Baron Albert's carriage rolled slowly through the grand eastern gates of Hivites, its velvet curtains drawn open just enough for his eyes to drink in the city's splendor. Sunlight glinted off copper-roofed towers and silver-plated spires. The streets were paved with polished stone, swept clean and lined with hawkers, their voices melodic as they peddled fine wares.
"Ah," Albert murmured, swirling the last of his wine in a goblet, "Hivites has not lost its charm."
He leaned forward, brushing the curtain wider. Gold-trimmed banners fluttered in the wind, and in the distance, the King's palace loomed like a crown of crystal and ivory. The city pulsed with quiet power, wealth woven into every corner like embroidery on a noble's cloak.As the carriage approached the guest wing of the palace, a unit of maids stood waiting, The Head maid stepped forward, bowing slightly.
"Baron Albert of Creedom," the woman announced, "by order of His Majesty, you are to be received and housed in the eastern guest wing. if you would follow me, your belongings will be taken to your quarters. A bath has been drawn, and refreshments prepared."
Albert gave a smooth nod, hiding his travel weariness behind a polite smile. "Such hospitality. The Hivites live up to their reputation."
As they moved through the long arched corridors of the guest wing, Albert took in the delicate stained glass, each panel telling a story of Hivites' victories, alliances, and blood-soaked betrayals. He paused at one window depicting a man being crowned with a laurel of thorns.
"An odd choice," he murmured.
The head maid gave no response, simply smiled and motioned for the Baron to continue.
Inside his guest chamber, velvet drapes framed tall windows overlooking the city's inner gardens. Gold accents ran along the walls. Fruit and wine had already been placed on a silver tray near a hearth. It was almost too perfect.
Albert sank into the cushioned seat, eyes flicking to the letter sealed with Creedom's mark on his desk. A gift. A message. A lie.
Tomorrow, he would clear the kingdom's debts and lay the foundation for his own foreign trade, using the lands so graciously gifted by his in-laws. With that thought, a grin curled on his lips. He would be unstoppable.
***
Rapheal POV
The cottage stood where the dirt road met a narrow creek, its roof sagging slightly with age. Raphael tied his horse to a crooked fence post, the wind tugging gently at his worn cloak.
His boots crunched over dry leaves as he approached the wooden door. Smoke curled from the louvre, they were home. He reached into his cloak and pulled out the necklace which Sapphire had given him, he remembered seeing it with his late wife once or twice, fingers tightening around it. A token of guilt. Of memory. Of things unsaid.
He exhaled and walked forward.
It was time to face the truth, and those who loved her first.
He wasn't sure what he would say.
Just that they deserved to hear it from him.
Face to face.
He knocked softly on the wooden, weak door. It surely couldn't protect them from the night creatures like himself, he thought grimly. The faint sound of shuffling feet came from inside, followed by the door creaking open.
An old woman appeared, her eyes wary but weary, framed by silver strands escaping a faded scarf. Behind her, a frail man leaned on a cane, his face etched with sorrow.
Raphael nodded silently as the door creaked wider, and the old woman stepped back, gesturing him inside. The small cottage was humble but filled with the faint scent of dried herbs and earth.
"Please, sit," the mother said softly, offering a wooden cup. "Some water, perhaps?"
Raphael shook his head gently. "No, thank you."
The mother's eyes searched his face, voice trembling slightly as she asked, "What about our daughter? "
Raphael swallowed, the weight of the truth heavy on his tongue.
"She was taken by a sickness no one could see coming. It struck her down quickly, though... I fear it was not natural."
The mother's lips trembled. "No more, please. Just... tell us she did not suffer."
"I promise," Raphael said, bowing his head.
The father finally spoke, voice rough from years of labor. "Thank you for telling us. It is better to know than to live in doubt."
The moment felt heavier than any battlefield Raphael had faced.
With trembling hands, he reached into the pocket of his cloak and pulled out the necklace, delicate, The same one her mother had gifted her on her wedding day.
"I believe this belongs to you," Raphael murmured, placing it gently into the mother's weathered palms.
She stared at it, silent at first. Then, as her fingers closed around it, her shoulders began to shake. A choked sob escaped her lips, raw and broken.
"My baby…" she whispered. "She never took this off."
The father turned away, eyes glistening. The grief in the room became something tangible, a breathless weight pressing on their chests.
Raphael couldn't speak. Guilt coiled in his stomach like poison. He had watched the life fade from their daughter's eyes… and said nothing.
"I—" he cleared his throat. "I failed to protect her… But I swear, I will still take care of you both. Whatever you need. Her memory deserves at least that."
The mother didn't answer, only held the necklace to her heart as if trying to feel her daughter's warmth one last time.