Hours seemed to pass in moments until the crowd began to gather at the festival's central plaza. Lanterns floated upward, carried by magic into the night sky. The group found a place among the throng. Adam and Azalea were still bickering, though now their voices were lower, almost playful. Blake collapsed against a bench, arms folded, looking as though he could fall asleep standing. Elreth kept her distance, watching Nero and Khione, her lips pressed into a thin line.

Then the first firework split the night.

A streak of gold shot upward, exploding into a cascade of glittering feathers that rained down like angel wings. The crowd gasped, children pointing as more followed—bursts of crimson fire-dragons, silver phoenixes, and great blue blossoms that painted the sky. The air vibrated with each resounding boom.

Khione tilted her head back, her normally stoic face softened by the reflection of fireworks in her eyes. For once, her icy composure melted, if only slightly. Nero, instead of looking up, watched her. The colors of fire and frost shimmered across her pale skin, and though he smirked, there was something quieter in his gaze—a recognition, perhaps, or an unspoken challenge.

Around them, the group fell into silence. Even Adam and Azalea paused their endless bickering to watch the display. Blake's eyes cracked open, the lazy prince allowing himself the faintest smile. And Elreth—though her heart still burned with bitterness—could not help but admire the sky. Yet even as the colors painted her eyes, her mind was elsewhere, plotting, turning, calculating how to tear open the space between Nero and Khione before it became irreversible.

The fireworks crescendoed, the final burst a massive phoenix of flame that spread its wings across the heavens. The plaza roared with applause and cheers.

And in the midst of it all, Nero and Khione remained side by side, silent, their shoulders nearly brushing, as though the chaos of the world narrowed to only the two of them.

°°°

Elreth lingered on the villa's balcony long after the laughter and music had thinned into the city's distant hum. From here, the Angel's City unrolled like a living tapestry—lanterns drifting like slow constellations, fountains glittering, crowds moving like schools of luminous fish. The festival's splendor should have soothed her—beauty was her element—but tonight each bright flare was an accusation.

She watched Nero and Khione walk side by side, silhouettes swallowed by the tide of people, and felt the small, hot stone of jealousy lodge harder under her ribs. It was not merely envy. It was something sharper: the sense of a plan slipping from her fingers. Nero had been a target. She had imagined him flustered under her footwork, indebted, cooperative. Not this — this quiet companionship between him and the woman she detested most. Not Khione.

"Ridiculous," she told the night, but her voice tasted bitter even to herself. She pressed two fingers into her temple and tried to measure her anger as if it were a tool. Anger could be honed. Rage could be weaponized. She had to think: clearly, precisely, without the flare of pride that had so often betrayed her.

She replayed the evening in miniature—every gesture Nero had made, every laugh Khione had allowed herself, the way the Ice Queen accepted the skewer Nero offered without theatrics, the tiny smile over the crystal candy. Each detail mapped a growing, dangerous ease between them. Nero's boldness—the kiss during the spar—echoed now in her ears like a bell she had not rung. That kiss had been a jab, a declaration and a theft all at once. Nero had seized victory and its reward with casual insolence.

Elreth's jaw set. If Nero would not be coerced into allegiance, then she would design the circumstances so fine that he had no choice but to follow. If he would not be broken, she would bind him through usefulness—favor, obligation, opportunity. That was her creed: the world yields to those who can place others in debt and manipulate consequence until the desired person walks into the cage of their own accord.

She began to list, clicking through schemes in her mind with the clinical calm of a strategist.

First: Influence and Ownership. She had privileges the others only whispered about—networks of patrons, invitations to salons where alliances were forged like blades. A single favor here, a subtle recommendation there, could place Nero in positions where refusing Elreth would cost him progress. If he was ambitious even in the smallest degree, tethering his future to her circle would make him grateful and dependent. She could arrange for tutors, missions, or a position in a unit where her hand touched the strings. A subtle offer: training, sponsorship, a chance to reclaim his family name—only for those who accepted her mentorship. But she had the feeling this wouldn't work.

So come the second method: The Social Trap. Arrange for displays, orchestrate tasks where he saved face under her glare. Have him associated with a string of victories or patronage that made him too valuable to be taken by anyone else. She could make his name sing in society's brightest rooms, where Khione's solitary habits were less currency.

Third: The Emotional Wedge. This plan tasted dangerous because it touched something she professed to despise—emotion. But Elreth was not naive; she only needed leverage, not love. She'd use theatrical gestures designed to provoke gratitude, guilt, or obligation. Rescue him from a contrived peril. Present him with a public slight she alone could erase. Make herself indispensable: the hand he reaches for when the world narrows. It was messy, but effective.

Fourth: Subtle Competition. Every confrontation left marks. She could engineer contests—training duels, wagers, public tests of prowess—where Nero would be forced to respond. The right duel, staged before the right audience, could humiliate Khione or place Nero in a position where he owed Elreth a debt of honor. She had resources: the training ground at her family's estate, sponsored tournaments, invitations to exclusive trials. If he won under her banner—if she lent him prestige and shelter in return—he might translate gratitude into loyalty.

Fifth: Remove the Rival. Not by violence—Elreth was no fool—but by distraction. Make Khione's presence tolerable yet unable to anchor Nero. Offer Khione a role that draws her away. Well, this method was unlikely to work.

Her mind moved like a scythe through these possibilities, sharp and deliberate. Each plan suggested small actions she could take within hours: call in a favor from a powerhouse, invite Nero to a private training session arranged as a "favor," leak word of a challenge—an invitation only for him—from a prestigious knightly order. Elreth felt the thrill of design course through her. The problem with feelings was that they made you sloppy; strategy, she reminded herself, demanded patience.

She also considered the risk: Nero's temperament was not a commodity easily owned. He was stubborn, independent, proud in a way that did not bow to titles. She would have to create bindings of consequence rather than appeal to sentiment. Make him need her. Bind him to a debt that played to his pride—a public oath, an obligation that could be framed as honor. If she could do that, then affection would be irrelevant; he'd be hers by logic if not by heart.

Anger dissolved into a slow focus. She pictured the coming week: tournaments, the training ground, the summer's long list of events. Each waypoint was an opportunity, a lever. The festival had shown her the thin places where hearts could be nudged. She would not shout; she would orchestrate.

And yet—beneath the plan, the old, familiar ache unfolded. This was not just conquest. It was the singular recognition that someone else's presence unsettled her in a way she hadn't cataloged. Khione's laugh would not leave her; Nero's quiet decisions gnawed at the edges of her composure. The admission surprised her more than it should have. She had never been frightened by rival women before—only thwarted by them. The new sensation was a pressure she had no convenient label for.

Elreth closed her hand into a fist until her nails cut the palm. She liked being feared, liked being implacable. This new irritation—call it jealousy, call it the self-awareness of losing ground—would be converted into action. She would work, maneuver and win. She would make allies in the right salons, make discreet offers, throw challenges that tested more than skill—tested character.

Standing under the villa's shadow, the princess allowed herself a slow, almost private smile. If Nero would not come willingly, she would make him need her. If Khione sought him for quiet afternoons and shared skewer bites, Elreth would offer him triumphs, purpose, advancement. She would bind him with usefulness and spectacle. She would show him a prize he could not refuse—one that would not be stolen by a quiet smile.

She would not be beaten.

And as the lanterns above the city continued to float and burn—unfazed—Elreth began to plan the first cut of her campaign, precise and cold as a blade.

Unbeknownst to the princess she was simply being jealous, things weren't moving according to her will, for the first time she , was about lose, lose badly it would hurt her pride, for some reason she had the feeling she must never let the boy named Nero Adams go, she must have him, she must fight for him.

''Eh! It will be fun. I won't let you have it easy Khione.''

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