On the upper floor of the southern palace, inside the Countess's luxurious suite—where the last rays of evening light slipped through the narrow slits of the velvet curtains—a golden stillness settled over the place, like the whisper of twilight in the presence of kings. It was as though the room itself was preparing for a ritual of confessions, a priestess of silence and silk.
Kyle, the Prince of Strathmore, sat on the wide imperial-patterned sofa. He had removed his jacket, embroidered with golden threads, and undone the buttons of his ivory shirt collar, as though he were shedding the burden of protocol, not just clothing. He appeared somewhat pale, as if the palace itself, with its ancient rules, had drained something from his soul.
The silence was thick—not the usual quiet, but the kind that precedes a storm, the kind that prepares souls for words rarely spoken.
Then a shadow moved, and Countess Sara Strathmore, his mother, appeared from behind the marble columns, like a noble ghost from the age of aristocrats. She walked lightly, as only one accustomed to moving between the fire of palaces and the chill of imperial councils could. Her dark braids were tightly arranged in an aristocratic style, and her deep green gown reflected the candlelight like faint waves of living emerald stone.
In her hand, she held a cup of camellia tea, gripping it the way leaders hold weapons: cautiously, and with confidence. She stood still for a moment before speaking, then said in her composed voice that always carried a hidden edge of steel:
"I sat with the Empress today… and I feel as if we are walking a tightrope over a pit of fire."
Kyle raised his eyes to her, his green eyes gleaming beneath the shadow of his lashes, but with a weary detachment.
"It was just a courtesy meeting, like the ones mothers have when they meet and talk about their children with smiling faces and hearts that carve the words."
Sara approached with measured steps and sat across from him, placing the cup on a small table of agate inlaid with gold. She looked at him for a long moment, the gaze of a mother bearing the weight of a ruling countess:
"But Arwa… she's not just a passing girl in your path, is she?"
That sentence hung in the air like a sword suspended above the throat.
He hesitated. The hesitation itself was etched into his features. He didn't answer right away. He ran a hand through his blond hair, then gripped the corner of the embroidered pillow, as if searching for an answer within its threads.
"I don't know what she is yet," he finally said in a low voice. "But I know… she's not like other women. I still see her as young. Strange. But she… left a mark."
Sara smiled—a smile that held warmth, but behind it, questions that never slept.
"She's clever, adaptable, and has that strange spark in her eyes… But do you think she's ready to become the lady of this house? The Princess of Strathmore?"
Kyle adjusted his posture, as if trying to escape the invisible constraints wrapped around his chest.
"Was any of us ever ready? We're born inside the fabric, hung on its walls like family portraits… and we spend our lives trying not to fall off."
Sara responded, her voice not loud, but sharp as a blade:
"Arwa wasn't born in it. She isn't part of this fabric—not in blood, nor in history."
Kyle turned his face toward the window, through which only the shadow of the sunset could be seen. He spoke while gazing at the distant horizon beyond the glass:
"Don't deny that she proved something, Mother. From the moment she faced the Empress without showing fear, she passed the test of the sun—and she wasn't trained for it. Today, in the garden, among all that gold and those stares, she didn't flinch."
The Countess replied quietly, raising her gaze toward the portrait of their great-grandfather, Alferius the Great, hanging from the ceiling, where the fallen prince stared down with unforgiving eyes:
"Grandfather Alferius used to say: strength without lineage is like a sword without a sheath… It frightens, but cannot be carried."
Kyle took a deep breath, then closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the sofa. He spoke softly, but with firm conviction:
"Perhaps she doesn't suit me in age. Perhaps she doesn't fit the title. But she… made me see myself differently. Not as a prince, but as a man."
Sara looked at him, as if seeing a ghost from her own past, and murmured as though confessing:
"I was like you… once. Stubborn, dreamy, romantic. I wanted to change the rules of the game. I defied everyone. And I paid the price… dearly."
He opened his eyes and looked at her directly:
"But I'm not you, Mother. And I won't run from the price."
A long silence followed, then Sara said, in a whisper like a priest's confession:
"Do you love her?"
The question was a soft sword, sinking into his heart without drawing blood.
He didn't answer immediately. He hesitated, then looked at the floor, as though seeking the answer in the wood beneath his feet. At last, he whispered, barely audible:
"I don't know… not yet."
She smiled—not a victorious smile, but the smile of a mother who knows the journey has only just begun, and the true answer will not come tonight.
"Then, be ready."
Kyle rose from his seat, as if her words had given him a decision. He stood tall, and walked toward the window, where the last light of the sun was still fading.
"Let me face my fate the way I choose, not the way it's chosen for me."
As he reached the door, she called out in a low voice, but one that carried a harshness that could not be mistaken:
"Just don't turn your heart into a weapon against yourself… because Arwa, my son, may not know how to forgive if she feels betrayed."
Kyle stopped at the door.
He didn't turn back.
Then he left.
And Sara remained alone, in a suite that had begun to cool despite the warmth of the candles. She closed her eyes slowly and let out a small gasp no one heard.
Inside her, a war had begun—unannounced. Between a Countess who understood how empires were run… and a mother afraid for her son from the war that came wearing the clothes of love.