Storm
"Some leave in disgrace, while others arrive bearing shadows."
Perhaps she had wielded the whip with insufficient force.
The Fourth Princess staggered, pressing a palm to her forehead as a wave of nausea rolled through her.
Her vision swam momentarily before settling.
"What are you doing standing there like a fool?
Serve Her Highness her tea this instant!"
The Princess's maid fixed Birna with a withering glare.
"Y-yes..."
Birna bit down hard on her lower lip, fighting to steady her trembling hands as she carried the teacup forward.
But before she could present it properly, the Fourth Princess dashed it aside.
Hot liquid splashed across Birna's dress, soaking through to her skin.
"Cold and reeking of fish!
You expect me to drink this swill?
Perhaps *you* should have it instead!"
The Fourth Princess showed no sign of relenting.
Every ounce of her frustration, every indignity she felt at being bound to the Claudio name, came pouring out.
"Are you just going to stand there gaping?
Can you not see the sun beating down on me?
Fetch an umbrella!"
Her irritation was boundless, and Birna had no choice but to endure it in silence.
Hadn't she just watched her mother and brother beaten like stray dogs before her very eyes?
What choice did she have?
"Oh... oh, my children..."
Catherine wept as she watched her son groan in pain and her daughter choke back tears of humiliation.
Her heart shattered anew with each passing moment.
When she had first learned of the Fourth Princess's betrothal to Samon, Catherine had been overjoyed.
When she heard they would be taken to Katzen, she had wept with relief, believing their suffering had finally reached its end—that a ray of hope had pierced through the storm clouds of their disgrace.
But reality proved far crueler than any nightmare.
The Fourth Princess, who was to become her daughter-in-law, was a merciless woman who struck not only her husband but her mother-in-law as well.
And she treated Birna—her precious Birna, a princess of Claudio whose delicate hands had never touched common labor—like a servant.
How did we fall so far?
Catherine lifted her eyes to the heavens, her gaze filled with bitter resentment.
"The carriages are prepared, Your Highness."
"Hmph.
Those sluggish worms won't be riding in *my* carriage."
The Fourth Princess surveyed the Claudio family with undisguised contempt, her lip curling in disgust.
Following the wedding ceremony, they would depart immediately for Katzen.
She had no intention of prolonging her exposure to the resentful gazes of Valdina's people—or to the loathsome presence of her new husband's family.
"Your Highness, where shall we—"
"Throw them in the wagon!"
At the Princess's sharp command, Samon forced his battered body upright.
"Father, Mother, that's—"
"A husband takes whatever wife is given to him!"
Crack.
Her palm connected with his cheek before he could finish.
While Samon stood frozen, one hand pressed to his stinging face, the Fourth Princess swept past him and climbed into her elegant carriage without a backward glance.
"Uncle!
Regardless of what I've done... surely this is too much!"
Samon directed his fury at Count Raju, who had approached with measured steps.
The wagon prepared for the Claudio family was far smaller and shabbier than the Princess's gilded carriage.
Iron bars covered the narrow windows—it looked less like transport and more like a prison cell on wheels.
For Samon, who had grown up as the young Duke of Claudio, it was an unbearable humiliation.
To enter Katzen in such a fashion?
The journey would be miserable enough, but the thought of how the imperial citizens would sneer at him—
Raju sighed, his expression one of practiced sympathy.
"What did you expect?
Surely you anticipated that the Fourth Princess would be... displeased?"
"*Displeased?*"
Samon's eyes blazed with indignation.
Could all the verbal abuse and violence truly be dismissed so lightly?
"What would you have us do?
Would you prefer to return to the guillotine?
For now, you must humble yourself.
Besides, there remained the matter of the succession.
Should she lose the child she carries, the Princess's fury will only intensify.
She will blame Samon for binding her to a doomed legacy.
"Samon, we all understood that the position of Prince Consort would be no easy burden.
You must endure.
Persevere.
Keep your eyes fixed on the succession."
Raju's voice dropped to a more pragmatic tone as he urged Samon to abandon his wounded pride and focus solely on what could be gained.
"I will follow shortly.
Take this blanket to the Duchess and Lady Birna.
I fear the conditions in that wagon will be... difficult."
Left with no alternative, Samon boarded the wretched wagon alongside his family.
The palace gates groaned open to the rhythmic clatter of carriage wheels.
Thud—
But the Claudio family's ordeal had only begun.
Beyond the gates, crowds of citizens packed the streets, their faces twisted with fury as they awaited the departure.
"There goes the Katzen carriage!"
"Where's Claudio?
Where's that traitor hiding?!"
"Cowering in a cart like the rats they are!
Cowards!
Trying to slink away!"
Stones flew through the air, pelting the wagon with sharp cracks.
Splat!
Something wet and foul struck Samon's forehead.
The stench hit him a moment later—human waste.
His once-fine clothes were already drenched in filth.
"Stop it!
Please, stop!"
Birna and Catherine struggled helplessly as the endless barrage continued.
Sewage and refuse splattered against them from every direction.
The Princess's knights drove the carriage at a deliberately leisurely pace, ensuring the mob had ample time to vent their rage.
"Filthy traitors!"
The stones and waste showed no sign of stopping.
Samon felt his sanity beginning to fray.
They believed they would live in luxury, clinging to Katzen's patronage like parasites.
But reality was proving far, far different.
The spot where the Fourth Princess had struck him throbbed with renewed intensity.
Samon bit down on his lip—so hard that blood welled from the corner of his mouth.
"Samon... please, close the window..."
Catherine's voice trembled with exhaustion and despair.
But her son did not move.
He showed no sign of hearing her at all.
His maddened gaze remained fixed beyond the window, staring past the jeering crowds toward the distant silhouette of the Valdina Palace.
Peleus... you will come to regret not killing me when you had the chance.
The words burned through Samon's mind, his eyes shot through with crimson fury.
I leave now in disgrace.
But when I return, I will enter with dignity.
With glory.
Greater and more magnificent than Peleus himself, I will ride through these gates and trample him beneath my horse's hooves.
I will drag him from his throne.
> "I will return to Valdina."
The vow, spoken through gritted teeth and blood, dissolved into the thick cloud of dust churned up by the departing wagon.
✦ ✦ ✦Beneath the evening sky, where the sun bled slowly into the horizon, Medea stood watching.
From her vantage point in the Princess's palace, she observed Claudio's carriage grow smaller and smaller until it vanished beyond the city walls.
Samon, you have slipped beyond my immediate reach.
But do not mistake this for an ending.
For House Claudio, there remains one final reckoning.
There was still one last piece to set in motion.
At that moment—
Click.
A faint sound reached her ears.
Medea turned.
A pale shadow flickered behind the curtains billowing at the window frame.
Her hand moved instinctively toward her crossbow—then stopped.
She recognized the presence.
"Acares.
Even Facade would struggle to deflect my brother's spear."
Her voice was calm, almost conversational.
A quiet warning wrapped in silk.
A low, muffled laugh drifted from the shadows.
"Mm.
I wouldn't be so certain of that."
A figure stepped from behind the gossamer veil, his arrogance intact despite the challenge.
"It has been some time, Princess."
Those golden eyes, luminous as the dying sunset.
That elegant jawline, still visible beneath the smooth curve of his half-mask.
He looked the same—and yet, something was different.
"This location is not secure, Princess."
"And yet you came."
"I trust I need not remind you to exercise caution."
Medea studied him, memories surfacing unbidden—their last encounter in the royal palace, when black smoke had billowed through the corridors and chaos reigned.
Considerable time has passed since then.
And come to think of it...
Facade has been unusually quiet.
She noted the shadows that clung to him now—a darkness, a melancholy that had not been there before.
He wore the white half-mask as always, paired with a black uniform buttoned tightly to his throat.
Leather gloves encased his hands, leaving not an inch of skin exposed.
The effect was one of deliberate concealment, of armor donned against scrutiny.
But it was his eyes that told the true story.
Sharp.
Hollow.
Sunken with exhaustion.
Gone was the languid ease, the unhurried confidence that had always defined him.
This was a man running on borrowed time.
He discovered that the antidote was false.
That day in the palace, Facade's mercenaries had infiltrated the grounds seeking the Dawn's Droplets.
Medea had suspected how that search would end.
Now she had her confirmation.
But she offered no acknowledgment, her expression carefully neutral.
"You seem well enough.
What brings you here?"
"I thought I might pay my respects."
Cesare's answer came lightly, almost carelessly.
But as he gazed upon Medea's composed features, the violent tempest within him—the fury that had threatened to tear everything apart—gradually stilled.
This will be the last time.
He did not speak of endings.
He did not mention the curse that devoured him from within.
He simply wanted to preserve this moment—to remember her exactly as she stood before him now, like a cool breeze passing through a dying man's final dream.
Even as he found dark humor in his own desperation—dragging his failing body here when he should be conserving what little strength remained—he could not bring himself to regret it.
For Cesare, who had finally made peace with death, who had accepted the fate that awaited him, only one desire still burned bright.
Medea.
He simply wanted to see her one last time.
"Why do you look at me so?"
Medea had noticed.
His gaze had not wavered from her since he arrived—following her every movement, tracing the lines of her face as though committing them to memory.
Cesare did not answer.
Behind the white mask, those golden eyes held her—intense, unwavering, burning with something that words could not capture.
It was as if he sought to engrave himself upon her mind.
To leave some trace of himself that would linger long after he was gone.