No message. No word.
A week had passed since the Count and Cedric's departure. The estate had become a battlefield. Lisbeth had decided to become a monitoring spirit—meddling with what I ate and what I wore. The physician's visits to my room, with his persistent inquiries, made my skin crawl.
The snow was beginning to melt, puddles forming beneath the bare-limbed trees. The earth was soft and slick under my shoes. I liked the quiet of morning—no eyes, less activity, just my thoughts and the crunch of my steps.
Should I write to Cedric?
Should I take some guards and join the search?
Why is there still no news?
Someone cleared their throat, snapping me from my thoughts.
A man—tall and striking—was standing a few paces away, watching me with amusement. His coat was finely tailored, rich embroidery gleaming along the cuffs. His posture was upright, almost military, yet something about him felt... unguarded. Regal. Unfamiliar.
I froze.
Who was he? How long had he been standing there? Which character was he? He looked too sharp, too refined—but something about his eyes tugged at something in me. A buried echo.
"Out early for the cold," he said, his voice smooth, edged with curiosity.
I pulled the shawl tighter around my light-blue gown. "I could say the same."
"You don't look like someone who takes walks at dawn," he remarked, tone mild but amused.
I narrowed my eyes. "And how would you know the type of person I am?"
"Observation," he replied.
And there it was again—that flicker in his gaze. Recognition? Memory?
I glanced at him, curious. "What brings you to the estate?"
"Your letters," he said. "Our relationship." He looked thoroughly amused by his own reply.
"I wrote letters and had them sent to you?" I frowned. He was bluffing, I was sure of it. "Your looks must be making you egotistical—but I understand."
He laughed, a deep, genuine sound that echoed softly in the still orchard.
"Are you a knight?"
"A knight?" he repeated, amusement lighting his eyes. "No, I'm far too fond of my head to risk it on a battlefield."
He stepped closer, lowering his voice. "Tell me... do you truly have no idea who I am? I can't tell if you're amnesiac or just pretending."
Was he someone Iris knew? The man from the hunting contest? No—that man was dead. I scanned his clothes: no wrinkle, no tear, no stain. His posture and way of speaking—he was a noble. A duke, perhaps? Or a viscount?
He smiled, but something sharp glinted beneath it.
"There's been talk—whispers about you. About the hunting contest. They say you nearly drowned. A close call... but you pulled through."
I swallowed. "I was indeed lucky," I said, my voice steady but quieter.
He looked at me—concern, or was it a challenge?—before straightening and stepping back.
My fingers tightened around my shawl. "Do you know me?" I asked carefully.
Something flickered in his eyes—humor, recognition, restraint.
"Do you know yourself?"
Who was this annoying man?
Before I could respond, a sharp voice cut through the stillness like a blade. I rolled my eyes and let out a frustrated breath. He noticed—and tried to hide his laughter but failed.
"Iris Tahenna!"
I turned. Lisbeth was storming through the orchard, flanked by two guards, three maids, and the ever-inquisitive physician trailing behind like a shadow. Their boots sank into the wet earth, faces flushed with urgency—and alarm.
They had been looking for me.
Lisbeth's eyes swept over me first, then froze on the man behind me.
The others followed her gaze.
And then, as if choreographed, they all bowed.
I blinked. My pulse jumped. I turned to look at him again. He hadn't moved. He raised an eyebrow, clearly amused by the display.
Lisbeth recovered first.
"Your Highness," she said breathlessly, straightening. "We weren't informed you'd be visiting."
Your Highness.
My stomach dropped.
I turned to look at him as if for the first time—remembering our conversation—and cringed internally.
Of course.
Elena had changed his description. Darkened his hair. Sharpened his jawline. Made his features more regal, more striking. The man I once imagined—the prince I once wrote—was gone.
Before me stood the Crown Prince.
And he'd been teasing me.
He looked at me, lips quirking ever so slightly.
He gave a shallow bow.
"Good morning, Lady Lisbeth."
Lisbeth, all curtsies and nods, fanned a blush away.
Well, he was a fine man. Walking art. I couldn't deny that.
"I was informed of the unfortunate accident," he said smoothly. "I thought it would be good to put my duties aside and visit my fiancée."
"I can't thank you enough," Lisbeth said sweetly.
I rolled my eyes again.
"I'm glad she's in good health," he added, his gaze flickering to me with a brief, unreadable expression. "I wouldn't dream of imposing—but I would like to have dinner with Lady Iris the day after tomorrow."
Everyone turned to look at me—waiting. The prince most of all.
Lisbeth's stare sent a warning.
Well, dinner with him would be better than dining with her.
"It's an honor, Your Highness," I said, forcing a curtsy and hoping I did it well.
"Tomorrow, then. I'll send someone to pick you up."
He gave a final look—softer this time. Not quite a smile. Not a farewell.
Then he turned, boots crunching as he walked away. Every inch of him composed. Regal.
I stood still, aware of Lisbeth's burning gaze behind me.
"What did you two talk about?" she asked.
And boom. Her curiosity won.
"Wouldn't you want to know," I said walking back to the manor.