Chapter Text
Rishe gripped the heavy folds of her red-and-white gown, forcing her knees not to buckle as the orchestra’s melody hammered against her skull. Black spots danced at the edge of her vision, but she kept her chin high. Just a little longer, she pleaded with herself. Maintain composure. Don't give them a reason to call you weak.
“Lady Rishe,” an achingly familiar voice called out.
Rishe bit back a surge of nausea—the bitter memory of her parents forcing foul medicine down her throat rising in her chest—and turned with a practiced, benevolent smile. “Hello, Lady Agatha. How lovely it is to see you this evening.” She dipped into a curtsy, every bone protesting the motion.
“Truly, the pleasure is all mine.” Lady Agatha curtsied back, dipping low enough to border on mocking. “Oh my dear, you look so pale. I heard you were suffering through another bout of illness.”
“I am well enough to fulfill my duties, I assure you.”
“That is a relief,” Lady Agatha tutted, hiding a sharp smile behind her fan. “It would do no good for the crown princess to be unable to produce an heir, after all.”
The jab hit its mark, but Rishe felt only a cold, hollow detachment. The thought of bearing Dietrich an heir was far more horrifying than any court gossip. Her heart longed for the quiet warmth of a distant, half-forgotten memory—a dream her parents had dragged her out of hours ago.
“When the time comes, I will perform my duty,” Rishe replied smoothly, lowering herself into another perfect curtsy despite the room spinning around her. “Now, if you will excuse me.”
She turned away, stifling a cough that felt like swallowing gravel, only for a heavy hand to land near her shoulder.
“Lady Rishe!”
Rishe forced a slow breath through her nose, smoothed her expression, and turned toward the monarch of Hermity. “Your Majesty. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Rise, my dear girl,” the King said gently, gesturing for her to join him. Unlike her parents, who would have pounced on the slight tremor in her hands, the King looked at her with genuine fondness. “Follow me. I wish to introduce you to our guest of honor.”
Rishe trailed a step behind him, keeping her eyes fixed on the floor as her legs began to shake in earnest.
“Your Highness, thank you for your patience,” the King announced, stopping before a tall silhouette. “This is Rishe Irmgard Weitzner. Despite her age, she is one of our finest diplomats.”
Rishe sank into a deep curtsy, her forehead cold with sweat as she anchored herself to the smooth marble.
“Rise.”
The voice was cool, authoritative, and stripped of all polite courtly fluff. Rishe raised her head, forcing her eyes to focus through the glare of the chandeliers. Standing before her was Prince Arnold Hein of Galkhein. Where her fiancé favored loud silk and ostentatious displays of wealth, Arnold wore a dark, sharply tailored suit cut like a general's coat—commanding the room effortlessly without a single medal on his chest.
Galkhein was a military powerhouse famous for swallowing smaller territories whole. What is an imperial prince doing at a Hermity soiree? Rishe thought, her pulse spiking. But it was his eyes that stilled her tongue: a blue so deep and clear it felt like looking into an abyss. A strange, sharp tug pulled at her chest—a sudden sense of recognition she quickly tried to rationalize as fever-induced madness.
“His Highness was wondering about our western iron ore mines,” the King said jovially. “Perhaps you could enlighten us?”
“Of course, Your Majesty,” Rishe rasped, forcing her voice to hold steady. “The western mines have been in operation for nearly fifty years...”
As she began her breakdown of the trade outputs, her mind raced to anticipate what a conqueror like Arnold would want to know—infrastructure, output limits, supply chains. But the violent itch at the back of her throat flared out of control, threatening to destroy everything.
“...and the current yield is...” Her voice cracked.
Black spots surged across her vision. No! If I faint now, I humiliate my family. I ruin Hermity in front of the continent's most dangerous empire.
“Pardon me, but I—”
Her knees buckled.
The floor rushed up to meet her. A violent fit of coughs tore through her chest, echoing loudly against the polished floor. Humiliation washed over her like ice water. She could already feel the heavy weight of a hundred stares, hear the venomous, polite mockery of the court ripple through the crowd.
“Rishe is a fragile child.”
“If she goes on like this there’s no way she’ll be able to bear an heir.”
“Who would want to marry a child as sickly as her?”
“The poor crown prince, tied to a cursed child like her.”
I can't stay here. Without waiting for her parents' inevitable wrath, Rishe dragged herself up and staggered blindly out of the hall, desperate to escape into the shadow of the corridors.
❃ ❃ ❃
Arnold Hein watched the empty archway where the girl had vanished, his hand lingering near his side.
“My apologies, Your Highness!” the King blanched, dipping his head swiftly. “Please forgive her—she is not well.”
“There is nothing to apologize for,” Arnold replied smoothly, though his mind remained focused on the empty hallway.
It had been obvious from the start that the girl was burning with fever. Her pristine posture and practiced smiles were nothing more than a fragile shield. Yet what intrigued him wasn't her illness—it was her eyes. A muted, ordinary green, but when their gaze met, an unexplainable surge of familiarity had hit him. On top of that, in the few moments before her body gave out, she had delivered a strategic assessment of Hermity’s mines with striking efficiency, anticipating the exact angles of an invasion force before he had even voiced them.
She isn't just a political ornament, Arnold realized. She understands strategy.
“How long has she been like that?” Arnold asked the King.
“Most of her life,” the King sighed. “No physician can pinpoint the cause, yet she insists on working tirelessly.”
Arnold’s gaze flicked past the monarch toward the main hall, where Hermity’s young prince—Rishe’s fiancé—was openly flirting with a cluster of court ladies, entirely indifferent to his betrothed’s collapse. A quiet, familiar disgust stirred in Arnold's chest. Men like that—fools who squandered power and neglected their duties—irritated him to no end.
“If I may,” Arnold said, stepping back, “I will check on her. It hardly seems wise to leave a diplomat unattended in that state.”
He didn't wait for a formal response.
Tracking her was easy—soft, shaky breaths echoed down the quiet passage. A few yards ahead, Rishe was leaning heavily against the marble wall, her scarlet gown spread around her like a spilt goblet of wine.
“I’m sorry…” she rasped to the empty air, her body shuddering as another coughing fit seized her. “P-please… don’t—”
Watching her, a cold memory tugged at Arnold’s conscience: another woman he had known, frail, helpless, and left to rot by a different court that viewed her as disposable.
Is that what this kingdom does to its finest minds?
Before he could step forward, Rishe pushed herself off the wall with a sudden, desperate surge of resolve. Turning blindly to head back toward the hall to face her punishment, she barreled directly into his chest.
She bounced off him instantly, clutching her nose as panic flared in her wide, fever-bright eyes.
“I am so terribly sorry! Please forgive my—Your Highness!”
“You barreled right into me,” Arnold remarked softly, keeping his tone dry to anchor her panic. “For a moment, I thought I had been struck by a wild boar.”
Rishe pressed her lips into a tight line, color rising in her pale cheeks. “My apologies...”
“There is no need.” Arnold watched as she pulled her posture back into immaculate, rigid lines despite the shaking in her hands. She was terrified, but she was hiding it behind duty.
“Please do not punish my nation for my impertinence, Your Highness,” Rishe said, her voice raspy but suddenly burning with fierce conviction. “Hermity may be small, but we are a strong nation. Whatever resource you are searching for, we will ensure it is provided.”
Arnold blinked, surprised by her immediate jump to damage control in her country’s defense. Even broken and fever-ridden, her first instinct was protection and diplomacy. A faint smile touched his lips. Fascinating.
“I understand.”
Rishe held his gaze for a long moment, searching his face for deceit before dipping into a crisp, controlled bow. “Thank you, Your Highness. Please excuse me. I have been away from the floor for too long.”
She turned and walked back toward the ballroom with a quiet, untouchable grace that completely defied her trembling frame.
Arnold stood alone in the dim hallway, watching her until the scarlet fabric of her dress vanished around the corner. An impulse to follow her crossed his mind, but he dismissed it. Giving in to idle curiosity was dangerous—especially when attached to someone as surprisingly sharp, and as thoroughly bound to another crown, as Rishe Irmgard Weitzner.