And so began the quiet chapter in which Simore first named Sigel a snake. The words were never spoken in the presence of the court, but they lingered in his thoughts like the echo of a bell. That moment in the grand hall had been the turning point-when suspicion crystallized into certainty.

Two years had passed since then, yet the truth remained locked away without proof. No letters, no whispered confessions, no caught-in-the-act betrayal-only the memory of her eyes alight with some private pleasure whenever Sterlla stumbled into misfortune.

It was never more than that. She wove no overt plots, issued no open threats. Instead, she watched... and smiled. A delicate, poisonous sort of smile, as though each falter in Sterlla's step were a gift placed in her hands.

Was it truly Sigel who had woven all those events? He would not know. But, what he knew was, she wished Sterlla's downfall.

Simore could not take such things before the Emperor. The court dealt in evidence, not in instinct. But he had seen enough to know: some dangers wear silk and speak sweetly, and some serpents do not need to strike to wound.

EPISODE TWELVE
(SEASON ONE FINALE)
THE INVESTIGATION

Year 376...
Xiones Castle...
Castle gardens...

The afternoon sun poured its gold over the royal gardens, draping the hedges and rose beds in a warm light. Sterlla sat by the small white table, the gentle steam of fresh tea curling into the air. She smiled faintly as Simore took his seat beside her.

"It feels almost peaceful today," she said, glancing toward the fountains.

"Almost," Simore murmured, pouring her a cup. "Peace in the gardens doesn't erase what's happened inside these walls."

Sterlla's smile faltered, but she kept her gaze on the roses. "It's been two years, brother Simore. Must we speak of it every time we sit together?"

"I wish I could forget," he replied, his tone soft but steady. "But I still see you that day-your hand trembling, the cup slipping... the colour leaving your face. And the incident before that..."

Her fingers tightened around the teacup. "That was the first time."

"And not the last," Simore reminded her. "Every gathering, every toast-someone wanted you gone."

She looked at him then, her eyes unreadable. "And yet I'm still here."

He exhaled, leaning back. "Only because commander Linone has made it his life's work to keep you breathing. Do you know he's still baffled? Two years, and the coward hasn't changed their method. Always the tea."

"Perhaps they think it poetic," she said bitterly.

"Or they're mocking us," Simore answered, his voice low. "Knowing we can't catch them."

A silence settled between them, broken only by the rustle of leaves. Then Simore shifted closer, resting his head gently on her shoulder. She smiled faintly and let her own head rest against his.

"You've suffered more than you let on," he murmured.

"And you've worried more than you'll admit," she replied.

"You don't trust me, do you, dear sister?" Simore's voice carried a quiet edge, part weariness, part wounded pride.

Sterlla's brows lifted. "What? Why would you say such a thing?" Her words were gentle, but surprise threaded through them.

"I've told you, time and again, Sigel is out to harm you-yet you brush it aside."

She let out a slow sigh. "Ah, so we are circling this matter again."

"Because it's the truth," Simore pressed, his gaze fixed on hers. "Why don't you believe me-"

His sentence died as the measured sound of boots approached. Linone emerged from the gravel path, his presence a shadow of discipline and vigilance. Sterlla turned to him instinctively.

He bowed, crisp and precise, before extending a thick leather file toward Simore. "Your Highness."

Simore accepted it without hesitation, thumbing through the pages. His expression darkened with each turn, the faint tightening of his jaw betraying the gravity within.

"Sigel is late, dear sister," he said at last, closing the file. "Duty calls me."

"I would not dream of detaining you," Sterlla replied, rising from her chair with practiced grace. The light caught the folds of her gown as she moved, each step fluid and deliberate. She stopped before him, their eyes meeting in quiet understanding.

He ruffled her hair with a small, fond smile-an act that contrasted the tension in his voice-before turning away with Linone at his side.

When they disappeared down the path, the stillness returned, though it was no longer soothing. Sterlla began walking the gardens now, instead of sitting idly.

Sterlla lingered, the garden's perfume laced now with an unshakable unease. She had been waiting for Sigel for over an hour.

Her patience was fraying when, from behind, the sound of hurried footsteps broke the calm.

"Forgive me, Crown Princess Sterlla," Sigel said between shallow breaths as she approached. "My lessons ran longer than expected."

Sterlla rose from her seat with a small smile. "It's quite alright. If your studies are keeping you, then I see no fault in it. You seem to be excelling, dear sister. Well done."

A faint, almost practiced nervousness flickered in Sigel's voice. "It means much to hear that from you."

They walked side by side toward the garden gazebo, its wooden roof dappled with sunlight. The air smelled faintly of roses, and the rustle of leaves accompanied their steps. Taking their seats, they each lifted a glass of tea.

"To your diligence," Sterlla offered, raising hers.

"And to your grace," Sigel replied, the glasses touching with a soft chime before they drank.

Sterlla's fingers trembled faintly around the stem of her glass-an involuntary echo of memories she wished to forget. She steadied her grip, willing her mind to stillness. No weakness. Not here.

"You are quiet today," she said at last, watching her sister over the rim of her drink.

Sigel dabbed her lips with a folded napkin, her eyes unreadable. "Perhaps I am simply enjoying the peace."

With a slow, deliberate motion, she crushed the napkin in her hand and tossed it into the wicker basket at her side. The sound was soft, yet in the hush of the garden, it seemed to carry.

"Crown Princess Sterlla," Sigel began, her tone hesitant.

"Sigel," Sterlla interrupted with a soft laugh, "how many times must I tell you? Call me sister."

"Yes... Sister Sterlla," Sigel said, the words smooth but carrying an odd undercurrent. "Is there a reason you summoned both Brother and me for a snack in the garden today?"

Sterlla shook her head lightly. "No grand reason. I simply wished to spend some time with my siblings. But Brother was called away-he left only moments before you arrived."

"How unfortunate," Sigel murmured, her gaze flicking briefly toward the empty chair. "It has been some time since we spoke like this."

"You are right," Sterlla agreed, her smile polite yet watchful.

The conversation slowed, giving way to the clink of porcelain and the rustle of the garden breeze. They each reached for a cookie from the silver rack, eating in silence.

Then, almost too casually, Sigel asked, "How does it feel, sister? Is the drink... too heavy for you to handle?"

Sterlla's fingers stilled on her glass. Her eyes dropped to the full cup, then lifted to meet Sigel's, calm and unblinking. "I am perfectly fine, sister. Better than ever."

"I-see." Sigel's smile twitched before settling back into place. "I only worry for you. If palace duties prove too taxing, I could take some of the load from your shoulders."

That was the tone of someone undermining power. Sterlla knew politics well, and in this world were power meant it all, she didn't quite oppose it either. But, what she despised of all was, underhanded snarky comments and tactics to win such competition.

What Sigel seemed to be saying now was close to such. She tried to pull herself as a viable candidate to the throne, proving herself more worthy of carrying such tasks rather than Sterlla.

"How thoughtful of you," Sterlla replied, breaking another cookie in half. "But you needn't trouble yourself. Sir Shane has recently entrusted me with managing the household accounts."

The words were spoken lightly, yet each one landed with weight. Sigel's eyes narrowed a fraction before she lifted her glass, her smile now just a little too fixed.

Managing the royal family's accounts was no small task; it was a mark of trust and authority, the kind of duty reserved for those deemed capable of standing beside-or upon-the throne. Sigel's smile held steady, but the faint tightening at the corners of her eyes betrayed her. Behind that polished grace, her teeth pressed together, the gesture almost imperceptible. She understood the weight of what Sterlla had just declared. It was not mere conversation-it was a quiet declaration of dominance, and Sigel, though she masked it well, knew she had been dealt the weaker hand in this exchange.

The dim light of the palace archives danced along the walls, the scent of old parchment and melting wax heavy in the air. Simore leaned over a pile of documents, his quill stilled mid-note. A long sigh escaped him.

"Sterlla is far too trusting," he muttered, his voice low but edged with frustration.

Across the table, Linone looked up from the scroll he was skimming, a faint glimmer of amusement in his eyes. "Is that so?" His tone was mild, but the question carried weight.

Simore's jaw tightened. "She lets her guard down too easily-especially with Sigel."

Linone's lips curved ever so slightly, though he kept his gaze fixed on the parchment in his hands. "Perhaps she believes loyalty runs in the family."

"Belief and truth are rarely the same," Simore replied sharply.

Linone finally set the scroll aside, folding his hands over it. "And yet, without proof, belief is all you have. Tell me, Your Highness, no-Simore-do you mean to warn her again?"

"I already have," Simore said, his voice firm. "But words without evidence are just wind in the ears of a princess who refuses to suspect her own blood."

Linone's expression darkened with thought. "Then the wind will have to carry a seed of doubt... until it grows roots."

Simore glanced up at him, meeting his eyes. "And you think that will be enough?"

"That," Linone said, leaning back in his chair, "depends on how much water you're willing to give it."