he stepped closer.
"I apologize for frightening you."
He was only a year or two older than Daya—impossibly handsome—yet he spoke with the measured formality of an elderly statesman. Was this simply how heirs were raised?
"It's quite all right." Marin found her voice first. "Would you care to sit?"
"With pleasure."
Soon the three of them were arranged in a triangle around the tea table.
Marin and Daya had no idea where to begin. They sat as though water had filled their mouths.
Marin's mind, however, was racing.
*Because of her, the novel had begun veering off course.*
In the original story, the Crown Prince and Daya met at the debutante ball—not here. They eventually promised to marry each other.
But if Marin hadn't existed in this version, Daya wouldn't have been drinking tea in this garden. She wouldn't have encountered the prince at all.
The realization sent a delayed wave of anxiety surging from somewhere deep in her chest.
She'd thought lightly that small details could be changed without consequence—things that didn't touch the novel's main plot. The opal mine. Minor interactions.
But there was one thing that *must not* change.
*The Duke's eyes.*
Would it truly be possible to cure them?
Anxiety rose like a tide, flooding from her feet upward.
For weeks, she had been applying mandrelson to his eyes, but the results were minimal. Perhaps mandrelson wasn't the key ingredient after all.
In the novel, the heroine had mixed mandrelson with something else. What if it was *that* something—the unknown component—that neutralized the herb's poison and actually restored the Duke's sight?
And only the heroine knew the recipe.
The silence at the tea table stretched uncomfortably long.
Marin spoke carefully:
"Your Highness, to what do we owe this visit? And with your face covered, no less..."
The prince untied the scarf still hanging around his neck.
"I wished to meet with the Duke."
"It might have been better to send a letter in advance."
Marin's smile was soft but pointed—*from now on, by appointment.*
"I *did* write to the Duke." The prince's expression turned rueful. "I never received a response."
Marin offered him tea. He lifted the cup and continued:
"He is one of those who ignores even messages from His Imperial Majesty. So I decided to achieve a meeting by any means necessary."
He smiled—bitter, self-aware.
He'd known the Duke had his own agenda, but he hadn't expected him to go so far as to dismiss the Emperor's correspondence entirely.
Marin's heart lurched, but outwardly she maintained her smile.
*Smile. This is the moment to smile.*
"Lady Adria," the prince turned to Daya, his tone shifting to something more restrained, "may the souls of the departed rest in peace."
"Thank you for your concern, Your Highness."
Daya's voice carried genuine surprise—she clearly hadn't expected such words.
The prince's gaze lingered on her.
Marin's heart clenched.
*Earlier, Daya had confessed her ambition to become Crown Princess. What if he'd heard that?*
Daya didn't look away. She met his eyes directly—unflinching.
Marin held her breath, watching their sparking, silent exchange.
Gold meeting green.
Neither yielding.
*Are they falling in love? Or simply caught in the gravity of what was just spoken?*
And at the most charged moment—
"What are you doing here, Your Highness?"
The Duke's low voice rolled through the garden like winter arriving.
The prince flinched and turned.
"D-Duke."
"Vines greets the Crown Prince."
Gerald inclined his head—the barest gesture of acknowledgment, his expression carved from ice.