The lower markets of Inferna whispered in uneasy silence.

  Roland walked the narrow streets with Flora at his side, boots brushing against cobblestones darkened by years of soot and fire. Behind them, two guards followed at a respectful distance, close enough to protect but far enough to soften his presence. He wanted the people to see him as himself, not the prince behind steel walls.

  It didn’t matter. They didn’t look at him anyway.

  A mother pulled her child behind her skirts, muttering something sharp and low. A vendor turned her back completely, pretending to rearrange sacks that were already empty. Even the hawkers who usually screamed until their voices cracked had fallen into whispers the moment he arrived, their words dissolving into fragments swallowed by smoke.

  Roland slowed, scanning their faces. No hatred. Just fear. Always fear.

  He caught the eyes of a boy carrying a basket of pears and offered him the faintest smile. The boy dropped the basket and ran.

  “...They’re terrified of me,” Roland murmured.

  Flora walked quietly beside him, her soft brown cloak brushing his sleeve. She didn’t answer, didn’t glance his way. Her gaze was on the people — not the walls they built, but the cracks between them. When she smiled, it was small, warm, deliberate.

  Roland envied that. How easily she was seen.

  ***

  Shouting broke through the hush ahead. A crowd had gathered where two guards stood over a scrawny boy, no older than thirteen, clutching a loaf of bread to his chest like a shield.

  “Thief!” one guard barked. “Caught red-handed.”

  The second reached for the boy’s wrist.

  “Release him,” Roland said.

  Both guards froze. The market stilled. Even the wind seemed to pause.

  Roland stepped forward, kneeling until he was eye level with the boy. His voice stayed steady, though the weight of every gaze pressing against him was sharp enough to cut.

  “Take the bread,” he said quietly. “Feed your family.”

  The boy’s lip trembled. He looked like he wanted to run but couldn’t make his body move.

  From the edge of the crowd, a woman hissed under her breath, clutching her child:

  “Don’t meet his eyes… if the prince smiles at you, you’ll be next…”

  Roland’s jaw tightened. He forced his voice soft, careful, patient.

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  “Go,” he said.

  The boy clutched the bread tighter, whispered a breathless “...thank you,” and bolted down the nearest alley.

  No applause. No nods of gratitude. The crowd scattered as if his mercy was a threat they couldn’t afford to understand.

  Flora stepped forward, kneeling where Roland had been. She pulled another loaf of bread from her satchel and set it gently on the ground.

  “Take it,” she said softly to a nearby mother clutching her daughter’s shoulders. Her voice didn’t command; it invited.

  “It’s safe,” she added, warm and certain. “You’re safe.”

  The woman hesitated — then reached out. Fingers brushed bread. A shaky nod.

  The tension cracked, if only by a thread.

  As they moved on, Flora leaned toward Roland, speaking low enough for only him to hear:

  “You can’t start with commands. Ask them. Let them choose.”

  Roland frowned faintly. “I’m their prince. Shouldn’t that—”

  “That’s exactly why it doesn’t,” she said, smiling without looking at him. “Trust can’t be ordered.”

  He said nothing after that, but he listened. He softened his tone. He lowered his gaze when speaking to them, asked instead of commanding. Slowly, carefully, the atmosphere shifted. Not much. Just enough that one older vendor bowed his head — shallow, but deliberate — and murmured, “…perhaps.”

  A small victory. Earned inch by inch.

  ***

  Marble floors caught the last gold of evening as Leon carried a stack of reports down the palace corridor. His stride was steady, controlled, the weight of the day contained behind silence.

  “Leon,” a voice called softly.

  Carmilla stepped from a side passage, her steps unhurried, her expression polite. Her dark hair was pinned neatly, crimson eyes catching the fading light. She matched his pace without asking.

  “I hear thefts in the lower markets dropped this week,” she said mildly.

  Leon didn’t falter. “Yes, my lady.”

  “Curious,” she murmured, her fingertips brushing the polished wall. “Supplies haven’t increased. No new laws passed. And yet… fewer crimes.”

  A deliberate pause. Her voice smooth, velvet over steel.

  “An impressive coincidence.”

  Leon’s grip on the reports didn’t tighten. “Perhaps your earlier recommendations to the council are finally bearing fruit.”

  Carmilla tilted her head, her faint smile sharpening by a fraction.

  “Ah. So they acted on my proposals.”

  A beat.

  “Strange… no one brought me the drafts for approval.”

  The silence that followed was heavy enough to smother sound. A test laid bare between them.

  Leon looked forward, unblinking. “Your influence reaches farther than you realize, my lady.”

  They stopped at the intersection. Stained-glass shadows fell over Carmilla’s face, gold and crimson painting her expression unreadable.

  “Then whoever is making these moves,” she said softly, “knows the weight of what they’re doing.”

  Leon turned, meeting her gaze evenly. “…They do.”

  For just an instant, her smile became something dangerous — elegant and knowing.

  “I imagine,” she said as she stepped past him, “they believe they do, and is very much aware of the consequences.”

  Her perfume lingered faintly in the air. Leon didn’t move until her footsteps disappeared into silence.

  ***

  Night settled over Inferna, city lights scattered like embers below the palace. Carmilla stood by her window, her reflection pale against the dark glass. A masked subordinate knelt behind her.

  Her voice, when it came, was calm.

  “Take Flora,” she said. “Make it clean. Roland must understand.”

  This wasn’t cruelty. It was control.

  In Carmilla’s mind, this was mercy— a lesson Roland needed to survive.

  Mercy invites predators. He has to see it.

  ***

  Roland leaned against the cold balcony rail, staring down at Inferna’s lights. The city breathed softly now, free of the smoke that had hung above it for weeks.

  Flora appeared beside him, carrying two cups of tea. She handed him one.

  “They still fear me,” he murmured. “Maybe they should.”

  Flora’s smile was gentle, patient.

  “Fear rots slowly,” she said softly, “but it rots all the same. One day, they’ll see you.”

  Roland exhaled—his shoulders eased, letting the warmth of her words settle in his chest.

  Behind them, one balcony candle flickered, guttered, and went out.

  Neither of them noticed.