The afternoon sun streamed through the rose trellises of the palace garden, casting golden light across the gilt-framed mirrors. In the royal dressing chamber, attendants were adjusting the prince's ceremonial garments for his impending wedding. Cyrus stood before the mirror, clad in an ivory and gold-embroidered groom's robe. Royal insignias were stitched with golden thread along the sleeves, and a deep sapphire gleamed on each shoulder—a symbol of the powerful alliance represented by his future bride.
"Your Highness, please raise your arm."
The attendant's gentle reminder was met with obedience, but as the sleeve slipped over his wrist, Cyrus's fingers trembled ever so slightly—a single bead of cold sweat rolled down his palm. His chest tightened, as if pierced by something sharp.
At that moment, the door burst open with a loud knock. A pale-faced maid rushed in, her voice shaking:
"Your Highness… the lady in the tower… she's gone!"
The air froze.
Cyrus stood stunned, then jolted as if struck—"What?" he barked, shoving past everyone and tearing off his robe as he sprinted out the door.
He raced up the tower stairs and flung open the door. The small, familiar room was completely empty. The curtains fluttered in the wind, and the bed was made so neatly it looked untouched. Like a madman, Cyrus scoured the palace—the gardens, the corridors, the galleries, the kitchens—even the stables, questioning every knight on duty. Yet everyone said the same thing: "We haven't seen her."
He ran through the woodland paths they used to walk together, combed the crowded markets, questioned every vendor. He even went to the harbor, asking fishermen if they'd seen a silent, beautiful girl.
But just like the day she first arrived—without a word, without a trace—she was gone.
By sunset, he was seated on the rocks by the shore, watching the endless tide rise and fall. He stared into the sea's reflection of the dying sun, haunted by the image of that silver-blue tail, flashing through the storm-wracked waters so long ago.
He remembered the way it had held him up—cool, smooth, unearthly.
Lia's skin had felt like that too.
He didn't know how long he sat there until a soft voice broke the silence—
"Cyrus."
He turned. Vera stood behind him, wrapped in a pale gold cloak, her expression gentle and composed. She stepped closer and sat beside him.
"You've searched all day. You should rest."
He didn't answer. His fists clenched, grief seeping from his every breath.
Vera reached out and laid a hand atop his. Her voice was soft, almost kind.
"If she truly left, that was her choice. You can't force her to stay."
Her words felt like a dagger, twisting deep. Even breathing hurt.
He took a slow, shuddering breath, telling himself—She will make a good wife. Poised. Intelligent. Dignified. You should accept her.
And so he nodded, stood up, and walked away from the sea. Vera quietly at his side.
——
Three days later, the wedding was held as planned.
The grand hall was adorned with ivory roses and golden silk banners. Crystal chandeliers sparkled beneath the dome. Citizens flooded the capital's streets, their cheers rising like waves.
"Prince Evan! Princess Catherine!"
They shouted their joy, praising this noble, well-matched union. And there, at the altar, the prince and his bride looked every bit the storybook royalty—he, breathtakingly handsome; she, radiantly elegant.
Cyrus's smile was calm and composed. Only when his gaze flickered toward the tower's shuttered window did a flicker of sorrow stir in his eyes.
That night, as the palace lights dimmed and Vera slept soundly beside him, Cyrus lay awake, staring at the soft patterns on the canopy.
A question whispered in his mind—Do you love her?
He shut his eyes, willing sleep to come. But then—half dreaming, half waking—he sensed a faint moisture in the air. A familiar scent tickled his nose—sea salt, roses, morning dew.
He hadn't smelled that in so long. He breathed it in deeply, yearning.
And in a whisper, he murmured, "Lia… Lia…"
The next morning, sunlight poured into the royal chamber. As the servant entered, Cyrus was already awake.
Something caught his eye on the marble floor—a thin trail of water, winding from the door to the bed.
He followed it in silence. At the end of the trail, resting like a forgotten offering, was an object.
A dagger—its slender blade shimmered like fish scales, catching silver-blue light. At the hilt, a crystal gleamed faintly with a blue glow. Etched into the blade was a single, stylized tail—one he recognized from a memory in the stormy sea.
Cyrus knelt and picked it up, staring at the blade in silence.
He said nothing.
But in his heart, he knew—She had come back.