Remington sat in his cramped office, the only sound the scratch of his quill against parchment and the occasional rustle of paper. The candle's wavering flame threw dancing shadows across his tired face as he meticulously reviewed yet another report. The room grew darker as the hour crept on, and the steady scratch of the quill gradually gave way to a heavy silence.
Finally, with a resigned sigh, he pushed aside his ledger, closed the desk compartment, and gathered his belongings. The chill of the corridor hit him as he stepped onto THE polished stone, his footsteps echoing in the quiet passage. Just as he rounded the bend toward his chamber, a figure emerged from the muted light.
There, leaning against the cool stone wall, was Queen Garnet. For an instant, the glow from a nearby sconce caught something in her eyes—a flash so sharp it stilled his breath. In that sliver of time, he again caught sight of a depth there that sent a shiver racing down his spine, a glint that spoke of something dangerous.
Her lips curved into a smile, but it held no warmth, only the precision of a well-rehearsed mask. She straightened slightly, her voice emerging low and even.
"Remington," she said softly, the word hanging in the quiet. "It's quite late. Are you having trouble sleeping?"
Her tone was a careful caress of formality and something else he couldn't quite name. Remington paused, momentarily caught by the unspoken question behind her words. Without breaking eye contact, he simply managed a nod, each detail of their encounter imprinting itself in his memory like frost on glass.
Remington had just begun to resume his slow walk down the stone corridor when he heard the soft cadence of Garnet's voice behind him. In the dim light, her tone carried a teasing lilt as she remarked, "It's dangerous to walk these halls when the lights are out. As you know, the dark often hides dark things." There was an amused glint in her eyes as if she found the notion itself delightfully ironic, not one of concern.
He stopped, his steps faltering as he regarded her. "Perhaps you should consider your own words," he murmured, his tone belying any hint of playfulness. Without waiting for a reply, he intended to continue to his chamber, but Garnet's presence held him for just a moment longer.
A faint smile, equally distant and unreadable, played on her lips as she tilted her head back slightly. "There's nothing in the dark that scares me anymore," she replied, her voice trailing off into the quiet of the hallway, as if the statement were as much a resigned observation as an ironic quip.
The question lingered in the air, and Remington found himself unable to let it drop. Hesitantly, he asked, "What do you mean by that?"
For a heartbeat, her expression grew more distant, the light in her eyes dimming as if recalling a memory long buried. Then, in a measured tone, she said, "Tomorrow, I'll meet Damian for the first time—soon after, we'll be wed. And then, everything will be as you always wished it to be..." Her voice faltered at the end, leaving the final words suspended in the cool darkness.
Without another glance, she turned and walked away. Her figure blended seamlessly with the shadows as she disappeared down the unlit corridor, leaving Remington alone with the echo of her parting words and his own uncertain thoughts.
…
The dim glow of moonlight seeped through the cracks in the heavy curtains, casting long, fractured shadows across the cold stone floor. Remington lay on his back, eyes fixed on the dark canopy above his bed. Sleep eluded him, as it often did these days, but tonight, it was worse. His mind replayed Garnet's words, each syllable an unsettling echo: Tomorrow, I'll meet Damian... and everything will be as you always wished it to be.
There had been something in her tone, something he couldn't quite place, and yet it burrowed deep under his skin. Her distant smile, her calm demeanor—it all felt wrong, dangerous somehow.
A sudden, soft knock pulled him sharply from his thoughts. He sat up, his heart thudding in the stillness of the room. The sound had come from the door. Remington glanced toward the clock on his desk. The hour was impossibly late; the palace should be silent.
Swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, he stood, the chill of the floor biting through the soles of his slippers. He reached for the door hesitantly, his fingers hovering over the handle before he finally steeled himself and pulled it open.
The corridor beyond was empty. Only the faint flicker of a distant torch greeted him. No shadows moved, no sounds lingered—nothing but the oppressive quiet of the night. His brow furrowed as he leaned out slightly, his gaze sweeping left, then right.
"Who's there?" he called softly into the emptiness, but the silence swallowed his voice whole. After a long moment, he retreated back into his chamber, his thoughts muddled by unease. He closed the door with a quiet click and let out a slow breath.
As he turned from the door, his breath caught in his throat.
She was there.
Standing by his bed, draped in the same black gown she had worn earlier, Garnet watched him with an intensity that stopped him cold. The faint, deliberate smile she wore was identical to the one from the corridor—cool, detached, with an edge that felt almost mocking. Her hands were folded neatly behind her back, as though concealing something.
The shadows of the room seemed to draw closer, as if her presence commanded them. The air was colder now, and he could feel the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.
"Your Majesty," he began, his voice hoarse as he tried to force some semblance of control into his tone. "What are you doing here at this hour?"
She tilted her head slightly, her expression unreadable. "I was wondering the same about you, Remington," she said, her voice soft and lilting, as though they were merely old friends sharing a quiet jest.
His eyes darted to her hands, hidden behind her back, and a knot tightened in his stomach. "It's... late. I thought—" He broke off, his throat dry. He didn't know what he thought.
She stepped forward, the faintest sound of her slippers against the stone floor barely audible in the oppressive silence. The smile never left her face as she said, "I warned you earlier, did I not? The dark often conceals the darkest things."
Remington's pulse quickened as her words hung in the air. What was she hiding? What was this? A test? A game? He opened his mouth to speak but found no words came.
Garnet's gaze seemed to pierce right through him. He couldn't discern what lay beneath her expression. And that, more than anything, terrified him.
His throat tightened. He'd asked without thinking, the question slipping out like breath:
"What are you hiding behind your back, Garnet?"
The silence stretched with expectation. Her smile—thin and satisfied—widened just slightly, as though she'd been waiting for him to say it. Slowly, deliberately, she brought her hands forward.
The candlelight flickered across the curve of the blade.
Not ornate. Not ceremonial. It was simply a kitchen knife, its edge clean, wicked, purposeful.
"I thought," she said, voice still soft, still composed, "it was time I repaid you… for everything you've done for me."
She stepped closer.
Remington's breath caught. "Garnet… you don't have to—"
"I do." Her eyes never left his. "You just don't understand yet."
He backed away instinctively, the backs of his knees hitting the bedframe. "Please, let's talk. Whatever this is—"
"Oh, Remington." Her tone carried pity and exhaustion. "You always thought you were the one in control."
Another step.
The knife gleamed in the moonlight.
Remington's hands lifted instinctively—placating, trembling. "You don't have to do this," he whispered. "I've only ever tried to protect you."
Her expression didn't change. "Is that what you told yourself?"
She tilted her head, studying him like one might examine a crack in fine porcelain. "You locked me in a golden cage and called it care. You silenced my voice and called it loyalty. You controlled every piece of my life and called it love."
"I guided you," he said, desperate now, his voice cracking under the weight of it. "The court—damn it, Garnet, they would have eaten you alive—"
"They did," she said simply. "And you let them."
The words hung there, sharp as the blade in her hand.
He faltered, his back finally pressed against the bedpost. "Damian... the wedding. If this is about—"
"It's not about him." Her voice was suddenly tired. "It was never about him. This is between you and me."
Her steps slowed as she came to stand before him. The knife was now inches from his chest, steady as her breath.
"Garnet, please—"
"No," she said, and for the first time, there was heat behind her words. "You had your chance to listen. All those years. You never heard me—not once."
Her free hand touched his chest lightly, almost gently, as if marking the spot.
"I'm sorry," she added. And somehow, maddeningly, she sounded like she meant it.
Then the knife plunged forward.
There was no wild frenzy, no raised voice. Just the sharp sound of steel meeting flesh, a quiet gasp from Remington, and the candlelight flickering as though startled by the act.
He sank slowly to his knees, eyes wide, searching her face for something—remorse, hesitation, love.
She gave him none.
As he collapsed to the cold stone floor, Garnet stood over him in silence, the knife glinting red in her grip. The shadows embraced them both, and for a long moment, the only sound was the quiet rasp of her breath.
Then she turned, walked to the window, and pushed it open. The night air swept in, cool and indifferent, as if to carry away what had just transpired.
Everything faded to black.
Then—he jerked awake, his chest heaving as his breath tore free in ragged gasps. He blinked rapidly, his eyes adjusting to the dim flicker of the candlelight still burning low on his desk. The room, though cast in uneven shadow, was undisturbed. Silent.
For a disorienting moment, his mind clung to the phantom press of cold steel against his ribs. The sensation lingered, sharp and unrelenting, as though it had carved itself into the space between his skin and bone. He pressed a trembling hand to his chest, his pulse racing beneath his fingertips, only to find nothing amiss.
His gaze dropped to the desk, where the quill had slipped from his hand and now rested against a splotch of ink spreading like blood across the ledger. The dark tendrils reached out, staining the edges of carefully written lines, as if claiming them for some unseen force.
He exhaled shakily, sinking back in his chair. The edges of the dream—or nightmare—began to fray at the corners, leaving only the ghost of its terror behind. The heavy fog of exhaustion clouded his thoughts, and with a weary shake of his head, he realized what must have happened.
He had fallen asleep at his desk again.
The tension in his shoulders didn't ease, despite the explanation that should have grounded him. The dream had felt too vivid, the lingering dread too real. He reached for the candleholder with unsteady fingers, his mind replaying fragments of shadow and the twisted grin he had seen somewhere in the depths of his unconscious.
But it wasn't real. It couldn't be real.
Remington stared at the ink-streaked ledger, its pages ruined by the relentless spread of dark tendrils. The mess was irreparable, yet he didn't move to blot the stain. Instead, he studied it, his thoughts consumed by the lingering shadows of his nightmare—shadows that refused to dissolve even under the flickering light of his candle.
Sleep was beyond him now; he knew that much. The oppressive quiet of his chamber held no promise of rest, and even if he did return, it would be futile. What good was lying in bed when the memory of cold steel and the weight of phantom dread pressed relentlessly against his mind? He shook his head, the answer clear.
As his gaze dropped once more to the ledger, a spark of determination began to settle in his chest. The ruined pages were the only tangible disruption left by the night, the only fragment of chaos he could mend. Perhaps work—ordinary, methodical work—was what he needed. Something to anchor him, to pull him away from the jagged edges of his thoughts.
He reached for the quill with steadying hands and turned to a fresh page. The ink still spreading across the ruined entry was beyond salvage, but this—the clean expanse before him—could be made right. Slowly, he dipped the quill into the inkpot, watching the liquid coat its tip. Then, with deliberate precision, he began to rewrite the records, each stroke of the pen carving lines of order into the quiet chaos of his mind.
The minutes passed, and the room remained still but for the sound of the quill against parchment. And though the night stretched endlessly before him, Remington resolved to face it—not with restless pacing or sleepless unease, but with purpose. He could not undo the nightmare, but he could undo its smallest remnants. Here, in the light of the flickering candle, he reclaimed what he could.
…
The morning broke over Alexandria, golden light spilling through the arched windows of Garnet's chamber. She sat before her mirror, hands folded neatly in her lap, as the attendants worked silently behind her, adjusting the folds of her gown and securing the dark onyx clasp at her collar. The weight of the black silk felt heavier today, though Garnet knew it wasn't the fabric that pressed against her shoulders.
In a matter of hours, she would meet Damian for the first time.
Her reflection stared back at her, poised and unyielding. Who was it that looked back at her? They betrayed nothing—not the storm twisting in her chest, not the sharp edge of her thoughts, not the echo of everything lost that clung to the edges of her mind.
A soft knock at the door broke her focus. One of the attendants moved to answer, and a courtier stepped inside, bowing low.
"Your Majesty," he said, voice steady yet deferential, "Lord Damian's procession has entered the palace grounds. They will arrive at the great hall within the quarter hour."
Garnet inclined her head slightly, dismissing him with a graceful flick of her hand. The courtier withdrew as quickly as he had come, leaving only the faint rustle of skirts and the occasional clink of jewelry as her attendants completed their work.
When they stepped back at last, Garnet rose. Her gown fell like liquid shadow around her, the fabric catching faint glimmers of light in its intricate weave. She turned to the attendant nearest her, her voice calm and controlled.
"That will be all," she said, and with a synchronized curtsy, the attendants filed out of the room.
Silence filled the chamber as she stood alone for a moment, her reflection staring back at her with unyielding precision.
A knock at the door interrupted the quiet. It was soft but deliberate, and Garnet turned slightly as General Beatrix stepped inside, her armor catching the faint light with muted glimmers. She bowed briefly, her movements controlled yet charged with a tension that didn't go unnoticed.
"Your Majesty," Beatrix began, her tone firm yet laced with quiet concern. "May I speak with you for a moment?"
Garnet inclined her head, her gaze steady. "Of course."
Beatrix closed the door behind her, the heavy sound of it cutting off the palace beyond. For a moment, the silence hung between them before Beatrix stepped closer. Her eyes searched Garnet's face, hesitant yet determined.
"Is everything alright?" Beatrix asked, her voice softer now, as though she feared the answer.
Garnet's lips curved into a faint smile. "Never better,"
Beatrix hesitated, her brow furrowing as she spoke again, this time more carefully. "Forgive me, Your Majesty, but I feel I must speak plainly. I haven't wanted to say anything before now, but I've been worried about you. Ever since… well, since the play, you've seemed very different."
Garnet's gaze shifted, her eyes momentarily distant, though her smile didn't falter. "Have I?" she asked quietly. The question seemed directed at no one in particular, hanging in the air like a fragile echo.
Her fingers brushed the bracelet on her wrist absently, the faint motion the only sign of reflection. "I suppose," she murmured after a pause, "times change, and so do we."
Beatrix opened her mouth to reply but found no words. The sense of distance, the impenetrable wall Garnet had erected around herself, was unmistakable. Garnet's expression softened only slightly before she turned away, her posture regal, her movements deliberate.
The silence reclaimed the room, and though Beatrix stood firm, her heart weighed heavy with the unspoken. Whatever it was that had changed in Garnet, whatever it was that lingered beneath her composed exterior, she could no longer see it clearly.
"You can't be okay with this," she declared, her tone both urgent and pleading. "The Garnet I knew—Dagger, as you preferred to be called—would have sooner leapt from the balcony than agree to marry a man she's never even met. How do you expect me to believe everything is fine?"
For a long moment, silence stretched between them. In that space, something flickered behind Garnet's carefully constructed mask and for just a moment, the air seemed to tremble with unspoken regret and longing. Yet, the moment passed as quickly as it came. Steeling herself, Garnet's voice emerged smooth and firm, carrying the cold determination of a queen.
"I am fine," she replied evenly, her gaze fixed tightly somewhere beyond Beatrix's reach. "I am the Queen, and I must do what is expected of me—for our kingdom's sake."
Beatrix's features flushed with a mix of frustration and heartbreak, and her eyes hesitated, searching Garnet's face for any crack in that impenetrable façade. Unable to muster another word, she turned to leave. But as her footsteps faltered at the threshold, a soft, nearly inaudible murmur escaped Garnet's lips, a whisper meant only for the space between them.
"Zidane died in the Iifa Tree... and Dagger died with him."
…
The great hall was magnificent in its structure, with its high vaulted ceilings, ornate columns carved with Alexandria's storied legacy, and a light that poured in generously from the arched windows to reflect across polished marble floors. Damian of Treno stood at the far end, his posture poised and deliberate, his hands clasped loosely behind his back. The quiet murmur of court members had stilled upon her entrance, and Damian's gaze was drawn, like all others, to the figure stepping through the grand doors.
She was everything the rumors had claimed.
Queen Garnet's presence was commanding, her steps unhurried, her movements deliberate and precise. The black gown she wore flowed like liquid shadow, its intricate detailing shimmering faintly in the sunlight. Her dark hair framed a face so striking, so perfectly composed, that it seemed sculpted for the role she occupied. But it wasn't just her beauty that caught Damian's attention; it was her expression—a blend of cold calculation and unyielding control. There was no warmth in her gaze, no softness to her smile—only the precision of someone who knew exactly what she wanted the world to see.
And yet, that very distance seemed to amplify her beauty. It was like gazing upon the perfection of a star—a brilliance untouchable, distant, yet impossible to look away from.
She stopped a measured distance away, her gaze locking onto his, and Damian straightened, inclining his head respectfully. Her eyes held no hint of curiosity or nervousness, but they assessed him nonetheless, weighing his every detail. There was no mistaking it: this woman knew exactly how to command a room, and Damian couldn't help but admire her for it, even as the chill of her demeanor made his own poise feel tentative in comparison.
"Lord Damian," she greeted him, her tone calm and regal, carrying easily across the hall. "Welcome to Alexandria."
Damian's voice was steady, even as his heart seemed to flutter under the weight of her gaze. "Your Majesty," he replied, his bow low and measured. "It is an honor to be welcomed to your court."
Her faint smile, though flawlessly executed, held no warmth—it was polite, practiced, and as distant as her expression. Yet Damian found himself drawn to it nonetheless. Her beauty carried a sharp edge, one that set her apart from the predictable, simpering nobles he had seen in other courts.
"I trust your journey was uneventful," she continued, her tone smooth and controlled.
"It was, Your Majesty," he replied, taking care to match her precision. "Your reputation for ensuring security precedes you."
Her head tilted slightly in acknowledgment, the light catching the subtle glimmer of the onyx clasp at her collar. "We take the safety of our allies seriously, Lord Damian. I trust you will find our hospitality satisfactory."
Damian inclined his head again, a small smile gracing his lips, though hers remained unchanged. She moved with such grace, such deliberate purpose, that it was hard not to feel as though every moment in her presence was a trial of his own composure.
In that instant, as her gaze briefly swept over him before she turned to leave, Damian knew one thing to be certain: Garnet of Alexandria was not a woman who could be easily understood, let alone reached. And perhaps, that was exactly why the rumors had painted her as so captivating.
She was a queen by every definition—a distant star whose brilliance overshadowed all who dared approach.
….
That evening, the soft hum of conversation filled the diplomatic chamber, its walls adorned with modest tapestries that depicted the history of Alexandria. Damian sat across from Garnet at a small polished table, a tray of untouched refreshments between them. The morning light filtered in through narrow windows, illuminating the quiet tension that lingered despite Damian's relaxed demeanor.
He leaned slightly forward, his posture comfortable but confident, as he spoke. "It is our union, Your Majesty, that will ensure the stability of both our nations. Such alliances are the cornerstone of prosperity."
Garnet met his gaze, her expression composed and calm, her hands resting lightly on the table's surface. "Yes," she said simply, her voice smooth and agreeable. "That is what is expected."
Damian smiled faintly, as if he found her response perfectly fitting. "Expected it may be, but it is also what is wise. The people of Alexandria and Treno will see their futures secured through this alliance. In uncertain times, certainty is invaluable."
She nodded, offering nothing more than the faintest acknowledgment of his words. Her indifference was so subtle, so well concealed, that it barely registered to Damian, who seemed entirely absorbed in his own narrative. If he noticed the absence of warmth in her tone, the precision of her responses, or the calculated distance in her gaze, he gave no indication.
"Our union will bring strength to Alexandria," he continued, his voice steady and assured. "Together, we will guide our people into a future of stability and prosperity. I trust you see the merit in this."
Garnet tilted her head slightly, her onyx earrings catching the light as she replied evenly, "Of course. Strength and stability are priorities for my kingdom."
Damian regarded her with a look of calm satisfaction, as though her responses confirmed his plans were proceeding as intended. He leaned back slightly, the faint creak of the chair punctuating the brief pause in conversation.
"You carry yourself with such grace, Your Majesty," he said after a moment, his tone light, bordering on admiration. "It is clear that Alexandria is fortunate to have you as its queen."
Her lips curved faintly into what might have been considered a smile, but her gaze remained detached. "Thank you, Lord Damian," she replied, her voice carrying the same polished distance. "Your arrival marks an important step for both our nations."
Damian inclined his head, content with her response. He reached for the goblet before him, swirling its contents idly as the conversation began to drift toward formalities and logistics—the ceremony, the council's role in the arrangement, the expectations placed upon them both.
As Damian spoke on, Garnet listened without interruption, her agreement offered in measured tones and calculated gestures. It was clear to her that Damian neither noticed nor cared for the lack of sincerity in her words; his confidence filled the room, leaving little space for introspection.
Though her presence remained calm and poised, her thoughts wandered just beneath the surface—far away from the carefully polite exchange that passed between them. And yet, she continued, as expected, as required, her mask remaining perfectly intact.
The conversation shifted as Garnet straightened slightly in her seat, her gaze steady and unyielding. Damian had been speaking of ceremonial arrangements—dates, venues, the fine details that came with orchestrating a royal wedding—but she interrupted with a proposal that sent ripples through the air.
"Why don't we marry tomorrow?" she said, her tone quiet but firm, each syllable carrying an air of finality that left little room for debate. "There's no reason to delay it further. This alliance is for the betterment of the kingdom, is it not?"
Damian blinked, momentarily taken aback. His hands, previously relaxed around his goblet, froze mid-motion as his mind raced to process her words. "Tomorrow?" he echoed, the surprise in his voice stark despite his best efforts to mask it.
Garnet inclined her head ever so slightly, her composure unwavering. "Yes. There's nothing to be gained from waiting weeks or months. The kingdom needs stability, and this union will secure it. Prolonging it serves no purpose."
Her gaze locked onto his, cool and calculating, giving him no opportunity to question her sincerity. And indeed, Damian found himself more intrigued than alarmed by her suggestion. Though unexpected, her decisiveness aligned perfectly with the traits he had imagined a queen of her stature to possess.
"Well," he began, setting his goblet down slowly, "it is unconventional, I'll grant you that. But as you say, expedience may be advantageous under the circumstances." He studied her carefully, searching for any hint of hesitation, but her mask remained firmly in place.
"You're certain?" he asked, though not as a challenge, but more as a confirmation.
Garnet's expression did not falter. "I am. It's for the good of Alexandria and Treno alike. We will marry tomorrow."
Damian nodded, a small, thoughtful smile curving his lips. "Then so it shall be. If anything, I find your decisiveness… refreshing, Your Majesty."
Her lips twitched faintly in response, though the gesture barely qualified as a smile. "I'm pleased you agree, Lord Damian. There's much to prepare, and little time to waste."