Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

In the dark room, a light flickers.

It's small and quivering—merely a glint dancing on the tip of a match, casting the barest glow. The thin, orange halo it creates barely illuminates the face of the young woman on the floor who has lit it. For a very long moment, she stares at the flame she's made as it licks its way down the matchstick. Only when the heat bites the tips of her thin fingers does she lower it to a candle. The flame leaps from the match to the wick.

Silent as death, the young woman leans back and shakes the match limply. Blackened, the match crumbles from her fingers to the floor. She allows this, shifts her legs beneath her, and draws the blanket she has closer around her shoulders.

With the wick's help, the light grows strong enough to illuminate her front, though darkness still cloaks her back. There's a small expression on her face; something a little worn and numb to the point of blankness. Her shoulders are slack, her eyes fixed on the candle. Her flyaway hairs indicate she hasn't groomed that evening. There are gray circles below her eyes.

Her expression stays still as she looks from the candle to an object cradled in her entwined fingers: a hairpin.

It's not the finest piece in her collection—her jewelry box contains exotic and beautiful pieces from across the world, passionately crafted by master artisans. This one, in contrast, boasts nothing special. It's a fine-toothed comb made from silver. The body resembles the curved wing of a bird. Framed by the wing is a clear, light blue gem.

Even though the silver isn't particularly high-quality and the design is nothing special, the way she looks at it, the blue of the jewel swimming in her eyes, means something.

She presses both thumbs against the gem. It's smooth and cool to the touch. In the faint candlelight, the depths of the jewel seem alive. She remains transfixed at how it swirls even in the softest candlelight. However, she watches only for a moment. Silently, she wraps her hands around the hairpin and hides it from her sight. Fire dances in the depths of her gaze as she looks back to the candle.

Her face is still yet. But it is easy to see a horrible weight in her very bones.

Minutes pass. With lowered eyes, she watches wax drip down the candlestick and into the tray. She can't manage a sigh; she can't manage any sort of sound at all. Her body is so heavy, just opening her mouth is a trial. So instead of making a sound, she gazes at the flame until her eyes sting.

With an expression so faint, it's difficult to say what the young woman is thinking. Perhaps she is thinking how yesterday, everything was normal. And if she had obeyed logic instead of the damned thing beating in her chest, tomorrow would've been normal too.

But today, she took normal into her hands and shattered it by her own will.

If she is tired and burdened, it's her own fault. Perhaps that is what she thinks.

Or, perhaps she's wondering where she should go. If normalcy is in shards on the ground, she'll only cut her feet if she stays in place. However, if she were to step out of that mess, it would become easy to sweep it away.

The young woman blinks at the pin. Something in her burns. Hard enough that the edges start cutting her palm, she clenches the hairpin. And, after a hard swallow, she sets it on the floor with a soft hand.

Before she can reconsider, pick the pin back up, and slip it into her pocket, she takes the handle of the candle tray and stands. The blanket slips from her shoulders and slumps in a heap on the floor. Fast as possible with limbs like lead, she slides into a pair of slippers by the door and leaves the room.

Not a soul bothers her in the earliest hours of the dusk. Guards should be standing at her door and the house's entrances, but earlier in the evening, she dismissed them for the night. There's no cleaning for the maids to do, and workers will not be in the kitchens for another handful of hours. The candle casts her shadow—her only company—against the walls.

Crickets chirp in the outside gardens. The young woman softly closes the manor's front door, eyes flicking back and forth nervously as she surveys the courtyard over her shoulder. When she finds no one, she lets go of the doorknob. Each of her steps is heavy and deliberate as she goes down the porch stairs and starts a brisk walk on the paved path leading to the main palace.

If she is thinking of places to go, then the southern islands are far. However, there's no plausible reason to go there. Her brother's lands in the volcanic territories of Valkaheim are a distance as well, but he would not accept her there permanently without cause. Saint Lotier is also far-flung, but once more, she lacks cause to go there. Though Duke Zacharias had a son a bit older than her, he vanished some time ago.

A breeze blows past, pulling her skirt and hair back. Instantly, she cups the candle in her hand to protect it. The crickets quiet down; the trees' leaves rustle. And, when the wind has passed, she takes her hand away from the candle. Another breeze comes by, but it's soft enough that the flame barely wavers. Even still, the wind picks up strands of her unkempt hair and turns her gaze towards the tall roofs and spires of the palace.

This is the stage she was born on—the stage she has danced on her whole life.

But the tension on her previously still face doesn't speak to fondness or nostalgia.

The young woman stares until the gentle wind has passed. She turns her gaze forward once more and keeps walking.

Servants are still at work in the main palace at this time. Many of them stop polishing pottery and dusting stairways to peer at her. None of them stop to ask the young woman all but trudging through the hallways if she is alright. Each one acts like she's none of their concern and goes back to their work. If they act like she's not there, that's all the better on this one evening.

The candle shines orange light on the hallway so familiar, she would know it even in the pitchest black. The tiny amount of servants still working thins out to nothing. No guards stand in front of the office she stops at, and the young woman doubts any are inside either. Her father tends to take his scant alone time in the dead of night, after all.

She takes a deep breath and stares up at the wide oak doors. They seem to tower over her, just as imposing as they were when she was a little girl. Even though her face stays calm—almost eerily so by the candle's small and wavering light—her stomach is in her throat and her head is a whirlwind.

But this is the only choice she has.

Her arm moves like she's pulling it through mud. Slowly, she raps her knuckles against the door. There's only silence in response, though she feels a presence on the other side and smells a warm, familiar scent. Somewhat awkwardly, she places a thin hand against the doors and whispers for her father.

She hears legs scrape against wooden floor, then his low, steady voice inviting her in.

The young woman carefully turns the doorknob and cracks the door a tiny amount. Almost like a child, she peers into the office with a single eye and spies her father, surrounded by paperwork, at his desk. Only an oil lamp on its edge and the moon in the window behind him give the room light. Her father tilts his head and furrows his brow curiously.

Steps still heavy, she opens the door just wide enough for her to slip in and shuts it promptly. And, maybe a bit at a loss, she just stands there. She cups her tiny flame behind her fingers and stares at the carpet. To her, it is always important to have words at the ready. Yet, she came here with few in mind, and little idea how exactly to say them.

After a short moment of her standing there, eyes on the floor, her father speaks. "It's two in the morning. Why are you not asleep?"

Silent, she drags her eyes to the room's corner and says nothing. A horrific sickness swells in her.

"My dear?"

The warmth of her father's voice is a lot after what she has done today. So much, in fact, that she feels a burning start in her jaw and behind her eyes. This wasn't part of the bare bone idea she had in mind, though. She squeezes her eyes shut and shakes her head, swallows the lump in her throat, and promises herself one thing:

No crying, no matter what.

She did not cry when she stood in front of that man earlier today. She did not cry when he spoke to her too softly and could not meet her eyes. She did not cry when he told her everything she'd expected, but everything she still didn't want to hear. She did not cry when he reached for her with his warm hands, she did not cry when she brushed them away, and she did not cry when she smiled and thanked him for his time.

She didn't cry.

She won't cry.

There's little in the world she can promise, but she can promise that.

One more time, she swallows the damned lump, forces back all the burning, straightens her shoulders, and lifts her head to regard her father. She says, "My lord father. I have been thinking.

"Do you not think it is time for me to leave the nest?"

Chapter Text

"In the bygone Era of the Goddess, human civilization reached the peak of technological advancement. While sylvans kept to the forest and rokkan to the mountains, humans built sprawling cities. From their hands came towers of iron and glass, tall enough to scrape the sky; transportation across land, sea, and sky, swift enough to deliver man across a country in less than a day; fearsome weapons capable of firing mana projectiles, stronger than any bow.

In ages even farther past than this, there had been the Qilin: a civilization whose tools surpassed logic. Their great society was replete with unique devices that took their society to great heights—a pot from which water flowed unending being an astonishingly mild example. The Qilin attained a utopia wherein everyone lived lives of plenty, though the hubris they cultivated over time became their downfall.

Qilin innovation was a magical endeavor. In contrast, the technological advancement of humans was scientific and alchemical. Perhaps it was that Qilin innovations were compatible with nature, whereas human innovation terrorized it, that dragonkind tolerated one and opposed the other.

Technology and dragonkind's way of life are inherently incompatible. Because to this, humans and dragons entered what is now called the First War of Binding. Humans used their advanced knowledge to destroy the dragons' forests and oceans while dragons used their control over nature to level human cities.

Rather than being stunted, humanity's advancement was spurred in these decades of war. Buildings became hardier, transportation faster, and weapons stronger. At the pinnacle of their innovation, a gate was constructed that pulled a demon into our world. Humans sought to use science and alchemy to control this demon into doing their bidding, but failed. For seven days and nights, the demon razed the world before the goddess Ilia and Elysium sealed it away.

At the end of the First War of Binding, with their lifestyles in ruins already, humans agreed to live in peace with the dragons and halted all advancement for this objective. The iron and glass buildings the demon had left intact were then destroyed by human hands; roads were ripped apart, vehicles dismantled; the vicious weapons humanity had crafted were left to rust and fade into less than memory.

For peace, humanity returned to a simpler time, and so has simplicity persisted. Yet, despite taboo regarding civilization of old, scholars continue to ask how humans achieved these heights. How did they harness mana more effectively than even the Qilin? What materials were used to build their opulent luxuries? What drove their minds to innovate without cease?

Legend tells of a garden that existed during the Era of the Goddess, wherein Ilia herself dwelt. This garden was vast, spanning a distance some claim to be half the size of modern Alberia. In it lived all the world's flora, and here was where the goddess was said to have first met Elysium in a moment of meditation. However, this great garden is presumed to have been destroyed by the demon. Even its legend is vague in modern times.

But the more whimsical of scholars believe the answers to their questions regarding humanity's technological advancement lie within this obscure myth. Over the years, many have proposed that this garden was not, in fact, a garden at all. Rather, experts have argued that the goddess herself was an alchemist, and this garden a laboratory. Believers of this theory say the greatest scientific minds of the era gathered here and spurred humanity to its greatest heights.

Meaning 'radiance' in an olden tongue, the name of this hypothetical garden was—"

"Princess Chelle?"

Less than a second after her name is called, something bushy whacks Chelle in the face.

Chelle drops her book into her lap. Spluttering, she smacks Cat Sìth's tail away and levels a glare at her. "Please, there is not enough room in here for your frivolity."

Lying across from her in the carriage, Cat Sìth grins in response. The fluffy tip of her tail twitches across the floor. "The manservant has been attempting to get your attention for some time, but mew have been utterly absorbed in that book. A wallop seemed in order."

Also sitting across from Chelle and on the opposite end from Cat Sìth is an older gentleman, with a half-amused and half-sheepish smile on his face. He's starting to age in his early 50s, but his auburn hair, pulled into a bun at the nape of his neck, shows no gray. There are faint wrinkles on his face, but even since her childhood, Chelle has always thought he could pass for a decade younger than he is.

"There was no cause to hit her in the face, Lady Dragon," he scolds, but his tone is more gentle than aggravated. When he looks back at Chelle, his evergreen eyes are bright and warm. There's nothing to wipe up, but like a dutiful servant, he fishes a clean handkerchief from his breast pocket and leans forward to offer it. "Are you alright, Your Highness?"

Sighing, Chelle takes it and half-heartedly pats her offended face. Shaken from her literary immersion, she starts acclimating into her surroundings again: A rattling carriage, thick hooves on stone, bright streams of light coming from between the curtains. Last she checked, they were still on the Egan Flats, where there's nothing but wasteland and relative silence. Now, she hears the sounds of a city outside.

"I was trying to tell you we had entered the city," the servant says. "You said you wished to see it the second we came through the gates, but as Lady Dragon said, you were quite absorbed."

Chelle brushes her hand over the book's cover and regards it. The book—Humanity's Zenith: The Era of the Goddess—stares back at her in all its blasphemy. Quickly, she picks up the satchel next to her and shoves the text in as deep as it'll go. This isn't an especially pious city, but she's also sure she would leave a bad first impression if it fell out of her bag for the world to see.

Fighting another sigh is a struggle, but as with all things, Chelle manages. She sets the satchel back down, scoots closer to the window, and lifts the curtain to peer outside.

The City of Raywall does not greet her with any glory.

It's frankly a sorry sight—at least compared to Sol Alberia, that is. Sol Alberia is sprawling, vibrant with color, sound, and life: tastefully colored rooftops, elegant architecture, well-maintained streets, historical landmarks. In contrast, Raywall's buildings look dull as the carriage passes them by, and she even notes some are in severe disrepair. That's to say nothing of the state of the roads; the carriage goes over a bump that has Chelle throwing her hand out for balance.

Besides the buildings, the people on the street look, for lack of a better word, tired. She watches them while their trio rides by, her lips pressed at the worn, faded look of their clothes, the thinness of every person she sees. No one looks emaciated or filthy—just tired, plain and simple.

"This is the Mantua District," the servant informs her. "So we should be arriving at the manor soon."

If her studies have been accurate, Raywall's Mantua District should be a very comfortable, middle class neighborhood. But they go over another vicious bump, see a shop with a sign so faded its unreadable, and catch sight of an old man without a leg begging at the side of the road.

Chelle shuts her eyes and drops the curtain. She puts her hands in her lap and regards her companions again; Cat Sìth looks like she's trying to nap, but the severe rattling of the carriage on the bad roads isn't doing much for her beauty sleep. The servant is looking out at the city from his side of the carriage. His expression is tight, like he's nervous.

And then he frowns, looks back at her, and says, "Your Highness, I once more must question your choice to come to this particular city without a single guard."

Idly, she checks her nails. "Peter my dear, I never knew you felt that way. It isn't as though we have already discussed this six times during the time we've been on the road."

At the siren call of sarcasm, Cat Sìth perks up from her attempted nap. Her gaze flicks between the two of them. She meets Chelle's eyes after a moment, rolls her own amusedly, and puts her chin back down on her paws.

"I bring it up a seventh time only out of worry, Princess." Peter releases the curtain, letting it fall back over the window. "If we were headed to any other city, I would not be a fraction as concerned. But, this territory..."

His voice is so genuine, Chelle feels a tad guilty for being snide. She puts her hand back into her lap and offers a small smile, hoping it looks at least somewhat reassuring. "I appreciate the concern, but you know a guard wouldn't have worked out. Even one person shadowing me would prevent me from fulfilling Father's orders. And besides." Her smile grows stiff. "Who would have even come?"

Peter opens his mouth with an instant answer, but he promptly closes it and averts his eyes. He shakes his head and says says, "Dame Cecile—"

"—would need to be pried away from my father with a crowbar or five."

His evergreen eyes alight with defiance. "Sir Harle, then!"

"Phares spoke to me before I left and mentioned plans to make Harle a member of his personal guard at some point," Chelle replies. "Phares already asks for so little, I couldn't bear to steal a knight he has his eye on."

The list was already short, and now it's run out. Peter falls silent.

"Chelle can purrtect herself," interjects Cat Sìth, eyes still closed. Annoyance flits over her face as the carriage hits another bump. "So cease your fussing, manservant."

"She's right. Leonidas and Father taught me that much."

The way he crosses his arms and quirks a brow tells her he's not reassured. "I fear you don't have a party dress with pockets deep enough for a crossbow, Princess."

"Pesky design choice, isn't that? But, that aside, I know enough combative magic to give people a run for their money. And I can shapeshift in a pinch, too."

Peter quirks the other brow. He casts a look to his left where Cat Sìth seems to be having some better success nodding off. Besides her sharp claws and wicked horns, she looks otherwise fluffy and adorable. The roads are smoother now, and she looks quite content with the tip of her tongue poking out of her mouth.

He looks back at Chelle with doubt on his face—a lot of it. "Lady Dragon must pardon me, but that form is not what I call 'combat ready.'"

Cat Sìth smacks her tail against the ground, but doesn't open her eyes.

"After all your time serving this family," says Chelle, "you must be aware that most people will flee just seeing a person turn into a dragon."

"Yes, but the ones that won't are the ones I am worried about."

There isn't a solid refutation in her arsenal for that, so she brushes the topic aside and instead lifts the curtain again. The scenery has improved, but barely. A sign that says "Rennes District" disappears behind them; this is meant to be an upper class area, but it hardly looks better than the lower middle class districts of Sol Alberia.

The sight still pleases her, if only because the manor Marquis Raywall has prepared for her should be only a handful of minutes away. With it is the end of a long, uncomfortable journey.

The carriage takes a turn and starts up an incline. As it lurches to the side, Chelle unconsciously puts a hand to her chest, closes her eyes, and has a deep breath. She hears Cat Sìth yawn loudly and mumble something or other about a lack of beauty sleep. The clamor of the city begins to fade.

When the carriage reaches the top of the hill, she hears a quick exchange between the coachman and who she presumes are guards. A long, aching noise comes as a gate swings wide open. The carriage starts again, but it only goes a short distance before stopping once more—this time, for good.

Peter lifts the curtain again to look out at their destination, but his face quickly turns from all smiles to frigidity. So quickly, in fact, that Chelle is briefly panicked that they haven't been delivered to their destination at all, but perhaps somewhere more sinister. However, his exclamation of, "Well, I never—!" isn't horrified, but rather aghast. Without waiting for the coachman, he stands and opens the door himself. Curious, Chelle and Cat Sìth lean forward to peer outside as he steps out.

When a princess is planned to arrive at an estate, there are customs ordinarily followed: The entire manor is cleaned, top to bottom, for her comfort. Her luggage is sent ahead so things will be unpacked and ready for her when she arrives. Both the butler and the housekeeper will wait outside for her. Additionally, it's normal for the household's staff to line up in greeting.

What greets Chelle is indeed an impeccably clean estate, but also an empty courtyard and her luggage in haphazard stacks on the ground.

Chelle didn't expect a parade, a red carpet, and/or a storm of confetti flung from every which way. Honestly, she didn't even expect the staff aside from the butler and housekeeper to come outside for her. But she didn't quite expect this, either.

The second she picks up her satchel and tries to stand, Peter puts a hand in the carriage to urge her into sitting. "My lady must be exhausted from the long journey, so please—rest here until things are ready. I will sort this out."

She can't even say she'll go with before he leaves the carriage again, shutting the door behind him.

Now fully awake and stretched out in Peter's absence, Cat Sìth stares at Chelle with her big yellow and green eyes. The expression on her face is subtly amused, but more annoyed—a snub towards a royal is a snub towards their pactwyrm, after all. "Your luggage in the yard adds a pop of color."

Chelle squeezes the bridge of her nose. Her stomach is starting to ache. She's almost scared to lift the curtain and see her luggage sitting so dismally on the hard ground. All of this isn't a breach of etiquette towards a princess—it's just a total breach of etiquette in general.

What better way to say you don't want someone than to leave their things in a heap outside?

Though Peter asked her to rest, the carriage feels stuffier by the second. Chelle raises a hand and gives the wall next to her head a brief rap. After a long second, the coachman slides open the small gap separating the two of them. His face is stiff and unamused, like she's bothering him by getting his attention the most polite way a passenger can.

"I should like to exit the carriage," she says. "Would you mind, please?"

He tips his hat. The gap shuts and the carriage jostles as he dismounts from his seat. A second later, the door opens and light floods in. She hears a creak as he unfurls the carriage's steps for her. And, though the coachman is good enough to offer her a hand, he doesn't make eye contact or say anything.

Chelle drapes her satchel over her shoulder, picks up her skirts, and takes his hand. He helps her down carefully and lets go of her the moment she's on solid ground. Behind her, the carriage shakes as Cat Sìth gets up. With some difficulty, she squeezes out the door, but alights gracefully on the ground.

After Cat Sìth steps away, the coachman looks into the carriage. He makes a face and a quiet, frustrated sound at the sight of the fur. Maybe Chelle would feel bad, if this particular coachman hadn't seemed particularly determined for his passengers to have an extremely uncomfortable journey. Even before they entered Raywall, he took the bumpiest roads. So, as it stands, she looks away when he gives them a curt look. He makes another sound as he hops up on the driver's seat and takes the carriage away without her permission.

"Well. We're here at last," Cat Sìth remarks. A half-purr, half-groan leaves her as she stretches fully, tail in the air and chest pressed to the ground. Her sharp, obsidian claws click against the stone. She gets up and shakes her fluffy fur out. "A nice abode, I'd say."

Hand clenched around the strap of her satchel, Chelle stares up at the manor. It is a nice mansion, made of some sort of pale stone that glitters when it catches the light. The multiple floors and the immaculate craftsmanship visible in the windows and doorways make it quite a sight. The courtyard has well-maintained gardens. A fountain babbles happily in the mid-spring air.

It's a sight rather marred by her worldly possessions lying abandoned without care.

"These northern reaches are so very far from the capital!" Cat Sìth circles around Chelle once before wandering off towards the very edge of the courtyard. She tosses her head and regards Chelle over her shoulder. "How purrsitively unfair of King Aurelius to toss a princess into a tepid backwater such as this."

Chelle takes a step and stretches the muscles in her leg. It feels so good to move that a satisfied groan nearly makes its way out of her. She follows Cat Sìth to the edge and stands side by side with her, one hand atop a cool metal fence, and looks down at the sights.

"Tepid backwater" is strong, but as she thought in the carriage, too: Raywall looks like a sorry sight compared to Sol Alberia. The surrounding environment is actually quite lovely; most of Raywall's territory is rocky wasteland, but the city itself is framed by a backdrop of lush mountains that stand tall between them and the expanse of North Grastea.

And, in contrast to the sad-looking city, a grand palace sits right near the mountains to overlook everything. It's perched atop a hill, but its sheer size makes it look like a mountain itself. The style of it is similar to the royal palace in Sol Alberia, yet the rounded domes and flat roofs keep it looking unique. Behind it sprawl massive, gray stone bridges, which she knows serve as roads to the border.

Not even two decades ago, those roads must have been full of merchants and travelers going between North Grastea and Raywall. Now, they're utterly desolate.

Yes. This is Raywall: Alberia's northernmost point and the absolute farthest place from the capital.

A chilly wind blows, rustling Chelle's hair. She tucks a lock behind a pointed ear. "Whether you think it's a backwater or not, Raywall is a key strategic position that overlooks our northern border," she tells Cat Sìth. "It is vital that my family strengthen our relations with this place."

"Mew humans and your politics. If this territory is also Alberian, what reason is there to be so estranged?"

"More than a few," Chelle replies. Her eyes dart over the dreary city once more, noting the lack of Alberia's scarlet flags, before she turns towards the sound of footsteps. "Look alive, my dear."

Peter has returned on the heels of a tall, lean man dressed in the sharp uniform of a butler. This man doesn't look happy at all, but it would be stranger if he approached her all smiles. If he is the butler, she has little doubt her luggage is in the yard on his order.

The butler's hair is silver with age, and his black eyes are sunk into his aging face. The bow he gives is perfect form, but not low enough to be appropriate for a gesture towards a viscount, much less a royal. From behind, Peter gives him a distinctly dissatisfied look.

"I am pleased to meet you, Your Highness," says the butler, standing before she offers permission. When he smiles at her and Cat Sìth, it's hollow. "It's the honor of a lifetime to welcome you to our fair city."

Smiling at someone so visibly disgusted is a task, but Chelle knows how to perform it well. Endearment is important at this point, so she smiles sweetly and keeps her bitter thought of "Yes, you certainly sound thrilled" to herself. "I am very pleased to be here," is all she says instead.

He's still smiling at her emptily. He puts his hands behind his back and turns halfway to disinterestedly regard her piles of luggage. "Your luggage arrived a short time ago. Forgive us for not having it in already—your arrival time was not communicated properly, so there was no haste."

Liar. She watched Peter send a messenger, note in hand and all, from their last inn two days ago. And her things were in a convoy a day ahead of the carriage; if she went over there and touched a box, she's sure it would be cold from sitting out overnight.

"Oh my, no worries at all." Charming and cordial, Chelle offers a small curtsy. "I sincerely apologize if you somehow received the incorrect time."

There's no real apology in her words, and the sharp glare he gives her through his thin-lipped smile says he knows that. Both of them know the time was communicated. They both know that no one was out here to meet Chelle for a much stronger reason than just a timing mix-up.

The butler's smile grows thinner. "Mistakes happen, don't they?"

Chelle squeezes her skirts.

The halls are quiet enough that the click of her heels echoes.

Chelle follows the butler, who is choosing to be a man of few words despite how he's supposed to be rolling out the welcome wagon for her. He's summoned two maids to trail behind, squarely in between her and Cat Sìth. The maids are equally quiet. Chelle isn't sure if it's that they're bad at hiding hostility or if they just don't mind her knowing, because she can feel their eyes searing a hole into her back.

If they think it'll bother her, they have another thing coming. In fact, they're doing her a service by letting her know that she should be on her toes. But honestly, between the silent servants and the somewhat dim halls, Chelle feels like she's being escorted to a Svenitlan gulag rather than being shown to her room.

After arriving on the third floor, the butler stops in front of a room. He looks down at her, that icy expression still embedded on his face. "Marquis Raywall has bade me to permit you to make full and free use of this mansion for your purposes. This here is your room for the time being."

No one moves. Chelle stares at the butler, letting her eyes flick meaningfully between him and the door, until he makes a subtly annoyed expression and opens it for her.

Cat Sìth on her heels, Chelle steps inside the room. It's decently-sized, she finds. And almost as though they checked for her preferences, it's filled with shades of lilac, softer pinks, and deep hibiscus colors. Since they couldn't even come out to greet her after a nine day journey, though, she labels the decoration a coincidence.

It's nice anyhow. The bed looks luxurious and soft, fitted with fine lavender blankets and snow white bedding. The back of the room has a pair of window doors that open up to a sizable balcony that overlooks the palace and mountains. There's a fireplace with a comfortable chair in front of it, a tea table, a vanity, wardrobes, drawers—everything a lady's room needs.

Almost.

"This is the Lavender Room," the butler says. He then admits, "It's not the mansion's largest accommodation, but it has the nicest layout and furniture. The master bedroom is in disarray, but should you prefer it, I suppose the staff can get it in order."

Chelle heads to the tea table and sets her bag down. "No, that won't be necessary. It's just that—"

"Where am I expected to sleep?!"

Cat Sìth paces the room, dragging her tail and scrutinizing every corner, every piece of furniture, before she turns to the butler and maids. Indeed, they made no mention of a separate room for her, and now there's not even a place in Chelle's room. The discourtesies keep piling up.

The butler turns pale. "Pardon, but we did not realize that a room would need to be made for a— a dragon."

"Mew expected a royal pactwyrm to sleep outside? Like a common stray? What audacity!"

Chelle is certain the messenger was told to communicate Cat Sìth's need for accommodations, but based on the flustered expressions the staff have, that bit may truly have gotten lost in the conveyance.

She sighs and holds a hand out to stop an incensed Cat Sìth from stalking towards the staff. "It's alright. 'Mistakes happen,' don't they, Mr...?"

His lips twitch. "I am Baron Alistair, head butler to House Raywall."

So, this man is more important than she first thought.

"Mr. Alistair, then," she says. "Cat Sìth can sleep in my quarters. If you bring her the finest silks and cushions you have, perhaps she will forgive this transgression."

Behind her, Cat Sìth lets out a low, subtle growl only Chelle hears.

"And ensure fresh fish is brought for her dinner as well," she adds.

Alistair seems to be contemplating whether or not he wants to enrage a dragon, which Chelle has to admit he's got guts for. In the end, he turns to the maids and quietly instructs them to collect the finest bedding in the mansion and to place an order with the cook. At this, Cat Sìth sits by the fireplace and humphs, but her tail is wrapped around her paws in a way Chelle recognizes as relative contentment.

The maids rush off, whispering to one another, and Alistair fixes Chelle under his gaze again. He doesn't say anything, but watches closely as she unpacks the things in her bag and rests them on the table. It's like he's expecting her to pull out a variety of murder weapons, but she must disappoint. All she puts on the table are some crushed snacks, a water skin, embroidery, and her book.

Chelle puts all these things in a row and says, "Have the staff carry the luggage up, please."

He huffs, barely audible. "Now that you are here, is that not a matter more efficiently handled by your own servants? It will do them good—they'll get to know the layout of the manor before the other convoys arrive."

"Alas, I came with only the one."

"Excuse me?"

"So you are the sort who requires repetition." Chelle folds her hands and faces him. "The butler downstairs is the only servant I brought, and that luggage in the yard is all that will arrive." At Alistair's baffled look, she adds, "I have no interest in recreating my experiences from Sol Alberia. I am meant to be assimilating into Raywall, so I have come with little."

This sentiment doesn't appear to impress Alistair. Of course she's supposed to be settling in with these people, and of course she would like their approval over scorn. At the same time, her choice to bring few possessions and fewer people was one she made for herself and herself alone.

After some silence, he replies, "Then, as we are left with no options, I will assemble the staff." He turns to leave, then stops and adds, "Should you require anything else, you have but to let me know."

There's a tinge of "please, don't actually do that" in his voice, but Chelle ignores it. "My deepest thanks—however, before you leave, I would prefer to greet the marquis in person. Where might he be?"

"That will not be necessary, Your Highness," he says curtly. "For today, it is His Lordship's request that you rest and recover from the rigors of your journey. He will call upon you in some days' time for a proper meeting." Alistair bows to her. "Please inform me if you have any concerns. Until then."

Without giving her an opportunity to voice any such concerns, Alistair turns on his heel and shuts the door behind him forcefully.

Chelle keeps quiet and listens for his footsteps to fully disappear before she turns and gives Cat Sìth a long look.

"In other words, that marquis and his butler want us to stay put and mind our meow-ners." Cat Sìth sniffs disdainfully. She pads over to the end of the room and gazes outside the window doors. "All of this is quite the chilly reception, isn't it? No one so much as offered mew a drink! Whatever did you do to them?"

Sighing, Chelle idly starts lining up her things again. "I assure you, I have done nothing. My grandfather on the other hand..."

"The purr-evious king?"

Her memory of her own mother is dim, and so the memory of her grandfather even dimmer. However, Chelle has some recollection of him: like her father, he was a mountainous man, with a stern, scarred face, a beard, and short silver hair. King Ludovic was a man of battle, but when Chelle remembers him, she has faint memories of smiles, rides on shoulders, tea parties, and gift upon gift upon gift.

"The very same." Chelle approaches the bed and starts feeling around: lifting quilts, shaking the pillows, peeking under the mattress. "Raywall is not only a strategic position with respect to our border, but used to be a prosperous city thanks to its trade routes with other lands. However, Grandfather—that is, the former Alberian king—launched an invasion on the Holy City of Grams.

"Because of that, foreign sentiment towards us was harmed. Trade collapsed across the country, and Raywall's economy in particular sustained a near-lethal blow. As soon as Father took the throne, he agreed to an armistice—but that did not mean things could simply go back to how they had once been."

Cat Sìth laughs. Her tail thumps the ground, akin to someone slapping their knee. "Then I suppose they're right to be upset, seeing as how your family went out and started the war."

"Things may have worked out had that been the whole of it, but alas. Grandfather's war lacked a just cause, which was why Father was ready to put an end to it." Chelle stuffs her hand beneath the mattress, grimaces, and pulls out a handful of what look like common garden rocks. She regards them before turning her hand, letting them clatter to the floor. "And yet, human emotions are an infinitely complex thing."

"You meown to say there are some here who oppose the ceasefire? Whyever for?"

"Raywall bore the brunt of the war. Many lost parents and siblings while fighting the Gramsians," she explains. She stands and starts inspecting the nightstand next, peering under the lampshade and rifling through the top drawer. "Just because the war ended did not mean all animosity for Grams disappeared along with it."

Cat Sìth comes over and gives the rocks a sniff. She bats them to the side, sending them skittering all across the floor. "So there are some in this city who wish to go to war with Grams once more, even without just cause. I understand now why that father of yours sent you here: to keep such rash minds in check."

Nothing in the nightstand. Chelle shuts the drawer and smiles at Cat Sìth. "As ever, you demonstrate such keen insight. You're exactly right: my duty here is to find the half-wits trying to start a war and make them fall in line."

As all the puzzle pieces align for her, Cat Sìth nods like she understood all along. "Now it makes sense—I knew you would never have gone along with this sort of plan without some secondary reason."

Chelle's heart stumbles.

She keeps her smile but presses a hand to her chest, as though that will calm her heart. All there is to do now is deal with the cards she has and not think about those damnably pretty eyes looking at her with sadness—with pity.

"Chelle— Chelle, I..."

"Actually," she says, "that plan is, in fact, my true objective here."

Both sets of her pactwyrm's ears stand straight up. Her fluffy face opens in uncharacteristic shock. "Then you truly are going to...?"

"I am indeed, my dear Cat Sìth.

"I have come to this city to be married, and I intend to see it done."

Chapter Text

For as long as Chelle can remember, she has adored parties.

A party is simply a unique experience; there are few other places where you'll find splendor like them. Things like glittering lights, beautiful decorations, lovely clothes—there's just something about being surrounded by them. Even when Chelle is alone, it's a fine thing to have a moment to herself and enjoy delicious food and pleasant music.

However, the most important thing about a party isn't the lights, the decor, or the food. Rather, it's the conversation. Whispers heard on the dance floor, in the sitting rooms, out on balconies; secrets meant to be kept between two or three, but that can't escape Chelle's keen ears.

When truth can be sifted out from lies, gossip becomes information. Information becomes survival. Survival is everything.

Chelle was looking forward to a party in the shimmering palace she's been gazing at from the balcony, but the unfortunate reality is that the inside is rundown. It's not dilapidated, but on her way to the ballroom, it became obvious that the place is largely uncared for. From little things like dust on the baseboards to larger issues like faded paintings, the interior of Raywall's palace is nothing like the perfection of Sol Alberia's.

With how poor Raywall is, she wasn't expecting the inside to be perfect. The only one living in the palace besides attendants is the marquis, after all, and rumor has it that court doesn't even convene too often. It makes sense that the place would be a little... unkempt, even if she wasn't expecting it to this degree.

Fortunately, the ballroom is perfect. Chelle doubts the marquis uses it often, so she imagines he had servants scrubbing it top to bottom for days. The entire place is sparkling. The furniture looks decently new. When she subtly kicks the floor with her toe, a small cloud puffs up—even the floor has been chalked so no one slips.

So at the end of the day, with the ballroom done up and the nobles of Raywall gossiping away, the party is nice. Perfectly lovely, in fact.

Except that Chelle is standing at the ballroom's edge, champagne glass in hand, with a wide, wide circle devoid of people around her and Cat Sìth.

She understood there would be a cold reception, but the fact that people are keeping away from her like she's patient zero for some new plague is a little much—especially when she did herself up so nicely. Her dress may be more suited to the trends of Sol Alberia than Raywall, but a voluminous, pale pink gown is too classic to be out of place. Pearls are apparently the fashion here, so she's even adorned her neck with a couple strands and woven some into her hair. This is probably the nicest she's looked in a while, and these people have the audacity to not ask her for a dance?

Chelle narrows her eyes and has a drink. The nerve.

"Is that the third scion? Princess Chelle?"

"A member of the royal family's got some nerve showing their face here."

Her ears perk up.

"I'm of the understanding she is to be wed to the marquis."

Chelle sips her champagne and subtly keeps her eyes on the group of three to her right: two men, one woman. One of the men is aging, a bit portly, but dressed well compared to many of the guests. The other man wearing military formalwear is tall—quite tall—with thick black hair. And the woman is at least a decade younger than her companions, adorned in a beautiful red and gold dress that highlights her deep brown curls. She's staring at Chelle over the edge of a painted fan, blue eyes wide.

"Sending his daughter here to curry favor?" It's the military man who speaks. His voice is low, gruff. Unimpressed. "It's plain as day what the king's thinking."

Behind Chelle, Cat Sìth rests on a cushioned bench a servant kindly brought for her without even being asked. She is also dressed for the party, her attire consisting of a fluffy, embroidered bow around her neck. Cat Sìth looks far too miffed for a partygoer, however. Humphing, she turns her head from the spectacle.

Chelle lowers her glass. "What?"

"They certainly don't hold back in this town," Cat Sìth exclaims. "And here I was under the impression this was supposed to be your welcoming party."

A server passes by with a tray of drinks. He pauses for Chelle and lets her put her half-finished glass on it before walking off. Curious, she regards the trio with folded arms. They've noticed her gaze at this point, but just like they're not trying to hide, neither is she. They all stare at each other openly, brazenly, though Chelle makes sure she looks curious rather than hostile.

"Actually, I find it almost refreshing how they wear their true preferences right on those gilded sleeves." Chelle opens her white lace fan and waves it a couple of times to cool herself. "Much better than how it was in the capital, wouldn't you say?"

This really is better. Chelle will take open hostility over what she was served in Sol Alberia any day: those hushed whispers, words spoken behind hands, stabbing gazes. People gathering around to chat, only to stab her with pointed questions and thinly-veiled insults. Back there, she had to fight the norms of high society as quietly as possible. Any defense louder than a whisper looks desperate.

In this place, Chelle has no desire to upset anyone. Yet she also finds herself overwhelmed by curiosity; what will confronting these northerners yield?

"Still." She snaps her fan shut and taps it against her palm twice. "I suppose it is best to educate those who are so woefully unaware of proper decorum during social interaction."

Cat Sìth chirps as Chelle strides towards them. The three stare at her with mild surprise, but they don't scatter or attempt to act like they were talking about the weather. They've got guts to stand there when she's making her way towards them with purpose in her stride.

"Honored guests! I am so very pleased to make your acquaintances." Chelle ensures she's all smiles when she arrives at their little triad. For now, she'll play the harmless card—but she has other plays waiting in her deck. "I am the third scion of Alberia, Princess Chelle."

The nobles stare at her like she's grown a second head. All save one.

"What nerve to come over here. You're either fearless or brainless—I don't know which."

The military man stares at her without a touch of effort put into masking his contempt. Like Chelle thought before, he's markedly tall; she only comes to his chest, so he may be Leonidas's height. His shaggy black hair, swept back for the event, has thin, barely noticeable streaks of gray. A thick-strapped eye patch covers his left eye, and his right one is amber. The dark navy formalwear he has on is clean, sharp, elegant: that of a very high-ranking officer. All that combined with how his right arm is hanging unnaturally limp at his side tells her exactly who he is.

Chelle's eyes flit from his arm to his face. "I simply understand the norms of etiquette, General Bertrand."

"You know of me, then."

Delicately, she rests a gloved hand against her chest. "I would not dare come to Raywall without knowledge of the storied general who single-handedly leads its military."

General Bertrand Accardi, a war hero. Margrave, 47-years-old, and a widower with a daughter. Rose to prominence in the army after his superior officer literally lost his head in a battle, leaving him to take charge of the Alberian forces. Lost his wife, a field medic, in a surprise attack on a civilian refugee camp that left 200 Alberians dead—army and civilians alike.

This man has great reason to hate Grams and her grandfather. Beyond a shadow of a doubt, he is an enemy.

It wouldn't do to give him special attention at this moment, so she leans to the side to look at the other two, tapping her fan against her lips. "May I presume the esteemed patronages behind you are Secretary Constantin and Lady Doriane, Baroness of Bonnard?"

Secretary Constantin, Raywall's Minister of Housing and Development. 57-years-old. Cat Sìth brought her little on him; he's neither exceptional nor incompetent. Perhaps he could do better work if he had more resources, but he's close to retirement in any case.

"Your providence does you credit indeed," Lady Doriane remarks, "that you would study so diligently in an effort to secure a place in our good graces."

Lady Doriane, baroness of the minor House Bonnard. A socialite. 33-years-old. Married with two children.

Chelle unfurls her fan and hides her mouth behind it. "Oh, I've studied other things as well—including a young artist called Vincent."

She told herself she wasn't going to agitate anyone too badly, but this is just disgraceful.

Doriane goes pale and furls her fan. She clenches it so tightly that Chelle wonders if it just might snap. "I— I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about."

Poor thing. Maybe she needs her memory jogged. "He is said to be a young and nameless artist, though of late I hear he built an atelier most grand. You are unfamiliar?"

It's faint, but Chelle hears the creak of wood being pushed to its limit; Doriane swallows. "Most unfamiliar."

"Goodness, is that so?" Chelle puts a hand on her cheek, brow furrowed. "It was my understanding that you frequented the young man's workshop, Baroness." Her eyes narrow. "As recently as last afternoon, even."

Any info is good to have, but it's also not Chelle's business which noble sleeps with who. Plenty are in contractual relationships and have agreements to not interfere with one another's paramours. Many of these illicit relationships are open secrets, or just public in general.

The problem here with Doriane—what makes this little bit of info so juicy it's disgusting—is that Doriane married for love. By all accounts, she is happy with the notoriously adoring Baron Bonnard.

Poor, poor Doriane goes a few shades whiter. "How could you know that?"

Cutely, Chelle plays with a loose strand of golden hair. "Perhaps it would do to say that a curious little kitten whispered it to me in passing."

Doriane's eyes are so wide, they might pop out. She remains speechless, as do her two companions for a moment.

"Intimidation through blackmail hardly befits one of your standing, Princess," Bertrand eventually says. He crosses his valid arm across his chest and glares down at her.

How interesting. Here Chelle is, having all but revealed the "happily married" baroness's salacious affair with a nameless artist a decade younger than her. What the secretary and general are upset at right now isn't that, however, but rather Chelle.

So they're loyal to one another.

"And such words hardly befit a general," Chelle refutes. "Perhaps you are the sort who charges into battle without a strategy or plan?" At his narrowing eyes and clenching jaw, she presses her lips behind her fan and continues. "If you are one to lead such an army, I would be better served to take the tales of Raywall's great military with a grain of salt—or even the entire shaker."

"I say!" cries Secretary Constantin, finally picking up his jaw. "Princess or no, I will not tolerate such contempt for Raywall!"

Loyal to their territory as well, but that she anticipated.

"I am showing no contempt at all! Merely discussing a hypothetical." Chelle lowers her fan and uses it to gesture to Bertrand. "If the army is not, in fact, a band of feckless warriors, then I am certain its general would understand the way in which I choose to do battle."

Bertrand is still glaring, but oddly enough, the contempt on his face hasn't grown. If anything, he just looks a bit backed into a corner. Maybe Chelle should've gone a touch easier on him, especially considering she doesn't want to ruffle feathers beyond repair. If there's one thing she can't abide though, it's the assumption that the only way to fight is by swinging a pointy stick around. If Bertrand needs to be taught that, then she'll play tutor.

"Alright, alright. I think that's enough 'enthusiasm' for one day, my friends."

Secretary Constantin and Lady Dorian instantly bow at the sound of the voice, but Bertrand remains upright. He turns his single eye towards the newcomer. "Marquis."

Chelle's heart flies into her throat.

The man approaching looks only a handful of years older than her, which makes him a good deal younger than most of her previous suitors. He's tallish, with well-constructed features and soft eyes the shade of unblemished midnight. Though his clothes are mostly unadorned, they're profoundly elegant: a sharp black suit and blue half-cape trimmed with silver. The neck cloth he's wearing is pure white, tucked into his waistcoat, and fastened with a plain silver brooch.

She has to admit, he's... passably handsome.

He stops at the edge of their quartet, regards Chelle—looking her right in the eye, even—and then smiles and bows deeply. "A pleasure to meet you, Princess Chelle. I am Marquis Elua Raywall, but I pray you do me the honor of just calling me Elua. I suspect you already know of me?"

Fine. He's passably handsome and has appropriate manners. That doesn't mean Chelle's forgotten how he didn't show up to see her on the day she arrived, nor the days after, and how she had to wait around to be summoned before she got to lay eyes on him. It doesn't exactly show an appropriate amount of care or consideration for one's wife-to-be.

"Most certainly," Chelle replies, sickeningly sweet, "though it casts a decidedly different shade in memory having been greeted in person versus having not. For example, one might modify their petting of a kitten if it were baring its fangs, no?"

Elua's soft eyes take on something like a... sad look? "Gracious me, it seems as though the others here may have carelessly stepped on a dragon's tail."

All Chelle does is smile and hold back a, You did too, buddy.

"It would seem so," Bertrand interjects. He regards her again, and though his lip twitches with visible frustration, he says, "I apologize for my impropriety, Your Highness."

Chelle's been given fake apologies too many times to count in her 20 years, but oddly enough, this doesn't reek of disingenuity. It's not wholly apologetic, but it's better than anything she could've expected.

In turn, she lowers her head. "Not at all, General. I myself have on occasion been known to take things too far—let us simply say that there has been impropriety on both our behalves."

By now, Constantin and Doriane have excused themselves. Bertrand turns as if to follow them into the thick of the crowd, but he pauses and casts one more long look at Chelle. "I would have you bear in mind that our feelings towards the royal family are... complicated." He gives a solid nod, only somewhat respectful. "If you will please excuse me."

His eye lingers on her a moment while he turns, and Chelle realizes that, ah, despite the way he stopped fighting her, despite the apology: this man despises her. Or rather, he despises Grandfather's blood in her veins. But if it's just because of that—not because of anything she did or anything someone said—maybe that is workable.

"Permit me to greet you once more, Your Highness—or perhaps I simply ought to call you my betrothed?"

The sitting room just down the hall is quaint, but in a good way; it's small and intimate. Chelle catches the scent of citrusy cleaning product in the room, along with a whiff of furniture polish. Similarly to the ballroom, Elua must've had it cleaned up just for this evening. The fact that there are two glasses, a bottle of wine, and canapés on the table indicate he prepared things especially for her.

At Elua's friendly smile and gesture towards the couch, Chelle takes a seat and places her hands in her lap. A smile in return is the most appropriate thing, so she forces one. "The honor is mine, dear fiancé." Delicately, subtly, she grips the fabric of her skirt and softens her expression. "Ah, but my heart has been aflutter, wondering what sort of man my husband-in-waiting might turn out to be."

Elua takes a seat next to her. Close enough to be friendly, but still an appropriate distance for an unmarried couple. Again, he smiles. "And what are your impressions now that you have beheld the man in person?"

Marquis Elua Raywall is a scholarly type, having studied at and graduated from numerous respected universities. He's also supposedly on the gentler side. Even if she hadn't studied that, she could've inferred it about him at a glance: Elua is a touch taller than average, but not built or sturdy-looking. Everything about him is soft, from the gentle curve of his midnight eyes to the waves of his grayish-brown hair tied over his shoulder. A pair of thin, round glasses are perched on his nose. Looks aside, he has a soft manner of speech and apparently knows how to enter and smoothly defuse a situation.

"They are positive indeed," Chelle tells him. "Beyond that... Well, we shall simply have to see how things develop in the days to come."

First impressions are the most deceiving things of all. Elua may seem mild now, but there's about two months till the wedding. She can find out a lot of things about a person in two months. If Elua has vices—be it gambling, violence, sex—she'll dig them up faster than he can blink.

She can also dig up if he's still seeing that old fiancée of his or not.

"And what are your impressions of me?" she asks.

There's a lot for Elua to pick from, so she's curious. In the eyes of this man who has only met her through articles written in the capital's papers, what type of woman is she? Just how far have the words of Sol Alberia's high society spread?

"I am intrigued."

Not afraid? she narrowly holds back.

"If you will forgive me a bit of bluntness," he continues, "I had heard you were a rather self-absorbed princess, and was surprised this union was allowed to proceed."

So "self-absorbed" is what reached his ears? Pretty tame, but is he just humoring her? Being polite and not letting on how much he knows? It's possible, but also a hasty conclusion at this point.

Chelle tilts her head. "You suspected I would never have acceded to a political marriage?"

"I did. When I wrote your father asking him to entertain the idea, I expected a swift refusal—if my proposal did not merely wind up untouched in a pile of many others, that is. However, as it was decided with a surprising degree of readiness, I felt you may be the type who sets aside her own happiness for that of her house."

Elua is smiling at her. At this distance, she can see thin lines at the corners of his eyes; he must smile a lot. As with many other things, it's hard to say at this point if that's because he's jovial, or if it's because he's gotten used to smiling as required. Keeping this city afloat surely requires a bit of self-masking, after all.

Chelle lightly fans herself while Elua pops the cork off the wine bottle and starts pouring. The drink is a deep, deep red. She can already smell the alcohol's strength. Father always asked her to never drink something so heavy, especially never outside the palace, but she's a woman striking out on her own now. She can't afford to be rude, so she takes the stem of the offered glass and peers at Elua over her fan, waiting for him to have the first sip.

After he has a drink, she brings her cup to her lips and says, "Though I might be royalty, in the end I am little more than a bird in a gilded cage."

"So I thought—but your recent exchange has made me reconsider."

Elua has another drink of the wine, but makes the slightest hint of a face as he swallows. When Chelle wordlessly puts her glass aside, he follows suit with some relief showing in his shoulders. He brushes his bangs to the side and returns his focus to her. "It made me feel as though you are indeed a woman who knows the meaning of nobility—and of being waited upon."

"My. Whatever do you mean, sir?"

He studies her, so intently she nearly squirms. Though it's not proper posture, he leans forward, elbows on his knees, and props his chin against two fingers while he looks at her. It's scholarly interest, she tells herself, and that's why he's looking so much. Even so, she finds herself wondering if her makeup is smudged or her hair askew.

"This is but a theory of mine," he begins. "But I see nobility as something not decided by those above, but those below."

Chelle pauses and blinks.

"It is only because our vassals and the people acknowledge us as noble that aristocrats can be noble. And to perpetuate that, we must protect them while maintaining an environment in which they can readily recognize our nobility," Elua continues. "One such method is political marriage. I imagine your understanding of that fact led you to acquiesce."

How funny.

He's right. About everything. So right—so on the head with the way she thinks—that she can't help but wonder if he sent someone to observe her. But that's nonsense, because Chelle doesn't wax philosophical with many people, much less over a topic that would so readily rile. Maybe entirely by coincidence, he has her philosophy down pat:

Nobody is born "superior." If one were to stick a noble man and a common man like pigs and watch them bleed, the noble's blood would not be blue. Everyone bleeds the same, dies the same. Rots the same.

And as for why she said yes to the marriage? He's not wrong there, either. Political unions are the oldest trick in the book. There are few better ways to prove to people that those higher on the social ladder are looking out for them than to enter bland relationships for the sake of land, wealth, peace—for the people's sakes as a whole.

So he's not wrong.

"All this time, Lord Elua, I have had a thought: what an efficient thing, political marriage!"

He's not wrong.

"So efficient, I think, that there is no better method for manipulating both popular and political sentiment."

There is nothing else.

Elua's eyes light up like a child's on Dragonyule morning. "Precisely! And nobility is, by nature, meaningless. People do not inherently have degrees of value, yet we impose rank upon them, and so nobility is born."

"Just so." Chelle lowers her head, a smile playing on her lips. "And to ascribe value to so empty a thing, we've no avenue other than to humor, soothe, and distract."

It's maybe a little endearing how excited he seems to be getting. She's seen Phares get like this before, those times he's come across another scholar with similar ideas on his most recent research topic.

Elua leans forward far more than is polite, a hand braced on the couch between them. He's getting too close; Chelle stiffens against the urge to flinch. "Indeed, those of noble rank must soothe the people so they might welcome such palliatives with gladness in their hearts. Avoiding what is necessary to accomplish that puts one worlds apart from the notion of nobility!"

Yes, he is funny indeed.

After a moment of lightly fanning herself and soaking in the brightness Elua exudes, Chelle starts to giggle. A stronger laugh follows it shortly—she's glad she has her fan to hide the long, razor-sharp tips of her canines from peeking out as she laughs in full.

"Princess Chelle?"

Chelle swipes an amused tear from the corner of her eye. "I confess, despite my interest in Marquis Raywall, I have had little interest in you, Lord Elua. Yet this conversation has set my opinion in quite the opposite direction."

He looks both pleased and somewhat sheepish as he leans back. "I trust I may take that as praise?"

"You may." Smiling, Chelle fans a couple stray hairs from her face. "Ah, it seems as though I may like this city far more than I anticipated."

She gazes at him, still picking apart any potential malice or secrecy beneath that gentle face. There has to be something, since everyone has something they don't want to surface, but perhaps it's nothing as vile as what she was prepared for. Elua seems philosophically-aligned with her, and what's more, he seems... civil.

First impressions are the most deceiving things of all, but perhaps she can entertain the thought of Elua surprising her.

And perhaps—no, hopefully—she can entertain the thought of letting him shroud those sky blue eyes in her memory.

"...And perhaps I will like you more than I anticipated, Lord Elua."

Chapter Text

After meeting Elua, Chelle determined that she would have a long, hard think about how to further endear herself to him. She determined she would sit by the hearth, perhaps busy her hands with some embroidery, and take the time to consider what Elua might want from her: A wilting flower? A lioness? A scholar?

If he were to give her some time, she could do surveillance on Princess Yelda of Fadden and adopt some of her mannerisms.

There are choices to be made, but Elua gives her no time to consider anything. A mere day after the party, he invites himself over for tea. It's not shocking, since there is pressing business for them to hash out. However, as she gazes at the clock from her seat at the vanity, she notes that it's only been 12 hours since the party ended.

Yeah. She's bone-tired.

Peter fusses with her hair while she applies makeup. Her complexion says nothing good about the sleep she got last night, but she knows how to work with that. With precise hands, she smooths foundation over her cheeks, covers her dark circles, and adds a touch of color to her face.

It would be nice if she could reject Elua's visit and sleep in. However, as his absence for her first few days in Raywall colored her view of him, so could her rejecting his very first visit color his of her. It would be dangerous; at the end of the day, Chelle needs Elua to accept her more than she needs rest.

Besides, if she were to refuse him less than a day after their first meeting, she can just imagine the types of things that would fly around court:

The princess thinks she's too good for Raywall.

The princess is just here for show.

The princess is plotting against us, I'm sure of it!

It's a damn headache to think about. Better to stop it before it starts.

"Are you certain you do not want an escort, my lady?" Peter asks.

Chelle sets a mascara tube down on the vanity. "An escort will not be necessary," she replies. "If my lord and I were having a normal courtship, one would not be amiss. However, as we are to be married shortly, I think it would be best for us to acclimate to one another with as little interference as possible."

It'll be easier to read him one-on-one, too.

Peter pulls her golden tresses back and fiddles with the strands, seemingly trying to decide whether it looks better down or up. "Be that as it may—"

"On a more serious note," she interrupts, "we will be discussing the specifics of my father's assignment." Chelle picks a style for him, gently taking her hair out of his hands and smoothing it down. "We ought to be alone for that."

"But— No, you're right. Of course you are." Peter helps fluff her hair a touch before selecting a red headband—the exact shade as the dress she's picked—from an assortment of accessories on the vanity. With care, he tucks it behind her ears and ensures not a hair is out of place. "Will you at least let me escort you to the gardens?"

"If you insist, Mother Hen."

Chelle stands from the bench and leans forward to give herself a final check in the mirror. She adjusts the white collar of her dress, ensuring it's straight and the ribbon fluffy. Once done, she takes a matching parasol out of Peter's hands and uses it to give Cat Sìth a tap as she passes her on the bed. "Come now, dear. You were the one begging to join this morning."

Cat Sìth rouses from her nap with a very unhappy grumble. Her voice is thick with sleep and she barely works out, "I'll come down later, when mew need me..." before shutting her eyes again.

"Sleepyhead," Chelle scolds. But a tired cat is a grumpy cat, so she leaves her be. If she misses the entirety of the meeting, that's her own fault.

As she follows Peter through the halls, she takes note of how diligent the mansion's staff is being today. They've hardly done the bare minimum since she showed up, but the second Alistair informed them Elua would be coming around, they transformed into workhorses. Some maids pass her as she steps outside; she hears them chattering about the marquis. They look happy.

And like he promised, Elua is sitting in the gardens when she arrives at 11 sharp. He's having what looks like a rather serious conversation with Alistair. When he sees her from the corner of his eye, he stops, grins, and offers a wave. Alistair looks displeased to see her in contrast; she assumes looking at someone like they're cat vomit is as rude in Raywall as it is in Sol Alberia.

Given that he's the attendant to House Raywall, Chelle would truthfully prefer to get along with Alistair. He's not an insignificant person, and he seems to have Elua's ear. At the same time, Chelle's decided she doesn't care a lick for Alistair either, so if he wants to give her dirty looks for the time being, fine. She'll have ample time to change his mind anyway.

"My lord Elua." Chelle stops at the table side and offers Elua a polite curtsy. "How fine to see you today. My heart ached being apart from you for long."

Elua laughs like she's cracked a joke—so he's not one for sweet, empty flattery. Noted. "None of that, Princess. I should like to think clichés will not be required between us." He gestures to the garden chair across from him. "If you please, have a seat."

Chelle takes him up on the offer and sits carefully, so as not to rumple her skirt. The sun is out, but the shade the manor casts at this time of day keeps the rays from dwelling on her. She rests her parasol against the side of her chair, settles her hands in her lap, and puts a happy face on for Elua.

"Alistair, you are dismissed," Elua says. "Thank you very much for setting up the tea. I will let you know when we've finished."

Alistair has the decency to not look at her with too much vitriol while Elua is watching. He nods, gives her a look, and heads off towards the manor.

Peter lingers behind her chair expectantly, so Chelle lifts a hand to gesture at him and says, "This man was my mother's personal servant and has served me diligently since her passing. He wished to meet you however briefly; I do hope you shall indulge us."

Unbidden, Elua stands and—to Chelle's surprise—bows quite low. "It is good to meet you. Thank you for taking good care of the princess."

She expected the man to offer a nod, not to stand and bow. The only other person she knows to have lowered himself before her treasured attendant is—

Chelle taps a foot on the ground and shakes the thought out of her head.

"You honor me thoroughly, Marquis Raywall," Peter exclaims brightly. "I think the princess has finally met a man with manners!"

Elua has another laugh and sits back down. "Surely the princess's past has not been so fraught with those who cannot bow to a fellow gentleman?"

Oh, if only you knew the half of it.

"They have been few and far between," Chelle interjects. "But I wish to not dwell on such scoundrels." With her most charming smile—the one she's designed to make hearts skip beats—she tilts her head at Elua. The sun washes down on her just right, turning her hair pure gold. "I would much rather focus on the man in front of me."

Elua turns pink and coughs into his fist. Empty flattery doesn't work, but soft flirtation does. Also noted.

Chelle waves Peter away, quite pleased with the blush she's produced on Elua's face. "You may leave us now, dear Peter. Do take a nap or such while I'm occupied."

The way he looks pleased even while he walks off does admittedly lift her mood. She's known Peter to always look grumpy in the presence of a suitor. Elua just may be the first he's looked even mildly approving of. It's not like Peter is the pinnacle of a judge of character, but her mother trusted him. It means something.

While Elua recovers, Chelle scans the table. It's standard teatime fare, but savory. There's a pot of tea and two already-filled cups that smell like something herbal—a rooibos, maybe. The kitchen has selected canapés to pair, some of which are topped with fish. Those ones look especially good, but Cat Sìth will want them; Chelle makes a mental note to leave them be.

"We did not get to have any sort of actual talk last evening," Elua eventually says. "I'm embarrassed to admit I got so swept up in my excitement of meeting someone like-minded that I lost my manners."

Chelle takes the initiative to start teatime and picks up her saucer and cup. The tea is rooibos indeed, with a hint of lemon for freshness. She enjoys the scent for a moment before regarding Elua over the cup's edge. "Is the court of Raywall not favorably disposed to your ideas of nobility?"

"A question answered with a question: are those in Sol Alberia favorably disposed to yours?"

No. But that's mostly because people in Sol Alberia aren't favorably disposed to her generally.

"I suppose not." She sips the tea and finds it unfortunately weak. "People dislike being told that noble status is not inherent superiority."

"I would not name Raywall's court exceptionally haughty," Elua defends. "But, well. Nobles are nobles."

"Quite."

The conversation falls on its face.

Silence doesn't bother Chelle, but she is used to it being filled. Her suitors are rarely lacking for words, and she has been regaled time and time again with overexaggerated tales of valor and unnecessarily detailed descriptions of wealth and power. Curiously, Elua doesn't seem inclined to such empty boasts.

"Forgive me," Elua says after a time, ducking his head. "I am more of a scholar than a conversationalist. I fear philosophy is most of what I have to offer."

"I do not detest silence, so long as you keep it comfortable," she replies. "And that means if you have something to say, say it. If you have nothing, don't." She picks up a teaspoon and swirls the tea in her cup, brow arched. "Do you have anything to say?"

Elua sets his cup down with a hum. He tucks a strand of wavy hair behind his ear. "Then, I suppose I want to know—"

How she will catch the war faction? What tools she's brought? If she has any suspects on her list already? Chelle all but has a presentation ready to go.

"—what you do in your free time."

Abruptly, Chelle stops stirring. "Come again, my lord?"

"We are to be partners in this investigation," Elua reminds. "What sort of team will we be if we have zero rapport?" Her silence must be making him antsy, because he continues. "I shall go first. I enjoy reading, horseback riding, sketching... and I suppose I despise exercise and cooking."

"Uh." Chelle shakes her head and asks herself when, if ever, a suitor last told her what he actually likes doing rather than bragging about what a splendid royal consort he'd make. She taps the teaspoon lightly on her cup's edge and wonders how on the goddess's green earth she's supposed to reply. "I... see."

What does he want her to say? Something about books, maybe. Or maybe not? Would something distinct from his own interests catch his eye more?

There's no doubt Elua catches her floundering, but he doesn't get upset. Rather: "I am told you are keeping two horses in the stables here. Do you also ride?"

"Hors—? Oh, yes," she breathes, relieved. "Yes. I have more that will be sent after the wedding, but I brought my two favorites with me: Calliope, who I most often ride, and also Onyx. If you would like, w—" Chelle stops abruptly and clears her throat. "My father was fond of horses, so he taught me to ride when I was small."

"So you like horses." Elua cants his head. "What else?"

"I... like..." Chelle falls silent and stares at her wobbling reflection in the tea. "I do blend tea. My older brother said I have talent for it."

"Crown Prince Leonidas? I have met the man once or twice, and I did not take him as one to give... compliments."

"Oh, no. My brother Phares. I am—was—quite close to him."

Elua picks up a cheese and arugula canapé from the tiered tray and offers it. "What is it like having so many siblings? There are seven of you, correct?"

This is now definitely weird.

She assumed they would be talking about the war faction and what plans she has to stop them. If not that, then she thought they'd discuss wedding preparations at least. She did not think he was going to ask about her, and she did not think he was going to offer her an hors d'oeuvres by hand.

"Eight of us," she replies nonetheless. "One of my younger brothers passed at birth, but he ought count." Realizing he's making him wait for way too long, Chelle takes the canapé and regards it with mild wonder. "And some of us are half-siblings, you know."

"Oh?"

"The late queen gave birth to my older brothers and I. My brother Valyx's mother is a foreign diplomat, and the younger children were borne to my late stepmother." Chelle knows she should stop talking, but it's easy when she gets going about everyone—it's always been a flaw. "The littlest ones are twins, so of course they are close. The rest of us are so busy with royal duties that, as we got older, we just..."

Chelle disobeys every last etiquette lesson she's ever had by stuffing the whole canapé in her mouth.

"Even if you are no longer close, it sounds quite exciting to have so many siblings," Elua remarks, eyes bright.

Sure. Leonidas doesn't write anymore, Phares is always researching, Valyx keeps busy on the training grounds, Emile coops up in his room, and the twins scarcely look at anyone but each other and their little fairy friend anymore.

Exciting.

"My parents didn't get along," he carries on. "So, I was an only child. My maternal aunt does have a son, however. We wound up close as brothers."

She covers her mouth and swallows. "Duke Anister, correct?"

Elua's eyes crinkle adorably when he smiles. "Ah, you studied!"

"I would be remiss to not know who my future in-laws are."

"Well, I hope you and Lewyn will get along. He is often busy, so it may be you don't meet for a time."

"So be it. Besides." Chelle picks up another canapé from the tray, grabs her parasol, and stands. Finally, a segue into business. "We will be quite busy anyhow."

"You are positive no one will hear us here?"

"I specifically instructed the gardeners be away, and we would easily see a spy."

He's right—the manor's gardens are pretty, but modest. With bushes barely taller than her knee and no massive, leafy trees, there's nowhere a spy could hide. Besides that, Chelle doesn't catch any unfamiliar scent through the flowers. There also aren't any sounds that would indicate a tail, like snapping twigs or the gentle squeak of fresh grass underfoot. Still, because wariness is a virtue, she casts a final look around.

No one.

Chelle tilts her parasol to the side, ensuring she doesn't whack Elua in the head while they walk arm-in-arm. If someone were to see them from a distance, she imagines they'd look like a noble couple getting to know one another before their wedding; not anti-war conspirators sworn to secrecy by the king.

"I can tell you are a woman who dislikes beating around the bush, so what say we get right into it?"

She ducks her head. "Can you tell me the status of the war movement and the city's relationship with Grams?"

"I became marquis at a young age, after my father fell in the war," Elua begins, sounding like he too prepared a presentation. "Much of my policies have been focused on keeping your father's armistice and nurturing our relationship with Grams. As it stands, things are not so bad."

"'Not so bad?' How positively inspiring."

"Well, the diplomats not throwing themselves over the table and attempting to claw one another's eyes out is the very definition of 'not so bad,' were you to ask me."

Chelle allows a tiny smile.

"But there is no trade between us," he says, "and unfortunately, that extends to other northern nations as well."

"Could that be Grams' influence?" she questions. "The rest of Alberia trades with the north where applicable."

Elua shakes his head. "It is poisoned sentiment towards Raywall. Grams pushed many of their neighbors into sending manpower; hence, many of those countries' people fell at our hands. They are not overly hostile, but especially given that Raywall no longer has much to offer by way of trade, the avenues to harmony seem all but closed."

"I see." Chelle stops to gaze at a patch of tulips and does her very best to appear casual; like she is nothing more than a bride marveling at her new surroundings. "So northern bias towards this territory stands strong."

"Alas. No hostility, but no warmth."

"And Raywall has open communications with Grams?"

"Yes, Your Highness. In fact, one of their military officials and a famed priestess will be here for the wedding."

Chelle turns her eyes up to him, eyebrows raised. "Gramsian officials at the wedding of an Alberian royal and Marquis Raywall?"

He smiles warmly and starts walking again, urging her past the tulips. "I know how to pull a few strings."

"And the guests?"

"Duke Caspar, a leader of Grams' anti-war faction, and Priestess Aurelia, a holy woman who rose to prominence in the slums."

"An anti-war duke and a priestess of the people," she muses. "It certainly is not the king or his sons, but do color me impressed, my lord." Chelle peers out from her parasol upwards. Raywall's light blue sky really is shockingly beautiful. "So we will have Gramsians at our wedding and our countries' diplomats don't attempt to murder one another on sight. I suppose that truly is 'not so bad.'"

"Ah, come this way. The camellia bushes here were my mother's favorites."

Elua takes her around a hedge and down a small set of steps to a lower tier of the garden, complete with tall bushes and a fountain. The lemony scent of camellias flows over her. The flowers are in bloom and beautiful indeed; the entire area is nice, but its greatest value is that it looks exceedingly private. A good place to get to the meat of things.

"As for the war faction on our side—" Elua begins, but she cuts him off.

"I am given to understand that General Bertrand Accardi is unashamedly pro-war," Chelle finishes. "He all but spearheads the sentiment in the city, no?"

He drops her arm and sighs, like the mere mention of Bertrand is enough to tire him out. He crosses the small courtyard and regards a tall bush of scarlet camellias, arms behind his back. "Yes. But I suppose it is a testament to his honor that nothing has arisen from his political views, even though he leads the entire military force."

Chelle stares into the fountain's water, which is dotted with floating petals. "So General Bertrand wants war, but isn't willing to go rogue and start it himself. Still, the danger remains: the second someone on either side gives him reason, he will have the army calling for Grams' blood." She turns her neck to gaze at Elua's back. "I hear that Secretary Faucigny is also notably hostile towards Grams and quite powerful in your court. Could he possibly corroborate with Bertrand?"

Like this is funny, Elua snorts. "The Minister of Finance and our general would be a deadly pairing, except that Faucigny despises Bertrand."

"Could that not be a cover to allay suspicion?"

"I have seen those two come to physical blows more times than I can count, Highness. Unless this cover of theirs has stretched over a decade, I can confidently say 'no.'"

"Then we shall count our blessings on the matter."

Elua shifts and regards her with those midnight eyes. He tilts his head forward slightly. A lock of his grayish-brown hair falls over his shoulder. "And if my lady will allow me a question, may I ask what it is about you that made your royal father so confident?"

She touches her chin with a curved finger and blinks.

"Your father did not send you here just for marriage," he elaborates. "Surely the king picked you to weed out the saber-rattlers for a reason. But, forgive me, I fear I have heard little of you beyond..."

"Oh? Beyond what?"

Unwilling to finish, Elua shakes his head.

No matter.

With an elegant movement, Chelle folds her parasol and sets it down on a stone bench. She crosses her arms and studies Elua, wondering: how much should she reveal? Is he fully trustworthy? If she shows her cards, does that make her vulnerable to him in some way?

"Princess?"

Well, like he said, zero rapport makes for a poor team.

Chelle unfolds an arm and waves her hand, curling her fingers upwards. A stream of purple mana, thick as fog, wafts off her palm and drifts to the ground. It puffs up when it hits the stone, lingers, and then starts forming a shape. Vague at first, and then more distinct as a lithe little body forms, followed by a long tail, four legs, and perky ears.

The little wisp stretches, rear up and front legs all the way out. When done, it hops up onto the bench next to the parasol. The fog-like mana washes away from it. Left in its place is a cat: a perfectly normal-looking cat, with silky gray fur and big green eyes. Chelle looks at the kitten, then at Elua.

Elua stares blankly at the cat, then at her, then points to it. "That's a cat."

"An astute observation, Lord Scholar."

He flushes pink. "Well, obviously it's a cat, but I mean— I mean, you just created it from...?"

"Out of mana." She nods at the kitten. "Give her a pet. She won't bite."

Understandably, he hesitates. Creating a living being out of mana is impossible after all—the gift of that kind of creation isn't bestowed to mortals, dragonblood or no. But after a moment, he works up his courage and approaches the cat stiffly, hand outstretched and a thin bead of sweat working down his temple. The cat tilts its head at him and leans forward for the incoming pat.

Elua's touch passes straight through it.

He snatches his hand back, clutching his wrist, and splutters.

Chelle laughs behind her fingers. "Did my lord think it was real? Oh dear!"

"Well, what was I to think?" he protests. "You made a cat appear out of some manner of fog! That defies most logic, even by the standards of magic."

"Alas, your wife-to-be is no god." Chelle sweeps her red skirts in front of her and perches on the bench next to her new friend. The kitten jumps into her lap and nuzzles the hand she offers. "Adorable, yes?"

"Uh. Very. Now... will you explain what that is, and why it is relevant?"

The kitten purrs when Chelle scoops it up and brushes her cheek over its furry head. She lowers it back into her lap and strokes its cloud-soft fur. "This is a little trick granted via my pact. Through Cat Sìth's abilities and utilizing my native mana, I am able to create these adorable kittens by the score and send them anywhere I please."

"Pardon, but I still do not follow how that is... useful."

Chelle croons to the kitten before leveling a sharp look at him. "My lord names himself an intellectual. Perhaps he can think a tad harder? I promise, you will find the answer obvious."

Elua crosses his arms and blinks. Deep in thought, he stares at the ground for a minute, then two, then three while she strokes the purring kitten. Eventually, he looks back up at her. "You told Lady Doriane that 'a kitten' had whispered news of her affair to you in passing."

It would've been better if he'd gotten it immediately, but three minutes isn't bad.

She cradles the kitten belly up and stands from the bench. As though it were a real cat, it chatters and swats at a butterfly drifting by. "I did. And I spoke literally. These darlings are my own personal intelligence network, you see."

Chelle says "intelligence network," but it's not like she's ever used them for anything as major as stopping an international conflict. Mostly, she's used her kittens to just... get dirt. Which nobles are having affairs, who is abusing their territory, what person is spreading which rumors. The tiniest whisper of a scandal from her kittens has saved her from peril in high society many times.

Some may call that blackmail, and they are free to do so. Chelle calls it survival.

"That is..."

Creepy? Invasive? She's heard it all by now.

"Fascinating!"

Except that one.

Elua strides forward, a hand threaded through his bangs, eyes fixed firmly on her kitten. He reaches out as though to touch it, apparently remembers he can't, and instead settles for looking at it from this angle and that. Chelle hopes the flush on her cheeks isn't visible, or else that he's too busy observing her friend.

"So, how does it work? You seem able to touch them just fine. Can they communicate via human speech, or is it only you and your pactwyrm who can understand them? Do they even communicate information verbally? Is it more of a psychic link that places the information into your conscious?"

"Um, well." Chelle steps away, a sweat starting on the back of her neck. "It's... a cat. So we do not communicate verbally."

"I see, so my psychic link theory holds water!"

"Yes, somewhat. It's a little much to explain, but—"

"Please, I would be fascinated to hear all of it!"

Chelle takes a deep breath and looks down at the kitten snuggling her chest. She rubs its cheek with the back of her fingers. "They are my own mana, so I can 'reabsorb' information from them if we are in close proximity. If the kitten is at a distance, it conveys the information to Cat Sìth, who then conveys it to me."

"Fascinating," he repeats, eyes still on the kitten. "Could I receive information from it?"

"No. I can only create and interact with it due to my pact. To an outsider, this is merely a cat they cannot touch."

"Then that protects the information from being compromised. What a watertight network." He nods and steps back. "Those being spied upon would never know. Who takes notice of a stray cat, after all?"

Before he launches into another question, Chelle thrusts a hand out at him. "Before you ask, the information just... appears in my mind. It's difficult to explain, so don't bother asking for details. I assure you, writing an academic paper on it would be a nightmare."

"I— I see. A shame." Elua backs away, visibly disappointed when the kitten leaps out of her arms and disappears into a puff, as though it never existed at all. "But I am now seeing why your father sent you out of all your brothers."

"The fact you asked for my hand didn't hurt either, now did it?"

He carries on like she said nothing. "With this tool at our disposal, I am sure bringing down the war faction will be a simple task. Provided we can point these... 'kittens' in the right direction, then—"

"Then it should be easy to stop their plans before they even happen—or to even catch them in the act," Chelle replies. Her stomach turning, she says, "And the sooner we finish this pesky business, the sooner we can focus solely on the wedding."

She didn't expect Elua to start chattering about bouquets and color schemes, but she has to admit: the way he does not reply—the way he has not replied to anything beyond vague mentions of the wedding all day—and only stares at the ground where her kitten was, a pensive expression on his face, sits far too heavy in her stomach.

Chapter Text

"Chelle?"

Chelle blinks twice. She turns her eyes from the far wall of the sitting room to Cat Sìth. "What?"

A week after her welcoming party, Elua has organized a grander affair. But despite the night's importance, Cat Sìth doesn't look particularly nervous from her comfy place on a couch. She looks so calm and collected, in fact, that Chelle half-expects her to ask about the party's sardine arrangement instead of something meaningful. There were many bitter complaints about the lack of them at last week's event, so this time around, Chelle made sure to ask Elua to ensure their presence among the party food. Hopefully they'll make Cat Sìth happy enough to keep her eye on Duke Caspar.

But Cat Sìth asks no such thing. She gets up, walks behind the couch Chelle is on, and rests her chin on its back. Her big, bright green eyes regard Chelle curiously, and her whiskers tickle Chelle's cheek. "Are mew nervous at all?"

Subtly—though, perhaps nothing she does can be subtle before the one to whom she is soulbound—Chelle grips the skirt of her dress. She looks perfect; of that, she's certain. Perfect makeup, perfect nails. Perfect hair, brushed to absolute glossiness and left down, but strung with golden threads. A perfect gown: lavender, trimmed with inky black fur at the neckline and bottom hem. Perfect evening gloves. A perfect fan to match.

Perfect all around, and perfection has no cause for worry.

Chelle scoffs. "What on earth would I have to be so nervous about?"

"Well, that marquis is about to formally announce you as his bride for the first time," Cat Sìth replies. "And in front of a crowd with Gramsians in it, no less. What makes mew so sure that one of their delegation won't lose their head and try to kill you?"

The grandfather clock in the waiting room ticks.

Elua asked her to stay here until a servant came for her so she could be announced properly once the party had already started. It's been thirty minutes, however, and the lengthening wait time isn't doing her heart rate any favors. She tells herself it's nothing. That someone will come for her soon.

Yet her eyes flick to the door. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she asks herself if the person who comes will have less-than-good intentions.

If she's just a sitting duck.

"You know as well as I do that no one from the delegation will try such a thing," she says. "We've had a kitten in Grams since Father arranged our stay here, and it confirmed what my lord told us: these guests are staunch anti-war activists."

Cat Sìth scoffs right back at Chelle. "There is always a chance they will snap at the sight of mew. After all, you are the granddaughter of the man who ignited the war."

Unimpressed, Chelle presses her lips and glares from the corner of her eye.

"Mew never know! Perhaps one of them brought a knife."

"Cat—"

"And when you come close, they'll pull it out, and—!"

"Can you stop making it sound like you want me to get stabbed?" Chelle snaps.

As though that was just the reaction she was looking for—and it likely was—Cat Sìth laughs and lifts her head. Her eyes glitter smugly as she rounds the couch and sits next to Chelle. "So mew are nervous."

"No," she replies automatically. "I have enough information about the Gramsians that they don't scare me."

Cat Sìth's tail sweeps across the floor. Her mouth is still pulled into that thin smile; there's a knowing glint in her smiling eyes that Chelle detests. "Then it's being presented as that man's future wife, is it?"

Chelle's stomach does an idiotic flop. Her gut tightens and a wave of nausea spreads over her, but it's only that—a wave. It passes as quickly as it came. She composes herself and jabs Cat Sìth's fluffy chest with her fan. "Please. I am no child who becomes flustered at such things."

"But you did say the marriage was your primary reason for coming here, yes? Is it not natural to get what mew humans call 'butterflies' when your engagement is about to be formally announced?"

She is not nervous. Of course, she'll be standing in front of the entire court of Raywall and the Gramsian delegation, but Chelle has stood in front of larger crowds. The court of Sol Alberia is at least twice the size, and she's stood before them lots of times at parties, ceremonies, the like. She's had countless sets of eyes on her before, all studying and prying. The only thing different about this time is that she won't be next to her father and brothers, that's all.

She's going to stand up there all alone. Holding some strange man's hand.

All alone.

Without him.

"Chelle?"

Chelle abandons propriety to lean forward and snatch a crystal goblet of water from the table. There's no one here but Cat Sìth, so it's fine for her to knock it back like she's seen Leonidas knock back a whiskey. She could go for a whiskey, honestly. She's never had one before, but she's heard it burns in your chest so much, you can't even feel the weight of your own heart.

Cat Sìth clicks her tongue. "You'll have smudged your lipstick. Wait a moment."

With a sound bordering a gasp, Chelle leans forward after her drink, one hand close to her mouth. She blinks and studies the crystal. A ring of pink is left on the rim. Cat Sìth comes over, gingerly carrying the strap of her purse in her mouth. Chelle puts the glass aside to take it from her.

The bag has a lady's essentials: A handkerchief, extra makeup, a tiny comb, a compact, the wicked-looking knife Valyx gave her for her birthday last year. Chelle fishes out the compact and a tube of lipstick. Hands barely steady, she starts touching up her lips in the mirror.

Not a thing can be out of place. There can't be one single thing about her that can be preyed upon. Even something as innocent as smudged lipstick is spun into a fantastical story on the tongue of a skilled gossip.

The princess's lips are quite slovenly; do you suppose she pulled some boy into a closet?

If you ask me, it was that knight of hers. Poor man.

That's right, he's always on her heels. Come to think of it, I thought I saw the two of them go somewhere just an hour ago—

Chelle snaps the compact shut. She hears the delicate glass inside crack.

A knock at the door startles both of them. Without waiting for permission, Alistair enters the room. He looks unimpressed as Chelle fumbles to shove her broken compact and the lipstick back into her purse.

"The party is ready for you now, Highness," he informs.

Her hands are trembling all of a sudden, and that will not do. With her hand hidden in the purse, Chelle presses the tips of her nails into her palm as hard as she can. The glove cushions it, but she still feels a sharp sting of pain. She centers herself with that and puts the purse down on the table.

Cat Sìth is looking at her with an inscrutable expression. It's not worry, because Cat Sìth doesn't worry about her. That's not their relationship. That's not Chelle's relationship with anyone.

Chelle stands. If she had an attendant, knight or otherwise, they would take her hand and politely escort her to the party hall. She has no one to speak of, though, and she's sure Alistair would rather bite through his tongue and drown in his own blood before escorting her. So, she doesn't extend her hand. Instead, she gives Cat Sìth one last look over her shoulder as she follows him out the door.

The closer they grow to the ballroom, the more Chelle smells perfume, food, and people. It's all a bit strong, but nothing she can't handle. If a lady wishes to dwell on the battlefield, she must be accustomed to the typical fare of one.

Alistair doesn't say a word the entire way down the hall. His gaze is fixed straight ahead. He walks stiffly. Chelle narrows her eyes and looks his person up and down, but he doesn't appear to have a weapon on him. She can't smell anything like iron or steel, either. It would be idiotic to let her guard down, but the chances that Alistair will attack her seem low enough.

"Ah, there you are!"

Elua stands up from a bench against the wall and greets her with that charming grin. He looks sharp in his black suit, and perhaps even somewhat dashing—objectively speaking, of course—when he bows and holds out a hand to her. "I have been eagerly awaiting you, Princess."

Chelle's eyes flit from his hand, to him, then back to his hand. A second passes before she rests her fingers in his palm and offers a half-curtsy, as is appropriate. "It is good to see you again after our tea party, my lord."

He closes his fingers around her hand. His eyes glitter when their gazes touch, as though they're sharing a secret. Chelle supposes they are, in a way—their last meeting wasn't the tea party, but rather two days ago when they discussed Cat Sìth trailing Duke Caspar of the Gramsian delegation. No one but they themselves are meant to know about those little meetings.

"Alistair, thank you for bringing her," Elua says.

She doesn't wholly fancy the idea of thanking someone who looks like he wants to wring her neck 24/7, but Chelle is a lady, so she does with a curtsy and all. "Thank you for the escort, Mr. Alistair."

And as she anticipated, Alistair doesn't acknowledge her thanks. He only bows to Elua. "No thanks needed, Your Lordship. Should you need anything, I will be on the floor awaiting a command."

Chelle watches him disappear down the hall towards a servants' entrance. She must look unhappy, because Elua laughs abashedly.

"I hope you will forgive him his prickliness," he says. "Alistair was my father's lifelong attendant, you see, and... well. Father's passing hit hard."

She figured it was something like that. It seems to be the same story for most of the people in Raywall who have been showing her their cold shoulders. Lost lovers, children, parents, siblings, friends. Knowing it doesn't make her feel at ease, but she understands their feelings well.

With a small shake of her head, Chelle puts her hand back in Elua's and replies, "It is no bother."

They stand there a moment, face-to-face and hand-in-hand. Elua's hand is surprisingly warm, but not hot and sweaty. It's a pleasant warmth. Chelle feels light callouses on the sides of his fingers, perhaps from holding quills and penning documents.

Just as she's wondering what her hand might feel like to him, he says, "You are..."

Her eyes go up to his face. "I am what?"

Elua's gaze is locked on her wrist, but he pulls it away and meets hers. Half-heartedly, he smiles. "Sorry. I only wanted to say that your gloves are quite fine." He turns towards the large entry doors and gives her a very gentle pull forward. "We ought enter now. The guests await."

Panic wells in her stomach, but as with many things, Chelle takes that feeling, crumples it into a little ball, and shoves it down where it belongs. She sets her shoulders back, straightens her posture, and delicately rests her free hand in front of her stomach. Elua laughs a little, but before she can snap her eyes open and ask what he's laughing at—hair out of place, smudged mascara, errant clothes—he's knocking on the frame and the doors are opening.

Chelle takes a breath and lets Elua guide her inside.

"Presenting Marquis Elua Raywall and Princess Chelle Leona Esmé!"

A second ago, the ballroom was filled with jovial chattering. Now, it's so quiet that Chelle's sure she could hear a pin drop. Elua continues to guide her forward, their steps so loud, and when they halt at the top of the stairs, she opens her eyes.

There are hundreds of gazes on her.

Some of them are hostile. Some are curious. Some are disinterested. But as Chelle looks out at the crowd, she can see that not a single person is smiling anymore. Really, they may as well have announced that a wanted criminal just arrived at their party.

Chelle thinks of those dead lovers, children, friends.

Maybe that is what this is.

"My friends, thank you for coming tonight." Elua's voice is surprisingly clear and rings out in the ballroom. "We have not had a ball of this scale in some time, but we are graced with special guests this evening."

Some scoffs and grumbles catch Chelle's ears. Subtly, she scans the sea of people below and picks out a few particularly dissatisfied guests, whether their expressions are those of rage or exasperation. She'll have to be sure to commit them to memory.

"We are joined not only by Alberia's fair princess," he continues, gently squeezing and lifting her hand, "but also prominent figures from our neighbors in Grams."

The mumble that rises from the crowd is far more prominent this time. Chelle picks out the Gramsians easily from their clothes and the way people around them are scooting away. The delegates don't seem shocked or displeased at this blatant distaste for them—Chelle has to give them credit. There's also no one from either side whipping out a saber and crying glory for their country, so maybe things really are, as Elua put it, "not so bad."

Elua carries on without a single falter in his volume or tone, but the way his hand twitches in hers tells Chelle that he too noticed the palpable disdain. "And while I have you all here, I would also like to formally announce, with great pleasure and honor, my engagement to Princess Chelle."

The faces in the crowd shift from passing disdain to something stronger. Chelle's stomach has the audacity to flop around again, especially as someone from the back of the ballroom cries, "Sellout!" It's a faint cry, even to her ears, and Elua doesn't react. He must've not heard it clearly, if at all.

She'd like to keep it that way. The less doubt in him, the better.

Immediately after the accusatory half-shout, the reaction from the crowd picks up, as audible as the formal announcement of the Gramsians in their midst. Yet, it goes on for longer; a wave of frantic chatter sweeps over the people for a good few seconds before Elua raises a hand to ask for silence. The people give it reluctantly, but the fact that they give it at all tells her a good deal about Elua's reputation.

"I understand our tumultuous relationship with the royal family," Elua says. "But as Princess Chelle is to be the marchioness in a few short weeks, I ask you all show her courtesy and respect." He gives her hand another squeeze and takes a small step backwards. His voice is softer now, and only for her. "Would you like to say something, Princess?"

Chelle releases his hand and steps to the edge of the first stair. She sweeps her gaze over the entirety of the crowd, more intentionally this time. Their eyes seem even colder than they were a mere minute ago, as though the official announcement of her marriage into their society was a bridge too far. But, that's fine; Chelle has no need for warmth, so long as they can accept her here, however begrudgingly that is.

Even so, in the face of all the disdainful expressions—in the face of all those who lost lovers, children, and friends, the weight of those lives on her blood—Chelle fumbles. What should she say? What does she want to say?

No.

What do they want her to say?

Politely, Chelle lowers her head. "I am very pleased to be here in fair Raywall, and I could not be more elated to marry into the marquisate. It is my firm belief that with the myriad efforts all in attendance have given over the course of so long, this beloved city will soon return to halcyon days."

Short and to the point so they don't have to hear her for long. Placing glory and effort at their feet, rather than talking overmuch about herself. This should be acceptable.

Or, at the very least, that is what she hopes.

Chelle picks up her skirts and offers the crowd a curtsy, if only to avoid those hundreds of eyes for just a second.

Chapter Text

The second Elua leaves her to attend to another matter, bootlickers come crawling in droves. Chelle doesn't get a moment to herself before a small crowd has formed around her. It's a stark contrast to the welcoming party—maybe now that she's been officially announced as Elua's bride, people are starting to try and figure out what they can get out of her.

It's always been funny to see how even people who detest the air she breathes will kiss her feet. But also, Chelle has never once laughed at this type of behavior.

"What a vision of grace you were up on the balcony, Princess Chelle! And you spoke so eloquently!"

"My, what a beautiful gown; perhaps we should meet for tea and you can tell me who made it."

"Has anyone ever told you, Princess, that you are exceptionally beautiful?"

Chelle smiles, idly fanning herself, as courtier after courtier crowds her and struggles to get in their word of bogus praise. Some faces around her are new, but she recognizes a handful of them as people who staunchly avoided her at the welcoming party. They look eager now, fawning over her hair, her clothes, her voice, but she knows better.

Not one of them has a friendly sparkle in their eyes.

What garbage. There's no value in emptiness.

"You are all far too kind," Chelle says, cutting off a young woman just as she begins praising the very curve of Chelle's lips, "but if you will please excuse me, I wish to go find my lord."

The nobles keep smiling at her blankly, with such a lack of anything behind their expressions that she stiffens against the urge to shudder.

"Of course, my lady." The young lady she cut off gives a proper curtsy and steps back. "Far be it from us to keep you from your betrothed."

"Yes," someone interjects. "What a relief it is to see you two getting on well!"

"The previous marquis and marchioness got on like cats and dogs," a woman comments with an exasperated flip of her hand. "The marchioness was notorious for her affairs. In the end, she met her end at the hand of a lover's vengeful wife." She gives Chelle a broad, but thin, smile. "And we would certainly hate to see you meet a similar end."

The real meaning of her words rings clear as day:

Why don't you go and die as shamefully as that woman?

"I certainly will meet no such end, so ease your worries." Chelle smiles back at her and dips her head. "How could I dare hold another in my heart when I have promised everything to my lord? Mercifully, this city shall not see another marchioness meet such a tragic end."

The crowd was fawning over her a mere minute ago, but now Chelle senses rising hostility. Perhaps they understand she's seen straight through them. If that's the case, maybe they're done selling out; she'd respect them more that way.

"The heart is a fickle thing, Highness," the first young lady says. "Are you certain you did not leave anyone behind in the capital? Perhaps... a knight?"

Her taunt is so on the nose—so painfully straightforward—that Chelle would laugh.

But, she doesn't.

That thing in her chest stops. The glittering ballroom sways. Something cold slithers through her bones.

These people are watching her like vultures. They'd take even a too-tight clench of her fan as a victory. If she dug her nails into her palm, they'd relish that even more. Even one swallow, one offbeat breath, would be throwing them a bone. There's nothing for her to ground herself with.

"Chelle, you know that we— that I cannot—"

There's nothing.

"Unless... unless you ordered me to, you know I..."

Always nothing.

"You know I cannot feel that way about you, my princess."

She just wanted something.

But it's time to let that silly want go.

Chelle unfurls her fan and cools herself with a couple of waves. She gives the young lady an apologetic smile and tilts her head. "I'm sorry, but I fear I do not understand; many knights in Sol Alberia were entrusted with my safety. Could you please explain what you mean?"

The young lady's polite smile falters. She opens her mouth and closes it again. Her bright eyes whip about the crowd, like she's looking for someone to give her an out. However, all she gets are blank gazes, as though none of them expected Chelle to play dumb and fire back so directly. Asking for an explanation is the most boring, but fastest, way out of these scenarios.

Eventually, pink rises in the young lady's cheeks. With her head lowered, she wrings her hands and mumbles something that's just as likely an apology as it is a protest. Another young woman takes her by the elbow and guides her from the crowd, shooting a glare at Chelle as though her friend's embarrassment is all her fault.

If you don't want to get burned, don't play with fire. If you can't put the fire out, don't light it. The concept is that simple.

But everyone looks at her now with a similar anger in their eyes. Like she did something wrong. All she did was ask a person to clarify what they meant. If that happens to embarrass the person who clearly meant ill, why is that always her fault? How is defending herself wrong? Why does it warrant those expressions? Why can't she look at them that way when they were the ones provoking her in the first place?

Where is her right to anger?

Chelle unfurls her fan and firmly bites down on her lip behind it. Letting her thoughts and emotions run wild is never, ever good. Right now, she should extract herself from this situation, find Elua, and calmly observe their designated suspects for the rest of the evening. Now is the worst time to make enemies. She needs to assimilate, not aggravate.

"Now then." She snaps her fan shut and gives the crowd a curtsy. "As I said before, I really do wish to find my lord. Please excuse me, and thank you all for your warmth."

As Chelle turns to leave, the noblewoman who remarked on the late marchioness calls out to her. Her cool gray eyes look at Chelle like she is something disgusting. "Some friendly advice, Highness? Just woman to woman."

Nothing good is going to come out of whatever it is she wants to say, but Chelle can't just walk off. She stops and waits for the woman to continue.

"Even if you do not carry anyone in your heart," she says, "were I you, I would not so readily assume the same applies to the marquis." Once more, she gives Chelle that icy smile. "Do be cautious."

There's someone else, so don't you dare assume this engagement will be smooth sailing.

Chelle offers the woman the fakest smile she can muster. "You are kind to look out for me, madame. I will keep your words in mind."

The crowd is murmuring among itself quietly, behind hands, as she departs. Yet, Chelle hears their words like a roar:

"We try to be nice and she dares wave us off?"

"Does she think she's better than us? Just because she's from the capital?"

Chelle scans the crowd left and right, but has no luck spotting Elua. The throng is too dense. There are hundreds of strangers; hundreds of unfamiliar scents; hundreds of unfamiliar voices. It's all so much in her head—so heavy in her chest. She stands there, one hand holding her skirts, and tries to breathe before moving forward. What she needs more than finding a man she barely knows is to just— just go sit somewhere, and—

Someone brushes past her. A foot presses down on her skirt.

Chelle falls forward.

"Catlike reflexes," Phares used to tease. Chelle's glad he was never entirely wrong. She puts her other foot out before she goes careening face first into the ballroom floor, but only delays her fall. Stumbling, she throws an arm out, grabs the closest thing to her, and narrowly prevents public humiliation.

The small giggles and murmurs around her mean she's still caused a scene. It's a fight, but Chelle thinks she prevents her face from going totally red. A little pink is unavoidable, though. She straightens up and smooths her hair over her ear tips, awkwardly clearing her throat.

Behind her, she hears a small sound of disappointment. But it doesn't matter, so she doesn't turn around. It's easier to just move on. It'll be less conflict—less reason to be outcast.

"Ahem."

Her other hand is still on the thing—the person—she grabbed. Gasping softly, Chelle snatches her hand back and takes a step away, dismayed to find the single amber eye of Bertrand Accardi glaring down at her. Of all the hundreds of damn people in this place, he had to be the one standing right there?

Bertrand glances to the right where the culprit disappeared, then back to her. Just the one look makes it obvious—he saw—but he's staring with an expression that makes her feel so pitifully small, a cold sweat starts on the back of her neck. He brushes off his limp arm where she grabbed him and only says, "Watch it."

Before she can come up with an apology, he brushes past her hard enough to send her a step back and disappears into the crowd.

Chelle stares after him, unconsciously resting a hand on the shoulder he hit. The partygoers around her are snickering. Maybe if she were a different person, she would turn red and leave the room in disgrace. However, she learned to swallow insults a long, long time ago.

A ballroom is a battleground, so bruises are all apart of it.

That's what she tells herself, over and over.

"Did you see her trip over herself?"

"She must be clumsy. I heard that once, she fell into a fountain back in the capital!"

The hundreds of voices grow louder in unison. All of the eyes on her are so strong. Chelle lowers her gaze from where Bertrand disappeared down to the tile floor. Where is Cat Sìth?

"What does she think she's doing?"

"Did you hear that rumor?"

The sounds. The scents. Chelle wobbles on her feet and squeezes her shoulder. Wine, cakes, perfume. Laughter, jeering, whispering. All of it presses in on her from every direction. A strand of hair slides out from behind her ear. She cannot breathe.

"She can't possibly think this court would accept Ludovic's blood!"

"Back in Sol Alberia—"

"To think he left Princess Yelda for that."

The crowd turns towards her altogether and surges like a wave. Every damnable word grabs at her arms, hanging off her until her knees wobble. All that laughter echoes in her skull, rattling ferociously. But it's fine, because she understands their feelings. Of course they'll whisper. They have every right.

"That speech was weak."

"She's not that pretty. Did you hear that her ears are pointed, like some fiend's?"

Chelle's arms tremble against the urge to press her hands over her ears.

She understands them, so it's fine. But it's loud.

It's so loud.

"I heard even that young margrave—the royal family's dog, you know?—couldn't stand her!"

Chelle opens her mouth, but only silence falls out.

"Your Highness?"

The ballroom snaps back into crystal clarity.

Blinking, Chelle breathes. Her eyes dart left and right. The crowd isn't rushing over her. No one is even facing her. The sounds and scents are still strong, but when she turns her head and focuses on Elua, they seem to fade. He's looking at her with an expression she hates; something like pity, but not quite there. She detests that look, but if she wants people to stop giving it to her, she must stop being pitiful.

Chelle unfurls her fan and waves it idly, hoping it cools her down and clears the lingering scent of someone's too-strong, musky cologne from the space next to her. "My lord Elua, how nice of you to find me! I was just about to look for you."

Elua's eyes brighten, but still have that mildly pitying expression even as he gives her a warm look. He steps towards her, a hand in his breast pocket. From it he pulls a handkerchief. He reaches for her with it. She takes half a step back. Immediately he freezes, but his face doesn't shift. Silently, he presses it into the palm she opens up at her side. Her hand clenches around it uselessly.

"It's hot in here," he says softly. "Do you need some water? Are your shoes bothering you?"

She works her lips behind her fan for a moment before closing her eyes in a smile. "No, my lord. Thank you."

He studies her much more than she would prefer, but there's nothing she can do about that. Smile frozen on her face, she lets him stare.

After a moment, Elua lowers his head and offers her an arm. The thought of a touch makes her stomach wriggle up her throat, but with everyone in the vicinity's eyes on them, watching for any crack in this unwanted engagement, Chelle takes it quickly. For good measure, she sidles up as much as is appropriate.

Elua smells nice. Clean, sort of like fresh laundry. The scent of his cologne over that is delicate and subtly floral. It doesn't block out any of the other scents threatening to overwhelm her, but when she hones in on it, it provides some reprieve.

Clean and fresh is nice, but as Elua guides her towards the Gramsian delegation, she recalls a warmer scent. A myriad of things, each distinct, but not unpleasant mingled together: Dust from the palace training grounds; damascus steel; leather gloves; weapon oil.

And, somehow, roses.

That memory soothes and sickens at the same time.

Chapter Text

Sol Alberia, Some Time Ago

Parties are nice.

Glittering lights. Beautiful decorations. Lovely clothes.

Yes. Chelle likes parties.

It's nice to have an entire stack of invites in her office. Whenever the palace gets too stifling, it's nice having the ability to pick somewhere else to go. She can go any number of places, grab a beverage, find a comfortable seat, and wait for the night to pass by while surrounded by gold and glamor. Sitting there, staring at the crystal chandeliers, letting the band's music wash over her. Laughing politely at the occasional joke, accepting a dance every now and then, and smiling. She is content with that, and everyone else is content to let her have it.

So parties are nice, and Chelle likes going to them, and she doesn't mind that some nights, no one talks to her at all.

Tonight's hostess, however, has offered Chelle attention even after exchanging greetings. While Chelle made her way through the swathe of brightly-dressed partygoers towards a sitting area, the hostess followed shortly after her. She didn't let her sit alone. When the conversation lulls, she picks it back up ("How are your siblings?" or "Did you hear about the new art exhibit?" or "I think pearls suit you, Princess Chelle!"). She ensures her glass stays full. And, when she looks at Chelle, she looks her in the eye and smiles.

It's by far not the weirdest thing that's ever happened. However, Chelle also struggles to recall the last time a host genuinely engaged with her, treating her like a wanted guest—not a princess to whom it's all but mandatory to send an invite to.

Her hostess is Lady Theodosia: the youngest child of an inconsequential, but respectable count. Theodosia's gala is a grand affair, despite the fact that there's no special occasion except the weekend. Chelle has heard from a kitten or two that Theodosia has her sights set on being high society's brightest star, which does put the ostentatiousness into perspective.

Parties are nice, but she has to give credit where credit is due: this one is especially enjoyable. A good drink, smooth music, well-mannered guests, and a welcoming hostess.

It would all be wonderful—were it not for the knight on her heels.

When Chelle attends parties and makes her signature beeline for the seating area, she typically loses the assigned knight between the door and there. Each and every night's end, she finds them in varying degrees of revelry. One time, she even found her "guard" drunk out of his mind, tonguing the tonsils of some baron's daughter. Father was none too pleased about that one. Last she heard, the man had been demoted from the royal guard entirely.

In contrast to a loon like that, this knight sticks to her closely. Too closely. Every time she looks over her shoulder, expecting he'll be gone, he's still just a few steps away. Maybe she should've expected this sort of diligence from someone with his notable credentials—Leonidas's and Phares's childhood companion; an Officer's Academy valedictorian; the heir to House Vergette—but she really was expecting he would be tempted from her side by something. Wine, food, women, or even just simple downtime.

Chelle casts another small glance and finds the knight still there, standing tall and straight, arms behind his back, and watching with those piercing blue eyes.

It's stifling.

Chelle goes to parties to get away from stifling.

And she knows perfectly well why he's watching her so hawkishly: he wants to catch her doing something wrong. With the amount of them she's burned through, it's common knowledge that she's not entirely popular among the knights. At this point, any one of them would likely kill to find her doing something worthy of reporting to Father. Excessive drinking, maybe, or a man's hand up her skirt and lips on her décolletage; something to that effect.

She expected a keener mind from someone competent enough to keep up with Leonidas and Phares. Obviously if she knows he's watching her, she's not going to give him a bit to chomp at. She's going to be perfect, and he's going to end this night wildly disappointed—and she'll certainly enjoy seeing him that way.

"That gentleman is House Vergette's heir, isn't he?"

Theodosia may come from an inconsequential family, but she has all the other requirements for a high society starlet; namely wealth and looks. Her voluminous dark sapphire hair glistens beneath the chandelier's light, falling in a glossy sheet down her back. Her clear, snow white skin speaks to having never worked for a second beneath the sun, and her eyes glint like pure steel. The dress she wears looks like the latest piece of one of Sol Alberia's most beloved designers—the type that every socialite would clamor for, made of the most luxurious fabrics and adorned with gold. Sitting next to Chelle, that luxurious gown taking up half the couch, her ruffled fan spread in front of her lips, Theodosia looks like the subject of some old painting.

A sigh threatens their polite conversation. Chelle holds it back and swirls the crystal goblet in her hand. "You know of him?"

Behind her fan, Theodosia laughs. "Of course! House Vergette may not be wealthy or politically relevant, but who doesn't keep an eye on them? After all, they are House Alberia's most loyal servants." She regards the knight with sparkling, intense eyes. "I'd heard the future margrave was rather plain. However, having seen him in person, I do find him fetching!"

Though she doesn't reply, Chelle doesn't disagree. The knight is handsome, and she's comfortable giving him that. He's tall, well-built, with perpetually messy, dark russet hair that glints a brighter red in the light. There's always a serious, but not unkind expression on his face, and he has an air of dignity that many knights severely lack. That is to say nothing of the bright, clear blue of his eyes, which have always caught her attention. Honestly, she's found him handsome since childhood. Her lady-in-waiting always reminds her it's unladylike to discuss such crude things, though.

Theodosia doesn't seem to hold the same opinion as the lady-in-waiting. "My, I would like to see him out of that formal uniform. He wears it well, but... I think it leaves too much to the imagination. Do you agree?"

"Well—"

"Have you ever seen him on the training grounds?" Like an excited child, she scoots closer to Chelle. "What a sight that surely is! I hear he's a master swordsman; is that true?"

"Y—yes, it is."

"I can imagine he's quite good with his hands in that case!" Theodosia's voice dips into a low, teasing tone. "Have you ever had the chance to find out?"

Chelle pauses, her juice partway to her lips, and regards Theodosia from the corner of her eye.

At 18, she knows full-well that she should be able to catch the full meaning behind the innuendo. However, she has to admit: her sexual education has always been lacking, and her shelves are never stocked with romance novels. She's no idiot though, and she knows well that answering something so charged like that wrongly could be a pitfall into high society's next big scandal. So, as indifferently as possible, she replies, "No, I haven't."

The answer sparks a suspicious amount of disappointment in Theodosia's eyes, but it promptly brightens back into a gleam. As though they're friends, she leans closer and whispers, "Then surely you wouldn't mind if I took him for a spin, would you?"

Some of the juice catches in Chelle's throat. She coughs quietly, fingers pressed to her lips, and stares at Theodosia with round eyes.

Theodosia giggles. Her teeth are very white and very perfect. "Please, I'm only teasing Your Highness!" She casts a long look to the side and subtly nods her head in that direction. "Actually, I had other plans. Would you care to join?"

"Plans" can mean any number of things. While Chelle has been grateful for this hospitality, she's no fool. She narrows her eyes.

The expression must be as testy as she intended. Theodosia's laugh turns distinctly nervous. "Nothing bad, I promise! Some ladies and I were going to have wine and cakes alone in a separate room is all, away from the guards and men. A little party within a party, so to speak."

Again, she nods to the room's far end. Chelle slides her gaze in that direction. Sure enough, there's a small group of young ladies standing together near a door and looking back at them. There are a handful who Chelle recognizes, and sure, she knows ill rumors have left their lips before. Still, she doesn't pick out anyone who's committed egregious offenses against her beyond idle teatime gossip.

She can't remember the last time she was invited to join a group at a party. Something in her aches.

Theodosia seems kind. Chelle hasn't ever caught wind of her having some sort of bone to pick. Though she knows better than to trust, she wonders: what is the worst that could happen? She sits around and deals with some pointed words? She can handle that perfectly. And, if things do get dangerous in any unlikely event, she reasons that she can protect herself.

All-in-all, it seems like the pros outweigh the cons.

And yet, something annoying and cold squeezes her, saying, No.

"That sounds delightful, Lady Theodosia," she replies politely. "However, my father dislikes when I drink outside the palace."

"Oh, no need to worry. The wine we've picked is very mild, or we could just ask a servant to bring you more juice."

"There is also the matter of my knight attendant. He's watching me intently, you see, so—"

"No worries at all, Highness! One of my cousins can distract him while we make our great escape."

A hand flat against her knotted stomach, Chelle turns her head so slightly and gives the knight a careful look. He tilts his head back at her. His eyes really are so blue, but his gaze is stifling. And, doesn't she go to parties to get away from stifling?

Once more, she tells herself everything is fine and smiles at Theodosia.

Raywall, Present

"Your Highness, please extend your arm."

Chelle tears her eyes away the endless rain pattering against the window in front of her. As asked, she holds out her arm. The seamstress wraps a measuring tape around her bicep, fiddles with it, then says her concluded measurement aloud. A secretary behind her ducks her head and hastily scribbles the number into a notebook.

When one is fitted for their wedding dress, it ought to be exciting. A bride should be with her close friends and family. She should be sipping a beverage of her choice while perusing catalogs and appraising samples. Even with other wedding plans to make, she should be at ease for that moment.

When Chelle gets fitted for her dress, she just feels sick and annoyed. Behind her, the dressing room clamors as the seamstress's staff dart around, just shy of being headless chickens. She rubs her forehead where a throbbing headache is forming. Her body is cold, her stomach heavy, and her mouth dry. Every little sound rattles in her head, and every scent threatens to choke her.

She's been straining herself too much. It's not just the noise and people, but her kittens. Only nine days into the start of their investigations, it seems mana deficiency is setting in. Still, now isn't the time to show weakness. Not only are there wedding plans to be made in the coming weeks and extremists to be cornered, but Chelle has received another important task from Elua:

Behind her, enjoying tea and cakes, is Priestess Aurelia of Grams.

Aurelia has been all but glued to Chelle since last week's engagement party. In a similar vein, Elua has rarely left Duke Caspar's side. The two of them are the most important guests—and there is all but a bounty on Caspar's head among the war faction. Keeping his guard tight is a must, but only paying attention to him would raise suspicion. So, Chelle has been tasked with playing hostess to Aurelia while Elua manages the duke. Truth be told, it's been getting increasingly difficult. Just looking at Aurelia is hard when she's so bright and holy.

"I never thought I'd see a real princess fitted for her wedding gown!" Aurelia exclaims. She sets down a bridal catalog and observes Chelle, fingers woven together and eyes glittering. "How splendid!"

From atop the box the seamstress has her perched on, Chelle swallows her sickness and politely laughs. It's not like this is a big deal—she's standing around, letting someone take her measurements, and picking out design elements—but if Aurelia wants to be tickled pink, then by all means.

And truthfully, Chelle doesn't see the novelty of a gown she'll only wear once. Maybe if this were a different wedding—maybe if she were standing at the altar with someone else—she would feel differently. Maybe this gown would feel more sentimental, rather than like a tool. But it's not a different wedding, she's going to stand at the altar with Marquis Raywall, the dress is a dress, and that's all there is to it.

Chelle stares out the window.

"A royal wedding gown usually takes months and months to prepare, right?" Aurelia questions. "But we're only 12 or so weeks out from the ceremony."

At least two hushed, dissatisfied grumbles rise from the assistants in the room, but Chelle doesn't call them out. Once again, she holds her arm out for the seamstress and allows her to lay a strip of golden cloth over it, then casts her gaze at Aurelia. "Yes, it should take a minimum of six months."

The seamstress, her expression pensive, takes the golden strip away and replaces it with silver. "Worry not. With my staff and I working around the clock, we should have the gown finished well in time for a recital."

Arms extended, Chelle looks outside while the seamstress wraps something around her waist. Glistening drops roll down the glass and over her faint reflection. Thick, shadow-gray clouds roll through the distant sky, making the mountains and sprawling stone bridges that previously looked picturesque into something far more sinister.

Chelle tilts her head a modicum. When she packed herself into a carriage with only a dragon, a butler, and few of her worldly possessions, she told herself she wasn't going to think about the circumstances. Yet, as Aurelia chats with one of the assistants about how soon the wedding is, the thought pervades nonetheless:

In three months, she'll be married. Hers will be the most rushed royal wedding in Alberia's history. But, she wasn't even thinking of this engagement a month ago.

One measly month ago feels like a lifetime past—a lifetime there's no returning to.

The reflection in the window looks warped, muddled, and blank.

"Do you prefer the gold or silver, Princess Chelle?"

She centers herself in the room again and surveys the strips draped over her arm. Both have their merits, but— "The gold. It will complement the veil better."

The seamstress slips the strips off Chelle's arm and heads over to the veil, carefully resting on a mannequin head near the wall. She holds the silver and gold up to it for a minute, her face set in the deepest consideration yet, before she passes the silver to her secretary. Without a word, an assistant picks up all the bolts of silver fabric and scurries out of the room.

"Oh my, the veil!" Aurelia stands and steps closer to the mannequin. Chelle nearly snaps at her to not touch, but Aurelia maintains a distance and doesn't reach. Excitedly, she looks at Chelle while pointing at it. "And you made this, Princess?"

"I did," she replies. Curious, she tilts her head forward. "You know the Alberian tradition?"

"I believe so. It's customary for women of the royal family to craft their own wedding veils, yes?"

Voice plenty pleased, the seamstress throws her measuring tape around her neck and answers for Chelle. "You are well-learned, Priestess! That's just so. Our first queen crafted her own veil, her daughter did the same, and it kept going until it wound up tradition."

"We have nothing of the sort in Grams. Even lace is rather rare," Aurelia remarks. "Your Highness's handiwork is gorgeous."

Though the wedding dress doesn't strike Chelle as anything special, the veil is a different story. The dress isn't something crafted by her own hands; the veil is something she's woven since childhood. Like all Alberian women's wedding attire, it's a pure, bright white, and constructed from soft chiffon and handmade lace. Her fingers ache from the memories of weaving all that fine Hinomotan silk into delicate, ornate patterns, but when she looks at the veil, she can't help feeling like it was worth it.

That's right. Even if the wedding is political, that is what she has always expected and prepared for. It's no happily ever after, but the fruits of her lifelong labor will see the light of day.

Everything is fine.

With measurements taken and details hammered out, the seamstress and her entourage pack up their things and leave. By the window, Chelle readjusts her dress and ensures everything is perfectly in place. It won't do to walk the halls looking slovenly.

"Your Highness?"

Chelle wraps her shawl around her chilly body and turns her head towards Aurelia, standing next to the tea table. Aurelia is the picture of a holy woman: soft, flawless, light brown skin that looks kissed by Ilia, and dark brown hair that cascades over her shoulder in perfect ringlets. She's a striking beauty, but her white priestess robes are extravagant only in the fineness of their silk. Though she's nearly a decade older than Chelle, she somehow gives off a similar aura as Zethia.

Perhaps some people are just born to be holy.

"Priestess?" she replies.

"Call me Aurelia. It feels odd to be addressed so formally by a princess." Aurelia makes her way over to Chelle. She stands next to her quietly, hands behind her back, and observes the torrential rain and dark skies. "I hear it rains a lot in Raywall during these months."

Maybe it's because Aurelia has such a similar aura to Zethia that Chelle feels unnerved. She's spent over a week now with the woman, but it's still hard to look at her directly. So, she doesn't. She looks out at the rain, fingers to her chin, and replies, "I heard the same. Raywall's weather is apparently fickle due to the unstable mana concentrations in the air."

Silence follows, filled only by rain on glass, until Aurelia says, "I hope I'm not holding you back from any further wedding preparations. Is there anything I can help with?"

"'Help with?'"

"Indeed! Such as, do you need help choosing flowers or food? I'm no expert, but I would like to be of service," Aurelia tells her. A smile spreads over her face. "I'm enjoying this time Your Highness is spending with me, so I'd like to repay you."

The tiniest amount, Chelle narrows her eyes.

In the research she's done, she's found nothing bad about Aurelia. By all accounts, Aurelia is merely a beloved priestess of the Holy City: a woman from a wealthy merchant family, orphaned by the war in her teenage years. She entered the church afterwards and promptly rose to prestige—notably without any of the underhanded methods so common in the Northern Church of Ilia. Even now, she rejects any higher promotions in the clergy and continues serving the underprivileged.

Now, what does a person like that want with her?

"There is much to do," Chelle muses. "I must see a florist in an hour's time, then meet a planner shortly after. If it pleases you, you are welcome to come along."

Chelle turns from Aurelia and the storm to face the veil. She fiddles with an edge where the pattern resembles small leaves and flowers. The hundreds and thousands of knots are a comforting sensation beneath her fingertips. The veil will stay safely in this room until the ceremony, but a tiny anxiety bubbles in her stomach. If an Alberian princess's veil were ruined, it could delay the proceedings almost indefinitely.

"I very much like flowers, so I would love to come!"

Could Aurelia be after the veil? Or—more likely—something of greater import?

It's not as though she needs to play any sort of guessing game. Cat Sìth is keeping a personal eye on Caspar, but they can always make another kitten to trail Aurelia. Another one for the inside of the room would be good too, just to be careful. So long as she keeps everything in her palm and has all her ducks in a row, there's nothing to fear.

"It's a shame we can't go outside again today," Aurelia carries on, close on Chelle's heels as they leave the dressing room. "The walk we took in the gardens the other day was so nice."

If she keeps Aurelia talking, she might be able to uncover any motives. "Does Grams have large gardens as well?"

"Certainly! It is cold up north, of course, but not much colder than Raywall. Once you go farther than Grams, growing anything does become more difficult."

"I see. Those gardens must be a sight to behold."

Aurelia picks up her pace to walk closer to her. Her dark eyes sparkle for whatever reason. "Princess Chelle, should you and the marquis ever come to Grams, I'd dearly like to show them to you."

The notion is so far-fetched and baffling, Chelle stops dead in her tracks and stares at Aurelia like she's grown another head.

Casually going to Grams is unthinkable. The mere fact that a Gramsian duke and priestess are here in Raywall and attending a royal wedding is a miracle of diplomacy. An Alberian royal going to the Holy City, on the other hand, would take something sturdier than a miracle: a stable relationship between their countries, not one that's just "not bad." The second Chelle stepped over the border, someone would be trying to skewer her head on a pitchfork.

It's also plain unusual that Aurelia would want anything to do with her a single second past the wedding day. The suspicion in Chelle grows bigger.

Aurelia turns pink and scratches her cheek. "Is it really so hard to imagine our nations in a true state of peace? I mean... you and I, a princess and priestess, are getting along splendidly right now."

Are they?

"Any kind of relationship we may have does not reflect that of our respective nations." Chelle shakes her head and turns to continue down the hall, shawl fluttering around her. "While I share your sentiments, Priestess Aurelia, in that I desire a peaceful relationship between Alberia and Grams, it's just..."

"Just... what?"

Rain hammers the roof. Chelle pauses again and puts her fingers to her temple, once more urging back the forming headache. She closes her eyes, brow furrowed. "My grandfather was the war's initial aggressor. It will be some time before one of his kin can step foot on Gramsian soil, and I do not believe that to be unjust."

The fact that I am even on Raywall's soil defies logic, she nearly says, but the thought is better kept to herself.

"My people are not so petty, nor wholly innocent themselves," Aurelia protests. "If we continue working together, I believe the day where you may visit our fair city will soon come."

Is Aurelia idealistic or stupid?

Considering she hasn't screamed "dimwitted" before this exact moment, Chelle leans towards the former. Does she think Chelle doesn't know the things said in Grams? The horror stories told to children; the caricatures of her family printed in the papers; the tales of King Ludovic, a demon-dragon who would descend from the stars, stealing hundreds of Gramsian lives in a night?

She doesn't want to antagonize Aurelia. And, if Aurelia herself is attempting to bait a conflict, she must give no quarter. Rather than pushing her point, she gives her brightest smile and says, "In that case, I will look forward to the day where I may see Grams' gardens."

For a while while they walk, Aurelia keeps quiet. The rainfall feels louder than before, drowning Chelle's heels clicking on the floor. The thunder sounds closer. Staring ahead, Chelle feels Aurelia's intense eyes on her back. She's watching her closely—far more closely than is normal. A brief but insistent thought crosses Chelle's mind then:

What if this is not truly "Aurelia," but a carefully planted assassin? After all, if Chelle were to die, wouldn't that objectively be as damaging to relations as Duke Caspar's death? It's paranoid. Chelle knows that very well. Even still, she slows her step to walk alongside Aurelia instead of ahead.

"Oh, is that... a kitty-cat?"

Both their steps falter as a small brown tabby brushes past Chelle's calves on its way down the hall. It stops at the end, bright green eyes boring a hole into her, before it turns the corner and vanishes.

"How strange to see a cat wandering the halls alone." Aurelia's brow furrows. She scratches her cheek and looks at Chelle. "Do you think it slipped in from the rain? Or, maybe it came from the pantries."

"Oh no, it isn't that," Chelle replies. Her eyes linger on the end of the hallway, then she turns around. "During your stay, I think you will find a wealth of kittens in these halls."

Chelle's food is stone-cold.

It looks delicious. Elua's chefs have come up with what looks like a very basic, but nonetheless masterful, spread: seared duck breast, grilled vegetables, silky mashed potatoes, and a fragrant vegetable soup. A handful of extra scents waft from the kitchen: Sugar, fruit, eggs. Some manner of shortcake may be in order. The meal is already decently large—she might have to skip dessert.

When the footman places Chelle's meal in front of her, though, she can instantly tell it's been sitting out. Elua's meal steams when the cloche is removed from his dish, but the same warm, savory-scented vapor fails to rise from hers. There are tiny puddles of set fat in the crevices of the duck breast. The veggies also look limp, like they came off the fire quite a while ago.

How petty.

But cold or not, food is food, and food isn't to be wasted. As soon as Elua takes his first bite, Chelle picks up her cutlery and cuts into her own duck breast. Cold, a little unpleasantly chewy from the solidifying fat, but still tasty. She'll survive.

"I should like to have a private meal with my fiancée," Elua announces shortly into their meal. He extends a polite hand towards the door and regards the staff in the room. "Thank you for setting things up. Please, take your dinner breaks—we shall call for Alistair if we require anything before the meal's end."

One footman is bold enough to speak up. Hesitantly, he steps out of the line of staff, eyes flicking quickly towards Chelle and back. "Your Lordship, but—"

Oh, honestly. What does he think is going to happen? She's going to slit Elua's throat the second they're alone? She's going to pounce and defile him before the wedding night?

"No buts." Elua's voice is uncharacteristically sharp; Chelle quirks a brow while she has a sip of water. "It is only a meal. What business do you have being so wary of her?"

The footman shifts uncomfortably in place, eyes fixed to the room's upper corner. He opens his mouth once, shuts it, then opens it to say, "Yes, Your Lordship." He even has the decency to turn to Chelle and bow ever so slightly. "My apologies, Princess Chelle."

Idly, Chelle swirls the water in her goblet, surveying him long enough to make him squirm (which is not long at all) before she smiles. "Oh my, did you do something worth apologizing for? I assure you: I am perfectly unbothered."

The corner of his mouth twitches.

Chelle continues silently eating her cold food, listening to the fading footsteps of the excused staff. Though she doesn't trust him, Elua does, so Alistair lingers outside the door to ensure no one intrudes.

"So," Elua says when everything is perfectly quiet. "Do you have any information today?"

Straight to business, the way she likes.

"A kitten brought me something earlier, yes." Chelle lowers her fork to give Elua the proper attention. "A group of activists met up at a bar off the main street. As we expected, talks of assassinating Duke Caspar are happening across all social and economic levels."

"Hm." He frowns and stabs a carrot. "How serious did this seem?"

"Truth be told, I don't believe this particular meeting will lead to much," she replies. "They were blue-collar workers who would never have an opportunity to get close to the duke, nor would they have the means to hire an assassin with the skills required."

"Do you suppose they should be arrested?"

At the thought, Chelle scoffs and picks up her goblet. "Of course not. Only fascists would arrest someone who has yet to commit a crime. Merely spewing controversial political rhetoric is no grounds to stuff a human in a cage." She shakes her head. "Yet, the rhetoric must be taken seriously, lest it become action. We should inform the local law enforcement to keep their eyes peeled."

Of all things, a smile comes to Elua's face. His eyes are so bright, Chelle's hands can't help but flinch around her glass. "Splendid. I hoped you might say that."

"Were you... testing me, then?"

"Of course. We are still becoming acquainted, so little tests of morality like this cannot hurt." Satisfied, he dips his head. "It certainly is easy for a woman with your tools at her disposal to figure me out, but this scholar must resort to more classic measures."

Chelle fights an exasperated sigh. With another shake of her head, she picks up her cutlery and starts taking apart her duck breast again. "Your games aside, my lord, Cat Sìth is keeping a close eye on the duke, and I have other leads I am following. Provided we weed out the prominent aggressors and keep them at bay until the delegation returns to the Holy City, all should be at peace—and our wedding will be smooth sailing."

She says as much to plant the thought of the wedding into Elua's head, but honestly? If their wedding—a ceremony between a royal with a controversial reputation and a marquis from an estranged territory, with the entirety of House Alberia and a Gramsian delegation in attendance, all in a city full of people who hate both parties—ends peacefully, Chelle will be an imp's uncle.

But Elua doesn't react to her remark about the ceremony at all. He picks up his own glass of water and swirls it a bit. "If we could lure out those with the true means to harm without anyone getting hurt... That would be a perfect world, wouldn't it?"

Her knife clacks against the plate.

Caspar is guarded to the teeth. His security is as tight as it can get, loaded with both his own guards and those from Raywall's knighthoods. Cat Sìth's eyes are on him as well. There are no blind spots in his security—it would take a freak accident for someone to be able to harm him.

But in Chelle's eyes, Caspar would function better as bait.

When Leonidas taught her to fish, he first taught her the most basic concept: if you want a fish, you put a worm on your hook. In a similar vein: show your target the duke they want dead, they'll come running swords drawn. If things were planned properly, she doubts harm would befall Caspar. It's a matter of loosening the security, putting him in scenarios that make him vulnerable, and then working backwards from what an assassin would do to catch them in the act.

The issue lies in the fact that if it got out that Alberia used Caspar as bait, the consequences would be nearly as catastrophic as him being outright assassinated. It would be called what it is: Alberia playing with a Gramsian delegate's life to fix their own political problems.

Treating a human like a worm on a hook is neither ethical nor easy.

Chelle takes a small bite of the potatoes and studies Elua. Like she thought when they first met, he has a warm sort of face. He speaks to his staff politely, treating them as equals who happen to work for him. Overall, she would label him as gentle, a touch timid, and kind. To her, he seems the type to value black and white morality over pragmatism.

If she were to propose using Caspar as bait, what would he say? The way he seems to be refusing to even acknowledge their union doesn't make her feel confident regarding her standing in his eyes, even if he's been perfectly cordial. So, if she brings up this plan—even if she promises to do everything in her power to ensure Caspar makes it out alive and no one ever discovers the plan—will he look at her with disgust? Will he refuse their union?

Will he send her back?

Chelle picks up her water, wets her dry throat, and keeps the idea to herself. There's more than one way to cook an egg.

"How is Priestess Aurelia?"

She fights a flinch at the sound of his voice. "Free as a bird in comparison to the duke, and safe. Do not worry regarding her."

She should put thoughts of bait and wedding cancellations out of her mind. There's a real issue in front of her now to deal with, speaking of Aurelia. Now may be a good time to raise her concerns.

"I have a rather odd question, my lord."

"Oh? My favorite kind!"

Unable to look up, she asks, "Are you... certain that is the real priestess?"

Elua pauses mid-drink and stares at her over the rim of his glass, eye befuddled. He sets his water down before asking, "Pardon?"

"Is that woman Priestess Aurelia?" Chelle repeats. "She has been sticking so close to me, I wonder if she might not be an assassin herself posing as the priestess. The implications would be damning to the entire delegation as a whole, but—"

Suddenly, a real, unabated laugh bursts out of Elua and cuts her off. He looks completely joyful, even wiping a tear from his eye, like she's told the funniest joke he's ever heard.

Pink rushes to her cheeks. Impolitely, she smacks her fork down against the table. "I fail to see what is so amusing about my concerns! You have to admit it's a touch suspicious that she wants to be so close to me all day every day, my lord."

"Princess, that is Aurelia for true!" Elua continues laughing for a time. When he's done, he studies her—arms crossed, glaring—and gives a charmed smile. "I have met Aurelia before. Unless that 'assassin' has been planted for two years, that is assuredly her."

She rubs a throbbing temple. "Then is it possible she's a spy looking to cause a disruption? For days she's been trying to get personal information out of me. She has also followed me to each meeting with the planners, and earlier today, she insisted I visit Grams in the future." At this damning evidence, she spreads a hand as though to show it all off. "Surely you see how that is suspicious."

Elua looks at her, but his mirth is gone. He stares, tilts his head, and in a voice tinged with confusion, asks, "Princess, did it not occur to you that perhaps Aurelia wants to be friends?"

Chelle doesn't move.

"I understand your wariness given the relationship between our countries, but... Your Highness, I do not believe Aurelia trying to get to know you warrants such suspicion." His smile has completely faded. "You realize that is what's happening, yes? She isn't interrogating or spying on you, she is being friendly."

All his brightness from a few seconds ago is gone. Instead, he looks at her with raw confusion.

A minute ago, Chelle felt very certain of her accusations. They made sense in her head. She so surely believed Elua would nod and tell her Aurelia was suspicious indeed. But sitting there speechless, cold in her stomach's pit, fiancée staring with a touch of nervousness, Chelle remembers:

Normal people don't think this way.

She lowers her eyes. "'Friendly' does not mean someone actually wishes to be friends, my lord."

"Be that as it may—" Elua starts, but he stops and shakes his head. Once more, he smiles at her, but it lacks truth. "No matter. Please, accept my reassurance that Priestess Aurelia is well-known for this warmth in Grams, so she is behaving in-character. I hope you will take this as consolation."

That only makes the situation more incomprehensible in her head. Pushing the matter has no point, though. All she'd be doing is convincing Elua she's a freak, and she'd rather not have the man she'll ideally be sharing a bed with in a few months think she's out of her damn mind.

While Elua awkwardly starts a different conversation, Chelle stares idly into her water. The reflection staring back sickens her a little.

Chapter Text

“Aren’t those maids taking their sweet time?”

Aurelia’s Paladyn guard is a wiry, towering woman with short gray hair, dull eyes, and a thin mouth that has maybe never smiled. For whatever reason, she seems convinced that the reason the attending maids have abandoned the three of them in one of Elua’s private reading rooms is Chelle herself. The maids did their due diligence getting a fire going, dressing two armchairs with thick blankets, and setting out a spread of refreshments in the corner, but fifteen minutes ago, they both claimed that they needed to go to the kitchens to grab extra plates—and they’ve yet to return.

Chelle wishes she could tell the Paladyn that it’s not just Aurelia being snubbed, but her as well. Alas, she’s never had luck getting Paladyns to see reason. “Oh, I’m certain they’ll be back any second.”

“The kitchens are a ways away,” Aurelia adds, turning from the rain-soaked window. “It’s not like I need anything, Ruth. You’re sweet, but don’t worry.”

The Paladyn—Ruth—doesn’t look convinced. Her lip curls while she fixes a disbelieving gaze on Chelle, who is minding her own damn business embroidering by the hearth. “Princesses should have ladies-in-waiting to help their guests. If the maids aren’t here, it falls on them to pick up the slack.”

“Ruth,” Aurelia chides. “Please—”

Chelle glances up from her embroidery at the Paladyn. “I fear I haven’t one of those at the moment.”

“So Alberia’s too uncultured for its royalty to have proper attendants?”

“Ruth!”

The corner of Chelle’s mouth pulls. With as polite a smile as she can manage, she settles her embroidery in her lap. “Did you not hear ‘at the moment?’ I had a lady-in-waiting, but she remains in the capital.” She glances down at her work, stroking a thumb over the tight stitches. “She was older than me—my late mother’s attendant, who then came into my service. Adjusting to an entirely new region away from her family wouldn’t have been easy for a woman her age.”

Aurelia pats Ruth’s arm warningly but warmly. Then, she smiles and perches on the armchair across from Chelle, hands politely on her knees. “It’s so considerate of you to let her stay where she’s comfortable. Choosing an attendant from among Raywall’s ladies should help you adjust quickly to the city as well.” Like she can read Chelle’s tight face, she then claps her hands. “By the by, his Lordship has such a nice collection, just in this room alone! Ruth loves books; I’m glad we could go somewhere she enjoys after all those wedding things and formal meetings.”

“I’m not here to read, Your Holiness.” Ruth’s voice is degrees softer when she speaks to Aurelia. Her lips even look like they could possibly, maybe, once in a blue moon, manage a smile. “I can’t protect you with my nose between pages.”

“What, do you think Princess Chelle is going to pull a knife on me?”

Aurelia laughs, but Ruth gives Chelle a look. It seems like that’s exactly what she expects. If she really was so worried, she’d neglect status and search Chelle before they entered the room together. If Chelle did anything, it would be the Paladyn’s fault for not going through the proper procedures. Perhaps it’s all part of some ploy that Chelle can’t fully see yet, but it’s no matter; she’ll be able to keep an eye on Aurelia and her knight in this room. Where there is doubt, there must be a watchful eye as well.

Aurelia asks, “Are you embroidering?”

That odd curiosity again. “Indeed.”

“I didn’t know you could! But considering your work on that marvelous veil, I shouldn’t be surprised.” There’s a distinct smile in Aurelia’s voice. “You seem very adept with your hands, Your Highness.”

Again, the corner of Chelle’s mouth twitches, but she remembers the way Elua looked at her and forces her hackles down. “I’ve been doing needlework since I was young, so I suppose I’ve picked up a thing or two.”

Though the conversation should end there, Aurelia continues. Persistently. “What sorts of things do you like embroidering?”

“I have no preference.” Chelle holds the loop and regards the pattern she drew out: a small bird in flight. “I embroider whatever comes to mind on whatever fabric I have.”

“Would it be alright if I see some of the other things you’ve worked on?”

An excuse to get into Chelle’s room?

No, that’s not it, because Chelle can bring her finished projects from her room somewhere else. She gazes past her loop at Aurelia’s expectant, warm face and remembers: She isn’t interrogating or spying on you, she is being friendly.

Chelle pushes her needle down through the fabric. “If that’s what you wish, Your Holiness.”

The rain and the crackling of the fire make for pleasant white noise while she carefully works on the bird’s wings. Aurelia smiles with a pretty laugh when her Paladyn gives her a book and urges her to pick up one of her own. Maybe Chelle looks especially disarming embroidering quietly, because Ruth does indeed pick up a book, leans against the back of Aurelia’s chair, and peruses it. This, Chelle supposes, is nice. A perfectly fine way to unwind after meetings all day, before she receives her evening reports and goes to work.

“Princess Chelle?” Aurelia pipes up. “Can I ask a question before I forget?”

A part of Chelle nearly replies, “Isn’t that what you’ve done all week?” but she holds it back. Carefully, she pulls her needle up. “Of course, Priestess.”

“Didn’t I say you should just call me Aurelia?”

“The sentiment is kind, but as a lady is shown respect, so must she show others.”

“Then, if I called you Chelle, would that help?”

The needle pricks Chelle’s finger—not enough to draw blood, but enough to make her shoulders jump. She lifts her eyes to properly regard Aurelia. “That degree of familiarity may not go over well with your delegation or Raywall’s court.”

“If it’s just the two of us, I don’t see why it should matter!”

Yet Chelle has no desire to call Aurelia by her name, or to have her name called by Aurelia. Names are powerful; if she speaks so casually to Aurelia, she might start buying into that friendly act. Why can’t she be content with “Priestess?”

Aurelia moves past the point before Chelle answers. She settles her book in her lap, leans back, and cants her head before asking. “Anyway, this is what has me insatiably curious: why marry Marquis Raywall in such a rush?”

Chelle pauses her embroidering, fingers tight around the needle.

“Your wedding will be lovely no matter what!” Aurelia hastily adds, hands held up, and behind her, Ruth turns her gaze towards Chelle with curiosity to match. “I’ve watched how carefully you’ve handled everything, and I think it will be nothing but splendid! I just— Well, I’m confused on why a princess would get engaged and married so quickly. Royal weddings are meant to be grand, aren’t they?”

Aurelia is fishing in a pond that seems harmless, but potentially houses a shark. A foreign envoy, digging into a clearly political marriage?

“It’s no secret that Raywall has been estranged from the rest of Alberia since the war,” Chelle starts slowly, setting her embroidery on a side table. “My father came into power at the war’s end, so he has always had little to do with this territory. Even so, it is his kingdom, and he worries over these citizens. My marriage is a way for the king to bridge the gap.”

“Would it really make a difference if you married the marquis later, with more time to plan the wedding?” Aurelia glances up over her shoulder at Ruth. “For our crown prince, it was over a year from the engagement’s announcement to the ceremony, right? I believed that was the standard.”

There are more reasons; Father’s own intelligence network has long been tracking the pro-war movement in Raywall. To say it’s quickly gone from a simmer to a boil is an understatement. He needed an excuse to get involved in Raywall’s politics, even if marrying off one of his children was the answer—and he needed that excuse fast. Those details aren’t for a foreigner’s ears, though. Why should Aurelia poke around? There’s no need. Chelle told her part of the truth.

Sheepish, Chelle puts a hand on her cheek. “This is embarrassing, but since you’re curious: in Alberia, it’s good fortune to be married in the Month of the Raindragon. If I’d passed by this opportunity, I would have to wait another year for the wedding of my dreams!” With a wink, she leans forward and lowers her voice. “Truth be told, I’m quite the romantic.”

Aurelia’s eyes widen as she looks away from Ruth. Then, she tucks her mouth against a hand, gives that warm, holy laugh, and says:

“Really? That’s not what the scandal sheets say!”

The smile freezes. Something in Chelle plummets.

“Your Highness? You look… pale all of a sudden.”

No. It can’t go as far as Grams. Then again, she already knew how much the Gramsian papers like to mock her family. And what was it Duke Caspar said to her when Elua introduced them? “I have heard much about you?”

Chelle was right.

“Oh, dear. That came out entirely wrong, I’m so sorry!”

Lies.

“I don’t mean to speak badly of you. I— I thought it would make for a good quip.”

Lies.

“Though I have read some scandal sheets, I’m not a person to pay heed to such things.”

Liar.

“If not to pay heed,” Chelle begins over the fire’s crackling, “then why read them in the first place?”

At the sharp shift in the atmosphere, Ruth lowers her book. Narrowed eyes fixed on Chelle, she puts a hand on her sword. But Chelle isn’t scared. She’s not scared of knights who think they can intimidate her, guards who whisper in dark corners, fucking Paladyns who keep her sister from her—

Aurelia looks at a loss. Her fingers are curled around her book, held in front of her chest like protection. Looking for an excuse, she lowers her eyes before meeting Chelle’s frigid gaze again. “In the part of Grams where I work, even the newspapers are unaffordable for the residents. The more lowbrow publications are all that are peddled.”

“Surely we could say Ilia places such lowbrow literature in front of you as a trial! I see now that even a holy woman can’t keep her eyes off such tempting perversion.”

“I— I don’t deny I shouldn’t read them, but it’s so difficult to keep your eyes off of.” Aurelia has the audacity to attempt a laugh.

But Chelle isn’t laughing.

Ruth comes around Aurelia’s armchair and grabs her shoulder. “Your Holiness, let’s go.”

“I’m not in danger,” Aurelia insists, firmly brushing Ruth away. “Let me fix this misunderstanding—”

“Perhaps you should leave.”

At that, Aurelia flinches and turns her head back to Chelle. “Your Highness, I don’t—”

With a great sigh, Chelle props her elbow on the arm of the chair, places a finger to her temple, and narrows her eyes at Aurelia. She smiles and crosses her legs. “You are more than welcome to stay if you feel safe, but as per the sheets, surely you know what I may do.”

Aurelia is quiet, lips a thin line. Her eyes are round with faux pity.

“Or maybe the scandal sheets aren’t as detailed in blessed Grams as they are in Alberia?” Chelle clicks her tongue. “What a pity you have to miss out on the juicy details, since you do seem to love a good bit of gossip.”

At that, Ruth grits her teeth, eyes blazing, and draws her sword an inch. “Stop slandering Aurelia at once!”

“Make me.”

In a flash, Ruth’s face goes from fierce to something more hesitant.

That’s right. All bark, no bite.

Quietly, Aurelia lowers the book into her lap. “I’m sorry. I thought we’d spent enough time together, but I see I was being overfamiliar. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“I’m glad you did. It was nice of you to show me your cards.”

“Your Highness, please, I really am—” She sighs and lifts a hand. “Ruth, stand down. I’m at fault.”

Chelle stands from the chair. Ruth flinches and steps in front of Aurelia. However, Chelle turns and makes for the refreshment table in the room’s corner. Tiring things require drinks.

“Princess Chelle, I— I’d really like to explain—”

“You needn’t continue.” Chelle picks the teapot up and pours a cup. “You are my guest and a foreign diplomat. All I request is we both behave.” The thin tea is barely more than water, but better than nothing. She averts her eyes to the floor.

For a time, Aurelia keeps quiet while the fire crackles and the rain outside beats the earth. Then, hesitantly, she says, “What the scandal sheets print aren’t flattering. It must be unpleasant.”

Chelle lowers the cup.

“To tell the truth, I was ready to believe some of it. Where there’s smoke, there’s often fire, after all.” Aurelia goes silent again, pondering, before carrying on. “But the impression I’ve gotten of you has been nothing like it.”

A wry smile works its way onto Chelle’s face as she turns. “Did you think I would be so coarse as to act poorly in front of an honored guest from the Holy City, of all places?”

“It’s true that I didn’t expect you to beat servants in front of me, or— or, I don’t know, seduce my guard, but…”

“But what?”

“But it’s hard for people to hide their true natures.”

How laughably wrong. It’s as simple as breathing.

“If it wasn’t easy for people to conceal their true natures, Priestess, this world would be very different,” Chelle replies. She places the teacup on the table and crosses one arm, the other held up. “Consider: parents who abuse their children in private can be considered kind and attentive by the public. Notorious serial killers are often seen as exceptionally charming individuals. The wicked walk freely among decent company precisely because lying is easy.”

“Maybe, but—”

“There are no ‘buts,’ Priestess. I understand a clergywoman may prefer to see things in a rosier light. However—”

“But,” Aurelia repeats, eyes suddenly hard. “The wicked hide behind those lies. If you were the person the gossip says, I think you’d deny it with every fiber of your being instead of talking philosophy. So, why aren’t you?”

Because it’s like Aurelia said: where there’s smoke, there’s fire. If Chelle has been on fire her whole life, how is she meant to deny the column of smoke rising from her ashes? It would be insanity.

“My proclivities aren’t such that I would be locked away,” she replies evenly, “and I philosophize because I am fond of my own voice.”

“I see. Then you beat your servants?”

Chelle lowers her head.

“You’ve slept with married men?”

She breathes.

“You convinced the Auspex to climb a tree so she would fall and break her arm? Because you were jealous of her?” Aurelia’s voice is something. Disbelieving? Mocking? Accusing? “You rejoiced in your brother’s illness because you’ll be higher in the line of succession when he dies?”

She says nothing.

Aurelia sighs, the most aggravated Chelle has ever heard her. “It looks to me, Princess, that you can’t even come up with evidence of your own wrongdoing—and I haven’t seen any of it.”

But if so many people point and cry, “Fire!” then there is fire. Chelle has certainly always felt ablaze.

“Those specific stories are exaggerated, but…” Chelle squeezes the table. Where there’s smoke, there’s fire. Where there’s smoke, there’s fire. Where there’s smoke, there’s fire.

If she wasn’t on fire, she wouldn’t have burned him so terribly.

“Aurelia,” Ruth interrupts. “Don’t waste any more time. That monster’s blood clearly can’t listen to reason.”

A cup goes flying past her head. It shatters into a million pieces against the wall behind her.

The room is silent.

Surprisingly calm, Aurelia says, “Ruth, please excuse yourself.”

Though she looks shaken at how close she came to a ceramic cup in her face, Ruth’s voice stays strong. “Aurelia, I can’t leave you alone with this unhinged—!”

“Ruth.”

“Let her finish,” Chelle whispers.

The fire rumbles. The rain pounds. Eventually, Ruth grits her teeth and stalks to the door. She leaves, but Chelle senses her outside: Pacing, agitated, and ready to rush in and catch her in the act of pulling Aurelia’s hair, throwing her around, howling, behaving like a wretch.

“But I don’t believe you to be capable of such things, Your Highness,” he once said.

What does it matter what he used to say?

“I’m sorry about her.” Aurelia’s voice is gentle, as though she’s approaching a wild horse. “And I’m sorry again I started this. I was hoping we could talk it out, but— but would you like me to leave as well?”

Chelle realizes her arm is still outstretched from the throw, hair hanging in her face. The Paladyn called her unhinged for good reason. She stands straight, sweeps her bangs aside, and tries looking proper. Her shoulder throbs, but after that stunt, she deserves some ache. What was she going to do if she actually hit a Paladyn square in the face? The newspapers would’ve loved that, but Father, not so much.

“Stay if you wish. Leave if you wish,” Chelle replies. “But I think you have just seen evidence.”

“Ruth insulted your blood, Your Highness. I don’t think throwing a cup at her was evil. It wasn’t right, but neither was she.”

Chelle wants to pack up her embroidery, leave, and go to bed. That’s all she wants. Is it so hard for Aurelia to stop scrabbling to defend herself? Is it so hard to leave her alone? What does she have to do to get Aurelia to leave her alone?

“Very well.” Chelle turns back to the table and waves a hand. “I believe you when you say you had no intent to antagonize, and I apologize for my outburst. If that will be all, we may part ways for tonight.”

And Chelle is sorry for the outburst, but she doubts either Aurelia or her Paladyn will accept that apology. She’s not about to grovel to make them believe it.

“You know, back in Grams, I work with the less fortunate.”

Oh, come on.

“I’ve seen countless people in my time with the church: Veterans. Abused women. Abandoned children. And, they’re all running from things.”

“Priestess Aurelia, you very much do not have to feed me… whatever this is. I already said, I—”

“I asked why you wanted to marry the marquis so quickly because— I don’t know.” Aurelia’s voice is a tiny thing now, but she can’t seem to stop her justifications. She takes a single step towards Chelle. “I wanted to help, because maybe when I looked at you, I was reminded of those people.

“I thought I saw someone who was running.”

A hand falls on Chelle’s shoulder.

It’s like someone has dumped ice water down her neck.

With a strangled gasp, Chelle knocks the hand away. For a moment she is lost, struggling to realize where she is, until she hears a tiny pop and a sharp cry. With that to guide her back, she recenters herself in the library. Chelle blinks. Something roars in her ears. Her eyes go to the table. It’s askew. Some of the plates of food have fallen.

She looks at the ground, at a puddle of tea and a broken cup.

She looks at her hands, shaking violently.

She looks at Aurelia, who is hunched over, gripping her wrist and holding it tightly to her chest.

Something slithers up Chelle’s spine: a cold, heavy, deep thing, dragging its thin hand up the line of her back. Silently, it wraps its fingers around her shoulders, pulling her back against it. A chill rolls through Chelle. It watches Aurelia there on the ground, too. And then, amused, it puts its smiling lips to Chelle’s ear.

Isn’t it funny? You were the only danger here.

It lets go as Chelle steps forward, hand outstretched. Aurelia doesn’t shy away. She touches Aurelia’s shoulder and grabs her hand, coaxing her into letting her see. Aurelia doesn’t scream with pain or terror and try to snatch it back, which is good. What’s better is that nothing is bent or bleeding. Aurelia only hisses when Chelle tries lightly moving her wrist.

Chelle needs to find words. She has to. She needs to find them so badly, but a hundred things swirl in her head, her chest lurches, and her breathing is trying to come out irregularly. She needs something to say, but she only fumbles like an idiot. A bead of sweat slides down her nape.

Aurelia’s voice trembles from shock. “It didn’t break. It— it’s just a sprain.”

“Your Holiness,” she manages. “Please, I—”

Shaking her head, Aurelia gingerly slips her hand out of Chelle’s. Despite everything—Chelle’s tantrum, the scorn and mockery, how she kept interrupting—she smiles. “N—no. I overstepped a boundary.”

Chelle did everything wrong. She was wrong, and she needs to say so. “Priestess Aurelia, I didn’t mean—”

Sometimes, she spins words into silver and gold. And then, sometimes, she can’t manage a single sound. Why is it always at the worst moments that she can’t say what she wants? Why can’t she be a glittering princess all the time, always with the perfect comeback, the sharpest tongue, the most eloquent speech?

Is it because she is just… Chelle?

As Aurelia clears her throat, suppressing a pained noise, Chelle scrabbles her way out of her own head. She breathes. Her chest thumps, and she reminds herself that all she has to do is find that glittering princess. All she has to do is think: what must a princess, not a person, do in this situation?

Chelle stops her hands from shaking. She grabs her skirts, dipping into the lowest curtsy she can manage. “Priestess Aurelia, I sincerely apologize. My erratic behavior is inexcusable, but my actions are mine alone; they do not reflect Raywall, nor Alberia.” Chelle keeps her head lowered, staring at the ceramic pieces on the carpet. “Please, let me know what I can do to make right by you.”

“Your— Your Highness.” Aurelia’s voice isn’t tinged with, but dripping pity. It’s starting to sound uncomfortably real. “I’m the one who caused all this. I was overfamiliar twice and didn’t understand any— any boundaries you might have, so…”

Aurelia must ask for something. If Chelle doesn’t give reparations, this could come back to bite later, viciously. What will Father and Leonidas say when their relationship with Grams crumbles, all because Chelle couldn’t handle a hand on her shoulder?

One stupid slip-up and she’s imperiled two countries.

“Priestess Aurelia, ask anything of me.” Chelle grips her skirts until her knuckles are white. “If it is within my power, I shall give it. A favor, or—”

“If I took something from you, it would go against every principle I hold myself to.” Aurelia’s voice has a sudden, firm edge. “And if I held a sprained wrist against your entire country, the goddess Ilia would surely smite me.”

“Priestess, I can offer—”

“If Your Highness is so insistent, then—” Aurelia gives a heaving, exasperated sigh and turns her head away. “I’ll come up with something. Give me a few days to think upon it.”

Chelle nearly protests, but bites her tongue instead. She tastes an iron tang. “I await the chance to correct myself, then.”

When Chelle finally finds her spine and manages to meet Aurelia’s eyes, her face, illuminated by the fire, is twisted with lots of things: Pain, pity, a touch of anger. But, she doesn’t look disgusted or accusatory. If she showed those emotions on her face, or even some hatred, then maybe it would be easier.

Aurelia nurses her sprained wrist, gazing into the flames. “I have official duties to attend to for the next while at local cathedrals. So, Your Highness doesn’t need to attend to me for the next while.”

Something in Chelle’s chest lurches. She curtsies again, but not quite so low. The small smile Aurelia gives in return is tainted with ample wariness. Hastily, she makes for the door. Ruth is waiting when she opens it, face full of a concerned curiosity that morphs into shock when Aurelia bustles past. When their gazes brush, Chelle clearly sees her eyes blazing with unabated hatred.

The door closes.

Though the fire still crackles, the rain no longer lashes the windows, having lightened into a drizzle. The booming thunder sounds far, far off in the distance. It could be that the storm will come back, or a new one will roll in, but this lull should give her a chance to return to the guest manor. Peter, and maybe even Cat Sìth, will probably be waiting for her.

Chelle picks up the table and straightens it. She picks up a cloth napkin and kneels. Quietly, with only the fire as company, she places the fallen sandwiches on the chipped plates and sets them aside, then takes the napkin and wipes up the tea. Piece by piece, she carefully picks up the broken bits of ceramic and porcelain and places them inside the napkin. She heads to the other side of the room and picks up the shards there as well. There’s still a mess, but more excusable.

As she’s folding the napkin, there’s a knock at the door. The missing maids are her first thought, but then she catches a clean scent and shoves the napkin into her pocket, ensuring it’s hidden before she says, “Come in.”

Elua opens the door, peering in, and he smiles when they make eye contact. “Good evening, Princess.”

Everything in the room feels like so much more than it did a second ago. She forgot to put the sandwiches back on the table. There are still tiny shards on the floor. She’s a criminal standing stupidly in the midst of her own crime, but smiles back. “My lord, what a surprise! Where is the duke?”

“Back in his quarters for the evening,” Elua replies, stepping in fully. “There was a moment of tension between him and Bertrand, but we all escaped with each and every one of our limbs.” He takes a precursory glance around the library, confusion flashing in his eyes. “Where is the good priestess?”

Chelle turns away, picks up her bag she left by the armchair, and carefully places her abandoned embroidery inside. “She left a short while ago. I was informed that, as she has some responsibilities, she will not need my company until further notice.”

Elua laughs then, a warm and light sound that chills her blood. “Freedom from the spy at last!”

She laughs with him, hoping it doesn’t sound hollow, and stops before it starts sounding outright fake. Before Elua can point out the remnants of the mess himself, she says, “Also, I bumped into the table and seem to have caused a mess. I cleaned it the best I could, but—”

Elua echoes, “‘Cleaned it?’” before having a more in-depth look around. Chelle brushes her skirt off nonchalantly, telling herself the mess isn’t as bad as it feels, and smiles when he speaks. “My lady, to clean broken dishes yourself is—” He stops, shakes his head, and then approaches with slightly outstretched hands. “Let us see. Did you cut yourself?”

Protests fall from her lips, but Elua takes her hands and pulls them towards himself, palms upward. Again, Chelle feels like there’s ice water dripping down her spine. Her body screams get away, get away, get away, but no—she can’t do that. Not just can’t, but shouldn’t. Pale-faced, she stares at Elua as he observes her hands with a furrowed brow and reminds herself: this man is as good as her husband. So, she will behave.

Chelle slips her hands out of his hold. “Goodness, my lord, touching my skin before the wedding night? What scandal!” To her chagrin, Elua doesn’t go pink. He looks plenty worried, still staring at her wrists even though she’s pulled her hands away, but that’s odd. She knows she didn’t cut herself. She knows how to be careful.

“It seems the maids stepped out, but they can clean the rest when they return. Next time, please wait for them—they have gloves and equipment, after all.” Though Elua’s face is a bit grim, his tone is light when he says, “People will call me a sham of a gentleman if it becomes known I let a princess clean anything.”

The laugh she gives is thin and pleasant. “I will keep that in mind, my lord. Thank you.”

“In any case.” He holds a hand out to her. “I prepared for you to return to the manor, since the rain has paused.” Hastily, he adds, “You are more than welcome to stay, but I thought you may want to go somewhere private after a few days here.”

“How considerate! I could do with some peace and quiet while I work.”

Instead of taking Elua’s hand, she takes his elbow and allows him to escort her. Chelle maintains her dignity, head lowered a polite amount, and says nothing. The curious, sometimes sharp gazes of the people in the palace pierce her when she passes by. There are whispers, but she forces herself to not listen. After all, Chelle knows herself well enough to understand she’s already hanging by a thread.

The outside air is thick with humidity. Petrichor lingers in the air, but so does the scent of coming rain. Elua walks silently alongside her through the courtyard. The carriage’s coachman is looking at her with subtle distaste, so she hopes the rain takes its time.

“I have more meetings,” Elua says when they stop in front of the carriage, “but I promise to call on you as soon as I am able.”

Chelle doesn’t want to smile anymore, but does. “Lovely. Maybe start thinking of what food you would like at the reception, hm? We can discuss it with the wedding planners sometime next week.” As usual, nothing in his gaze suggests he’s registered the wedding. Her stomach drops. When the coachman opens the carriage, she moves to let go of Elua’s hand and retreat, but he tightens his hold. Baffled, she stares at him over her shoulder.

Elua raises a brow and moves to the side of the stairs. “Please, take a seat.”

Pink tinges her cheeks. She clears her throat. With a sweep of her hand, she collects her skirts. “Thank you, my lord.”

“It is only the bare minimum.” Elua steadies her, minding, “Watch your step,” as she enters. When she’s settled on the corner of the seat, he releases her hand. His fingers slip out from beneath hers slowly, leaving her with a chill on her fingertips. Pleasant as ever, he smiles. “Safe travels, Princess.”

Elua waves at her. After a second, Chelle raises her hand to wave back, but the coachman shuts the door. She holds her wrist and stares down at her lap instead as the carriage lurches.

Thunder rumbles in the distance. A rain droplet smacking the glass next to her ear makes her jump. She listens to the carriage wheels on cobblestone, trying to distract herself, but can’t stop herself from asking, What have I done?

Assaulting a member of a Gramsian delegation. Verbal conflict alone is bad enough, but violence has severe political consequences. One frivolous outburst now has the potential to harm so many people. Her leg bounces. Aurelia could use this as a way to put Grams in a superior position during negotiations. She could demand consequences. The people of Raywall are already cold and hungry out on the wet streets—what can she do to minimize the impact to them? No, not just them, but the cold, hungry, and wet on Grams’ streets as well. Suffering always starts from the bottom up.

And before she knows it, the carriage lurches to a halt. Chelle braces her hand on the edge, pulling her bitten thumb from her teeth. Rain beats against the cobblestone courtyard of the guest manor, coming down harder each second. Yet, the coachman—dressed in a water-resistant cloak—takes his sweet time coming around. There’s leisure in the sound of his gait. The horses whinny as he pats them. Harder and harder, the rain comes down, and Chelle knows that he knows a lady erupting from her carriage before it’s been opened for her looks boorish. Deep in her stomach, something bubbles.

At last, the door opens. The coachman keeps his head lowered and says nothing to her. Over his head, she gazes at the rain jumping off the wet stone. A coachman who cares about their duties would carry an umbrella. Perhaps this one would’ve done so for Elua. But not for her. It’s fine, though. There has been worse than rain, so Chelle picks up her skirts and steps out.

On the second step, her heel skids on the wetness.

A gasp bursts out of her. She doesn’t go flying, but her ankle twists awkwardly and she lurches forward precariously, grasping the side of the cold, wet carriage while her chest flutters uncomfortably. Under his breath, quiet enough that a proper human wouldn’t catch it, she hears an amused breath leave the coachman.

Something inside of her breaks.

“Would it kill you to offer me a hand?!” she snaps, drawing herself up amidst the rain and glaring down at him. With a scoff, she narrows her eyes. “You can’t even extend basic manners to me?”

Lightning cracks in the sky. The coachman stares at her with such wide eyes that, with a sinking feeling, Chelle wonders if she misheard his chortle and if she just didn’t give him enough time to offer her a hand. Then, his expression turns to blatant disgust that makes her jaw shudder. Wordlessly, he holds out his hand. From the curve of his fingers and the tightness of his knuckles, she knows his touch would be anything but gentle.

She turns her head and takes the final steps herself. “Forget it.”

The coachman squeezes his fist shut and walks off, leaving her in the increasingly heavy rain. And again, so softly he couldn’t ever expect anyone but a hound to hear, he mutters, “Royal bitch.”

For a short time, Chelle forces herself to be soaked by the rain.

Sol Alberia, Some Time Ago

Wine. Cakes.

Wasn’t that supposed to be it?

The ladies seemed friendly. It’s been a long time since Chelle sat down with friendly people. Lady Theodosia sat close to her. They and all the others had pleasant conversations about a local art exhibit, the newest opera, their siblings. They even poured Chelle a glass of juice while they sipped finely-aged wine. Lady Theodosia smiled at Chelle and reassured her that she was among friends.

Lady Theodosia will fit into high society well. She’s an excellent liar.

After a glass of juice, the ladies pressed her to have a sip of wine. A sip turned into a glass at further pressing, then another glass, and then another. It didn’t even taste good. Too dry, too bitter, too overwhelming. Chelle didn’t want to drink the wine, but she didn’t want to be kicked out, either. By the time she realized something was wrong, she couldn’t fight back.

Father hates when she drinks, because Father worries over her so much. So she doesn’t drink. She didn’t know what wine should and shouldn’t taste like. That bitter aftertaste… Now, she wonders if that’s how the other ladies’ wine tasted. Maybe not. Her head felt fuzzy after the first glass. No strength in her arms. A heaviness in her stomach.

Poor thing, you look tipsy. You’ll acclimate with another glass.

The last thirty minutes are a blur, but Chelle remembers crimson sloshing from a bottle and into her glass; the ladies’ laughter turning from friendly to sinister; Theodosia taking her elbow and forcing her to drink; hands in her hair, fingernails dragging across her cheeks.

Does she have pointed ears? What about fangs?

Someone pulling the neckline of her dress down, the hem of her dress up, laughing when she tried pushing them away.

What about scales? Do you see them? My uncle told me he saw them on her thighs!

Footsteps pounding in the hallway outside, each one like an entire percussion section in her brain. The laughter turning to gasps and the ladies’ hands retreating.

Go, out the back door! Hurry, hurry!

Falling to the floor. Someone stomping on her hand as they fled. Cutting her palm on a broken wine glass.

Now, the door flies open. Chelle huffs and puffs on her side, struggling to focus on the spinning room. Bile rises in her throat. She has to sit up. She knows that. But she’s bleeding, she feels sick, and the world swims all around her. If something dangerous has come, she has to flee; she has no weapon, can’t cast her shoddy magic in this state, and she still has never succeeded in shapeshifting.

“Your Highness!”

The knight may as well be an assassin. Rather, she wishes he was. Maybe being dead would be preferable to the scandal that will happen when he tells everyone how he found the princess on the floor and drunk out of her mind. If she’s dead, she won’t have to see the disappointment in the eyes of her father. She won’t have to be disciplined by her lady-in-waiting. Leonidas won’t sneer at her. Phares won’t shake his head, and the little ones will never know what a disaster their sister is.

How stupid she was, boldly proclaiming to herself that she would never give the knight the scandal he wanted. She should’ve kept her guard up. Should’ve realized that Lady Theodosia wouldn’t have good intentions. When has anyone ever wanted to be her friend except to take advantage of her?

Pathetic. Disgusting. A blight on Alberius’s bloodline. Just like everyone says.

“What in the goddess’s name…?”

Chelle struggles to focus on the knight. She struggles to even raise her head to look at him. Is she going to die? Did Theodosia and the ladies lace her glass with poison? But then, through the fog, she realizes that would be too obvious. They’d get caught. They didn’t want her dead. Maybe they just wanted her to wish she was.

The knight’s blurry shape takes a knee. Through the strands of her hair, Chelle watches him gingerly pick up the stem of the broken wine glass. He seems to sniff what’s left. The way he slightly recoils tells her there was something in the cup, and she was a damn fucking fool for not sniffing it out herself. But she didn’t know wine wasn’t supposed to taste like that. She didn’t know. As though that makes it okay.

“Your Highness. Can you hear me?”

All she works out is a bare mumble. Feebly, she places her non-wounded hand flat against the floor and barely pushes herself up, head lolling.

“Oh thank goodness, you’re at least conscious.”

She has to get up. Before he goes and calls people to look at the spectacle. She has to stand and walk out on her own two feet. Yet, whatever it is Theodosia and friends have fed her is strong, even for her dragonblood. Her arms may as well be gelatin, so what’s to say her legs won’t just crumple beneath her? If she can’t escape, then…

Chelle curls her hand around a wine glass that has rolled near.

The knight steps towards her.

“No!”

With all the strength she can muster, Chelle flings the glass. She misses her mark; it shatters against a far wall. The knight stops right in his tracks. She didn’t hit him, but perhaps that was sufficient warning. He’s closer now, but with the world still lacking any cohesion, she can’t make out his expression.

“Don’t touch me,” she warns, certain it comes out more slurred than she’d like. “Just— just stay there.”

Stay there. Don’t approach. Don’t leave. He has to stay where she can see him.

The knight remains still for only a moment before saying, “Your Highness, you ingested a drug. You need a doctor immediately.”

Chelle knew that, but hearing it makes it feel worse. That bile from earlier threatens her again. With a strangled choke, she claps a hand over her mouth and sinks closer to the floor, until her forehead is pressed against the hardwood. She heaves and gags. Hot liquid slips through her fingers and dribbles down her chin.

She just wanted— No, she just thought—

No.

If Lady Theodosia wanted to be the star of high society, sidling up to Chelle has little to no benefit. It’s all a power play; better to exert dominance over a royal detested among high society than cozy up to them. Chelle should’ve seen this coming. It’s only her own fault for being blind to the obvious. She drags her fingers over the wood until her skin breaks.

“Princess, I’m coming closer now.” The knight speaks like he’s approaching a wild mare. “Your hand is bleeding—let me treat you.”

Her head throbs. Her stomach churns. She wishes she hadn’t picked this invitation. She wishes she hadn’t deluded herself into believing Theodosia had sincere intentions. She wishes the knight would just disappear.

She wishes for so many things, but wishes aren’t meant to come true.

The knight approaches her again, steps slow but firm. Fear calls strength into her limbs. When he reaches out, she throws herself back. She rams into an armoire and hisses through her teeth at the pain that explodes over her back. The armoire wobbles, feet clattering, but it doesn’t fall over. She curls back against it and glares at the knight as he continues his advance.

Her head is getting lighter. An unpleasant heat settles into her body. All of her limbs cry from the effort of flinging herself back and throwing the glass. Weary, Chelle slumps back against the armoire and accepts that she is at the knight’s mercy. She was the one to make the mistake. She made her bed, and now she’s going to have to lie in it. Breath ragged, she shuts her eyes and waits.

With her head as discombobulated as it is, it feels like a few long minutes have passed before she feels something soft against her cheek. Like she’s just waking up, Chelle blearily cracks her eyes open. The knight is crouched in front of her. He’s close enough that she can make him out, even though he has one-and-a-half heads. But, she can see his expression: Calm, patient, even worried.

Chelle’s utterance of, “What are you doing?” must be coherent, because the knight replies, “You have blood on your face, Highness.”

She rests her head back against the armoire and stares silently, bewildered and drugged out of her mind while he cleans her up. When he’s done with her face, he says, “Excuse me,” and picks up her cut hand. Silently and gently, he wipes the wet blood away, then ties the handkerchief around the angry gash.

“Who did this to you?” he asks.

Chelle turns her head away.

“Your Highness.”

“Me,” she mumbles.

Saying it makes the situation feel more real. The princess of Alberia—scion of a legend—drunk and drugged, curled up in a sitting room at a random estate. Too weak to even swat away a knight. Slurring her words. Regurgitated wine dripping from the corner of her mouth. Her hair pulled out of the elegant style she wore just an hour ago, the pearl strands that held it together strewn across the floor. The neckline of her gown yanked down. Scratches from where the ladies pulled at her hair with their perfectly-manicured nails.

Her jaw clenches. “It was— was me.”

The knight’s hands are gloved, but she feels a deep, deep warmth emanating from them anyway when he cups her face. It’s not what she wants, but for some reason, she leans into that warmth instead of pulling away. With something like care, of all things, his thumbs swipe over her hot cheeks.

A thin, hiccuping gasp works its way out of her when she takes a breath. “I didn’t want t—to drink.”

“My lady—”

“They ju—just kept pouring more.”

“Princess Chelle—”

“Please,” she begs, because it feels as though everything in the world is against her will, “don’t tell. Don’t tell Leonidas, or my lady-in-waiting, or the newspapers, or— or Father—”

It’s not just the knight’s hands that are warm. When he puts his arms around her and pulls her close, all of him is.

Chelle doesn’t understand what’s happening or why she feels more calm, but the knight has a nice smell. Something like warm dust from the training grounds back at the palace, Damascus steel, and, somehow, roses.

But he was here to humiliate her. He’s from House Vergette, but he’s a knight first and foremost. Is he trying to trap her? Has he planned this with Theodosia? Someone will come bursting into the room any second to find the princess not only drunk, but wrapped in the arms of a man. Chelle tenses and presses her weak hands against his front, feebly attempting to push him away from her.

“Your Highness, everything will be alright.”

She freezes.

The knight unwraps her from his hold. He shifts, moving one arm beneath her knees, and scoops her up effortlessly. Chelle’s foggy head and nauseous stomach don’t care for the change in position, but she copes. Squeezing the knight’s shoulder, she stares up at him. He’s so close, but the daze is growing worse. She makes out only the barest traces of his features, even though she feels his breath stirring her disheveled hair.

“Nothing else will hurt you,” he promises. “There is a back door. A coachman shouldn’t be hard to pay off, and I know an entrance to the palace where no one will be this time of night. I can get you back home unseen.”

What will you want after that?

“But, Your Highness, you require a physician—”

“No doctors,” she breathes. The world spins around and around, growing worse each second as he takes her out of the bright sitting room and down the dark hallway. “P—Phares.”

He’s quiet. The sound of his steps echo pronouncedly in the empty hall. Through Chelle’s fog, she faintly hears the clamor of that glittering party. It grows quieter. She can’t tell if it’s the drug in her system worsening, or if they’re just getting far enough away.

“If that is what you wish.”

Cool air washes over Chelle. She can’t tell up from down, left from right. The knight is more of a blur than ever. But, they must be outside. The fresh, chill air is so nice that she takes a deep, shaking breath. So she doesn’t have to see the world, she shuts her eyes and presses her cheek against the knight’s chest. In the morning, she’ll regret it—she’ll regret everything. But right now, maybe it’s fine.

His heartbeat under her ear is steady and strong, pulsing deep in his chest. It’s almost an earnest sound.

And for some reason, Chelle isn’t that afraid.

Chapter Text

“Are you in the mood for coffee, sir?”

Bertrand Accardi heaves a great sigh, rubbing the back of his neck as he trudges into the sitting room. He’s starkly different from the dignified general at the previous parties: A scratchy jaw, hair in his eye, an old robe flung over his shoulders. Scratching his chin, he steps past the housekeeper and mumbles, “Where is Alice?”

“Training yard,” the housekeeper replies.

Bertrand cracks the blinds of a window, peering out with a furrowed brow. Seemingly satisfied, he pulls his robe over his invalid shoulder and steps away. “I’ll take it black, Mathilde.” As he sits heavily on the arm of a broad chair, his eye falls on something by the door: a small, gray kitten. “For Ilia’s sake, did Alice let in another stray?”

The housekeeper—an older woman with a body heavy from work and age—starts arranging things on a tray before she peers at the kitten, its tail swishing as it quietly observes. “She does seem the likely culprit. Feisty thing; won’t let me pet it, and won’t take any food.”

“Does it want to go out?”

“No, I… don’t think so. It seems content there.”

“Keep a door open for it.”

“Of course.” The housekeeper sets to work, scooping ground coffee into a press. She looks peaceful as she prepares everything, but jolts at a heaving sigh behind her. With a look like she’s psyching herself up, she sets the water kettle down and asks, “Rupie for your thoughts, my general?”

Bertrand glances her way, then back out the window. “No.”

“You wouldn’t sigh like that if you didn’t want me to notice.”

“Bold today, aren’t we Mathilde?”

“Tortured today, aren’t we General?”

“It’s that damn king,” Bertrand explains, all too eager to give in. “And his child.”

“Oh, she’s all the staff talk about,” Mathilde remarks, leaning back on the table while the coffee brews. “Everyone says she’s supposed to be quite beautiful.”

With a handwave, he replies, “Too skinny to be pretty. With the plenty they have down south, you’d think the women would put meat on their bones rather than worry about how delicate their waists are.”

“That’s not generous.”

“Would you feel better if I said their men are just as waify?”

Mathilde turns back around. “Some.”

As the spoon clinks on the press, Bertrand unfurls his hand and stares into it, a mildly perplexed expression on his face. “Damn strong grip, though.”

“What was that?”

“I want her out of my city.”

Like this is funny, Mathilde chortles. “And I want a vacation to Lewis Island! Though that might be more doable than deposing a princess.” Steam billows over her face as she pours in more water. She asks, “Was she disagreeable when you had the displeasure?”

“She speaks like she’s smarter than everyone else in a room,” he replies, “and has a way with words too silver for my taste. That’s to say nothing of how she somehow has her claws in the city’s information stream already…” Bertrand rubs his forehead and adds, “Her leaving might not be so fantastical. After all, it mostly relies on Elua. The king could force the marriage, but Aurelius isn’t stupid enough to think he could without generating bad blood; it would be antithetical to why he sent her here in the first place.”

Mathilde’s eyebrows shoot into her receding hairline, her mouth lowered in surprise. “And you believe the marquis would choose Lady Yelda over her?”

“Elua is logical, but listens to his feelings overmuch,” Bertrand says. “And anyone with eyes could see he loved Yelda. I wouldn’t be surprised if he couldn’t hold to this engagement.” His lips turn up in his first wry smile of the day. “Can you imagine what a story it would be if he abandoned Ludovic’s granddaughter at the altar? I’d pay all the gold this house has if I could see Elua find his stones and humiliate them that way.”

“Don’t do that. I need that money for my very hypothetical vacation.”

Seemingly caught up in his imagination, Bertrand ignores her. His smile, though, looks hard instead of giddy, his gaze distant. “What better way to spit in House Alberia’s face, Mathilde?”

“You’re getting so creative, you ought to start penning short stories.” Mathilde presses the coffee, and as she pours, glances at Bertrand from the corner of her eye. “You really think the marquis could call the engagement off?”

“If he finds her personality as rotten as I do, he might not suffer it for long.”

Mathilde’s steps echo on the hard floor as she approaches Bertrand with a tray, a mug set in the middle. She offers it, brow raised curiously. “And if that doesn’t happen? You’re this city’s esteemed general; it’s your duty to swear fealty.”

Bertrand lifts his chin from his fist and glances at her, then his coffee. He takes it and stares into the black recesses. “Well, I won’t do anything of the sort, and neither will anyone else—barely anyone in Raywall has more of a vendetta than our men.”

“So then,” Mathilde says, tucking the tray beneath her arm. “You’d risk dishonor to drive her out.”

“I don’t think it would be such a dark stain on my reputation.”

“Then don’t you think the silent treatment is somewhat juvenile, General Bertrand?”

“Isolation only sounds juvenile until you’ve experienced it—and it would be doubly effective on a princess able to change her world with a snap of her fingers.” He scoffs into the mug’s brim. “She’ll find no such power here.”

“Truly, your vitriol knows no bounds.” Mathilde pauses, then glances over at a portrait hanging across the room: Bertrand and a woman with dark eyes, an angled face, and warm chestnut hair, standing perfectly upright with her arms looped around a child. Mathilde lowers her gaze.

Bertrand sets the coffee down. “Then there’s that damn delegation also raising my blood pressure.” He stands, the hem of his robe falling to the floor, and crosses the room to the table where he picks up a slice of bread. He waves it at Mathilde with a sour expression. “If Elua and that king want to let them on Alberian soil, fine. But my city—”

“Don’t you bring them up.” Mathilde’s expression is equally sour. “Knowing they’re enjoying themselves on palace grounds, eating our food when I can’t throw a rock in this city and not hit a hungry child…”

“If Aurelius wanted to host them somewhere, let them sweat like hogs in Valkaheim. That’s what I say.”

“That would defeat the purpose of them being here for the wedding.”

The sigh Bertrand heaves is laborious and irate. “And it all loops back to that woman. The indignity of Ludovic’s blood among my people isn’t enough? Now she facilitates Gramsians on our side of the mountains?” His expression is sickened, like he’s a hair away from spitting if he didn’t think Mathilde would snap at him. “My men, my friends, Leticia—they’re all rolling in their graves.”

Mathilde begins cleaning the coffee station, her jaw set. “Things don’t stay stagnant forever, Bertrand. Something has to give after fifteen years.”

Something flickers in Bertrand’s amber eye as he approaches the window, touching the glass. “You’re not wrong. And with all of this happening, I’m sure they are.

“Change simply needs to sway in our favor.”

“Right then.” Chelle flits through the documents, each one neatly written in a different cipher. Over their edges, she regards Peter, standing at attention, and Cat Sìth, who looks more interested in studying the rain outdoors. “Miss Kitty. Your duties today are—”

Cat Sìth flicks her outer ear. “Do let meow guess. I’m to watch that dullard again?”

“So smart. Aside from that, this is the list of suspects this week.”

She holds out a paper. Nose wrinkled, Cat Sìth leans in to study the profiles: A wealthy merchant quietly rallying veterans, a salon owner inspiring pro-war ideation in her patrons, and a count inquiring around Raywall’s underbelly about assassins for hire.

Sighing, Cat Sìth turns her head. “This is dreadfully boring, Purrincess.”

“My, I didn’t know hunting warmongers was meant to be fun!”

“I teach mew something every day.” Cat Sìth sighs laboriously and flops onto her side; Peter shuffles away to avoid her swishing tail. Her fuzzy cheek presses the floor as she glares at Chelle. “I want to pick my wedding attire.”

“Do you now?”

“Indeed! After meow, I should be the most beautiful, important lady in attendance!” She sits up and crosses her paws, tossing a smug look from the corner of a glittering eye. “But as a very close second, don’t hold it against meow if I outshine a weary bride by the night’s end.”

Crossing her arms, Chelle leans back on the table. “You will wear a lavender ribbon, and I plan to have a new sun hat commissioned soon.”

Aghast, Cat Sìth snaps her head back around, whiskers atwitch. “Bridezilla! You’ve already picked my clothes?”

“I trust you’ll like the selection,” Chelle assures. “And I need this wedding to be perfect, right down to the color coordination; it was easier to pick your clothes myself.”

“But—!”

“No buts, Mademoiselle. I always allow you your pleasures, but do me this courtesy on my special day.” Chelle sets the papers down and regards Peter. “Monsieur.”

He clasps his hands, a glimmer in his eyes. “How can I serve?”

“You’re off to the market, yes?”

“To grab ingredients for this weekend’s meals.” Peter rubs his palms. “Should I keep my eyes peeled for someone? Perhaps a gaggle of ne’er-do-wells looking for mayhem? Say the word, I can even—!”

“No no,” Chelle interrupts. “I just wanted to request salmon.”

“Oh!” Cat Sìth turns her hungry eyes to him, tail wiggling. “Yes, yes! With that buttery sauce?”

“The only way to eat it.”

Peter looks deflated. “Is that… all?”

“Yes,” she says. “I consider Cat Sìth’s Sunday dinner to be of the utmost importance.”

“But—” He sucks in a breath and plants a hand on his chest. “I may not look like it, but when it was just your mother and I during her songstress days, I collected information for her! Not to praise myself, but I was competent at it.”

She rubs a crick in her neck. “I dislike the idea of you in such peril, nor would I ask you to overwork yourself. You’re doing plenty already, and I—”

“So the manservant gets coddled,” Cat Sìth interjects, “and I’m overworked like a mewl?!”

Chelle weighs the two between her hands. “A 47-year-old human man and a dragon in her prime…”

“But I’m a fragile lady!”

“And I’m only asking that fragile lady to manage the kittens and watch one man.”

“Watching that man is so boring, it’s about to shatter my delicate sanity!”

“Cat Sìth,” Chelle chides. “I’m in no mood to argue with—”

The room slants.

She clutches the back of a seat, wobbling on her feet. A high-pitched buzzing stings her ears. Cool sweat runs down the nape of her neck. Both Peter and Cat Sìth say her name, but the buzzing drowns them out, and she suddenly sees three of them each. The ciphered documents scatter on the floor. A hand reaches for her, and for a split second, she sees a tender, holy gaze behind it.

Her stomach lurches.

“Chelle!”

Chelle only just slams the door to the washroom before she grips the sink and heaves. Her body shakes with effort, shoulders up to her ears as she expels the dizziness and nausea. Her eyes stream. Everything continues swirling in a complete mess around her, until she has no choice but to squeeze her eyes shut and white-knuckle the dirtied porcelain.

“Manservant, go call a physician.”

“I’m fine,” Chelle chokes out, then hunches over with another wet cough.

“You don’t sound it!” Peter shoots back.

“I’m fine!”

Chelle gasps, the back of her hand against her mouth, and glares at the reflection. What look back at her are bloodshot eyes ringed by dark circles, a thin stream of saliva shining on the corner of pale lips, and a mess of yellow hair stuck to a sweaty neck. She narrows her eyes at the thin, trembling fingers and hunched posture.

In the back of her mind, she wonders if she looked so unhinged last week in the private library. If, under the smile, Elua saw such a vile thing and that’s why he hasn’t so much as said a word to her since.

Chelle swipes the corner of her mouth with a thumb, sniffs, and turns the sink on. The mess washes down the drain. She takes handfuls of the cold water, splashing them over her face. It’s cold, refreshing, and should add color back into her paper-white cheeks. As Cat Sìth and Peter mumble amongst one another, she blinks the sting of water out of her eyes.

“She vomited last night too, right?”

“Violently. She woke meow up twice.”

With a final handful, she slaps her cheeks, and weary, opens a medicine cabinet. She stares down two bottles: one filled with white pills and the other with smaller red ones. Her lady-in-waiting comes to mind, warning that Chelle didn’t need to drug herself, and that more importantly, it would be spun into something ghastly if the press found out.

Three red pills fall into her palm as she shakes them out. A hesitant second passes, then she picks up a folded note written on golden parchment where the bottle sat. She pops the pills into her mouth and unfolds it.

Chelle,

These are the sleeping pills and mana stimulants you asked for. You’re leaving so suddenly, I didn’t have much time to concoct as many as you wanted. But, they should last until I arrive for the ceremonies. The sleeping pills require no special instructions: one before bed either swallowed or dissolved will do.

However, do note that these “stimulants” are more experimental. They stimulate native mana reserves via a series of chemical reactions, allowing access to more mana than normal. As you can imagine, this is useful and dangerous in equal measure, to the point they could be viable only for those of our constitution. Even then, take no more than two within a 24-hour period, or you may not like the side effects.

My sister should also note that these will hold deficiency symptoms at bay and allow you to work uninterrupted, but only for a time. Eat properly, sleep well, and recover in the pedestrian fashion. If I hear of you doing otherwise from Peter, I may have to become cross when we meet, and I wish your wedding to be a happy affair bereft of at least one scolding brother. (It is Leonidas’s duty to harangue you—not mine!)

Yours truly,

Phares Yves Reynard

A knock comes. “Are you sure you’re alright, Highness?”

She places Phares’s achingly familiar handwriting and his bottle back on the shelf. “Give me a moment.”

Today, Elua could fulfill his promise. With that in mind, she looks at jars of makeup on the counter, then back at herself. She picks up a pot of liquid foundation, sighs, and unscrews the lid half-heartedly. Powder, blush, a tint to her lips, and she looks not like a radiant princess, but also, not like a goblin. It’s a compromise.

Yet despite the effort, when Chelle opens the door, Cat Sìth says, “Oh.”

Chelle glares. Cat Sìth’s ears flatten back.

“Where were we?” Chelle asks. The other two stare at her so intently, guilt bubbles in her empty stomach. She tugs a bang and steps past them to the table again, where Peter has put the documents back in order. Her hand hesitates over the stack; her eyes narrow. “Peter.”

He straightens again, but his hands wring with worry instead of excitement. “What can I do?”

“Don’t strain yourself,” she reminds again. Her fingertips touch the edge of a paper, and she sighs. “But I admit, more hands on deck would be fabulous. If you are willing, the butcher off the main street of the Orleans District is one of the king’s few informants here. You can see if he has any new information.”

Almost like she’s offered a luxury vacation, he lights up. “Yes, of course! How convenient, doing the shopping and espionage all in one stop!”

“I wouldn’t go so far as to call it ‘espionage,’” she mumbles. “Now hurry along, both of you.”

No hurrying happens. Instead, Cat Sìth asks, “Are these your mana deficiency symptoms?”

“…Yes.”

“I would suggest rest instead of work, then,” Peter urges.

“The manservant is right,” Cat Sigh agrees, sharing a look with him. “It would be a travesty if you were sallow by your wedding day.”

Chelle casts a look over her shoulder. “Am I not the picture of royal beauty and elegance?”

“No.”

“Treason.”

Cat Sìth circles the tea table, dragging her tail along the backs of Chelle’s legs. For a creature who loves only eating, sleeping, and frivolity, a stern tone is something indeed. “Do mew need reminding? The most kittens you’ve ever had at a time is eight, and now you have…?”

Petulant, Chelle glares out the window.

“Fifteen,” Cat Sìth fills in pointedly. “Dragonblood-schmagonblood, a frail human body won’t hold out.”

As if her words have summoned it, pain suddenly slams against Chelle’s forehead. She touches it, reminding herself of all the worse she’s had compared to some chills and headaches. “Don’t fret. It confuses me when you and Peter switch roles.”

“I’m not fretting!” cries Cat Sìth, almost offended. “It’s only that if mew go down, I’m out of a meal ticket!”

Peter steps over her tail and pulls a chair out. “At least sit. I’ll go get some pain medication.”

“There’s no need. Phares concocted some pills for me.”

“But knowing Prince Phares, he surely advised you they are no substitute for proper rest.”

“She’s deluding herself if she thinks those will do anything in the longterm,” Cat Sìth mutters as an aside.

Chelle refuses the chair. “If I’m asking both of you to work, it would be improper for me to lay about.”

Both their looks are disapproving, and when Peter speaks, it’s with a sternness that makes her straighten up. “Princess, taught bowstrings snap.”

“All hands on deck include my own,” she retorts. “Am I the only one remembering what I was sent here for?”

“No, Highness, but—”

Head down, she stalks towards the window. Her chest pounds, and she tries shutting out the thought of sprained wrists and broken promises. “My father’s tasks are no pastime. Do you two understand people could die if I lounge about?”

“A day doesn’t hurt,” Cat Sìth reasons.

“A day hurts plenty!”

Again, her ears flatten. “If this fervor is because of what that human general said to his maidservant, then—”

The corner of Chelle’s mouth pulls. “Bertrand Accardi can spew whatever nonsense he wishes, but the fact remains: I am the one here, and I have no plans to leave.”

“Then if this is about the marquis’ former fiancée, Princess, you shouldn’t feel insecure,” Peter advises gently, a hand stretched out. “We all know this isn’t a marriage of love, but—”

“There is nothing to be ‘insecure’ about.” Chelle pushes her hair over her shoulder, fiddling with an end. “Compare me to the likes of Princess Yelda, and I lack for nothing: Beauty, intelligence.” She unfurls a hand and stares into her palm. “Lineage, most of all. Even for this blood alone, Marquis Raywall would surely never turn me away.”

Now, that isn’t true. Something prods her spine, sending a chill up it. What is the weight of pedigree compared to hate? To affection?

“If you ask me, and I dare say mew should,” Cat Sìth begins, “then you are the best among humans, Chelle—which is why you should rest while the others squirrel away!” But when Chelle doesn’t respond to flattery, she huffs aggrievedly. “But if mew insist on stubbornness, far be it from us to deprive mew. Manservant, the door.” As Peter holds it open, allowing her to slink out into the shadows, she mutters to him, “I suppose asking her to not work herself into a hospital bed is a bridge too fur.”

“I do hear you!” Chelle snaps.

“I know! Try not to be pigheaded while I’m away, purrincess mine.”

After the shadows swallow Cat Sìth, leaving Chelle sighing into a hand, Peter hesitates instead of immediately following her. “Princess, you know Lady Dragon is looking out for you. She always tries to, considering the time you’ve spent apart. I think— Well, maybe she regrets—”

“You’re a dragon-whisperer now, are you?” Chelle turns partway and regards him, sighing again when he dips his head. “You needn’t interpret her for me. For better or worse, we always understand one another.”

“Of course, Your Highness. I wasn’t trying to imply I know better.”

“You did nothing of the sort. Now, off with you. I’d like to work alone.” She pauses. “Take an umbrella. I smell more rain on the horizon.”

She waits until the door has shut and the footsteps are long gone before she grips a chair and plants her other hand against a table. Her head pounds. She squeezes her eyes shut before picking up the documents and idly flipping through them, her eyes roving over the information. She should send it to Elua and hope she gets back something more than a mere confirmation of receipt.

His distance has been sudden. Unexpected. There were signs before, obviously. He was friendly, but never too warm, and he never mentioned the wedding after the first meetings—rich, considering that he was the one who begged Father for her hand. What a pathetic coward, getting cold feet so soon, and how pathetic being the one who needs that coward. How pathetic being the one who brought this on herself, because Elua’s feet were cold before, and it’s her own fault that they’re frigid now.

It’s not a coincidence that it’s been a week exactly since Elua stopped acknowledging her, and since her stint in the library. She should be grateful Aurelia didn’t scurry to the papers, too.

Heavily, Chelle sits on the bed. Her legs cry out with a relief she didn’t know they really needed. She sniffs and touches her still-sore throat. The world feels oddly silent after a few straight days of nonstop rain pattering on her window—how does Raywall manage its rainy seasons? Are there dams? Systems to redirect the water? Initiatives in case of flooding?

Chelle wonders if the people of Raywall ever look at the weeping sky bitterly, wondering why even rain insults them by choosing to fall on rock and barren soil.

Month of the Raindragon, Day 3

Reginald is off to battle again; Elua weeps terribly whenever his father leaves. Honestly, I feel like sobbing myself whenever he and Alistair abandon me to this mountain of tasks. I was promised the ability to study to my heart’s content when I was shipped to this blasted country—this was not in the cards.

The mines are what concern me as of late. Reginald once said there was no way the mines could dry up in our lifetimes, but this slowdown in production could only be denied by a halfwit by him. I spoke with Count Caruso about it all. The miners dig up less each week, and it’s getting harder to justify it with a simple lack of workforce.

Month of the Wardragon, Day 25

Gramsians made their way into the city. Most of the soldiers were slaughtered, and the commoners in the northernmost area utterly plundered. I am told only some children were spared. I shouldn’t venture that way, lest the bloodshed make me ill; I must appear strong for Elua.

Mining materials and product were being stored there. Gone now, of course. Had we traded them, we would have scraped together enough to ship in medical assistance. Sickness has been common as of late with so few doctors, and I worry it could spread even to the nobility.

Month of the Wardragon, Day 28

Count Caruso was found dead in his study. It seems the grim reality of the latest mining reports were too much to bear.

Month of the Stardragon, Day 30

Elua asked if the war would end in this coming year. I told him “if we are lucky.” However, a mountain village was burned to the ground last night, so peace seems unlikely. The men weren’t spared. When Lieutenant Accardi arrived to report that the women and children were gone, whisked away so perfectly it could have been magic, his eyes were hollow. Wherever those people have gone, I pray they are allowed to go with whatever dignity they have.

Month of the Raindragon, Day 9

The head miner reported that the mine’s output is already half of what it was this time last year. The remaining miners haven’t been able to work peacefully, either. A spy attacked a group last week, and with no security to spare for them, many of the survivors quit on the spot. Truth be told, I haven’t a clue where the city will get any of its income this year.

First Month of the Dragon, Day 7

Less than 100 miners remain. The head miner and I agreed more drastic measures have to be taken to find new veins. This is a risk: I can only liken the mine’s depths to the sea’s. Any time miners have attempted to travel deeper, they’ve been attacked by all manner of fiends not found on the surface. Does the Shard’s protection not extend so deep into the earth? Fascinating if so, but I can’t imagine Ludovic’s bloodlusted brain would know anything about it.

First Month of the Dragon, Day 10

18 miners died going deeper. A massacre. The sole survivor is too traumatized to convey what he saw—only that it was a massive beast upon them before they knew it. The eyes on that man… Would he have preferred the frontlines?

Is all the effort and cost of excavation and hiring mercenaries worth the handful of garnet it would merit? A smattering of silver? It is the fate of the working man to die for his community, but there was another Gramsian raid and the commoners are at wit’s end. Should we keep throwing people to the depths, there would be riots. I don’t need the unwashed masses wailing for my head on top of every other blasted problem Reginald left me. That man should count himself lucky; were Elua not here, I would have fled this sinking ship the second Ludovic darkened our doorstep.

Month of the Lovely Dragon, Day 28

Alistair returned alone. We will not be seeing Reginald again.

I feel no sadness, but nor do I feel joy. I only feel bitter regret when I see Elua crying.

Damn Ludovic. Damn his house. Damn this country, and damn those Gramsian demons…

“…let them never see the gates of their coveted heaven,” Chelle reads. She leans back, cheek on a fist, and twists the book in her hand to see the name written on the front: Ramona Lund. She twists it again to study the page. “‘Unwashed masses…’ Positively egalitarian. No need to question where Elua gets it from.”

Chelle studies the library table, littered with book stacks, scrolls, ink and quill, and a teapot atop its warmer. There were documents in Sol Alberia, of course: Books, maps, censuses. In the capacity she could before leaving, Chelle tucked her nose into those materials, eyes sore and forehead against a fist as she burned midnight oil. She understood some info would be inaccurate, but until the carriage rolled over the cracked roads and she saw an entire city with shuttered windows, she didn’t realize to what extent: the Raywall she read about no longer exists. It’s not just Elua that will be unimpressed if she stays too uneducated to even ask appropriate questions.

She casts the journal aside and pulls her notebook towards her. Every scratch of her pen sounds louder than it should. Sol Alberia’s libraries were filled with librarians, courtiers, scholars and mages debating their hypotheses in hushed yells before daring to present them to Phares. Here, she’s yet to see so much as a single librarian on duty. That vague sense of community doesn’t exist here; flanked by shelves on either side, Chelle nearly feels boxed in.

And company she doesn’t want strides past her.

Something cold strokes its fingers over the loose papers, then plants its palms flat against the table. I don’t think knowing how to ask a question or two will make the man happy to see you.

Chelle keeps her eyes fixed on the notebook. The scratch of her writing echoes.

Knowing a tad more than you did won’t erase that mishap with Aurelia.

Her pen falters. She writes a note on a fresh page, reminding herself to study up on Gramsian customs, brainstorm some proposals. No matter how Aurelia chooses to tackle the situation, Chelle owes it to her to be prepared.

The thing’s finger prods her page. She already chose how to tackle it, remember? Effectively, quietly… Maybe she thought she was doing you a favor that way.

Right. How did Elua react when Aurelia told him? Did he believe the vision Chelle showed him of herself and try to stick up for her? Or, maybe he did the smarter thing and took Aurelia’s side. The thought of him comforting Aurelia causes a twinge in her stomach. She presses it down.

Finally, the thing leans towards her, breathing something against her cheek that freezes her bones: Try groveling.

Chelle turns in her seat, and her arm knocks the notebook to the ground.

“Drat,” she says on instinct, and the library’s silence is her only company again. She leans down to pick the notebook up by its cover. The pages flutter, and something in them catches her eye: a small line of purple near the front of the book. Brow furrowed, she thumbs away from the more recent pages with her increasingly sloppy handwriting until she finds the purple again. She stares.

Incomprehensible, colorful doodles and scrawls peek back from the margins. There are flowers, pointless lines, things written so tightly in the corners with such wide crayon tip that Chelle scarcely recognizes them as words. Still, she manages to make out the immature handwriting in one corner as signatures: “Euden,” “Zethia,” and “Notte.”

When did the twins get their hands on this notebook? The fairy’s name cements it as after their mother’s death, so at most four-ish years ago. She hadn’t realized this notebook was so old when she packed it, or she would’ve tossed it. She runs her fingers over the waxy colors, then flips to the earliest pages, vaguely wondering what the her from then was writing:

Tonight, the sky was clear. I took Zethia and Lady Thea to the palace lake with no attendants, and we sat by the shore for a time. Lady Thea brought sweet bread to share. The stars were so bright, and they wheeled in the sky. They looked magnificent on the lake’s surface; Zethia described them in great detail to her mother. I wish we could’ve seen a shooting star… but I always like these moments even still. They make things feel normal again.

-

Valyx and Father keep arguing. Valyx insists he’ll be too stout for his current horse in a year’s time, but Father won’t give him a new one until he proves taller than Leonidas. At Emile’s request, I put him on my horse with me while they had their silly squabble and we had a nice gallop—but I don’t think poor Emile wanted to go that fast, given that he started crying his eyes out. He should learn to appreciate the wind on his face!

Father was cross by the time he caught us, and I was lectured for quite a length of time. (Yet Leonidas praised my riding, however begrudgingly, so everything turned out.)

-

Cat Sìth paid a visit during last night’s gala! It was my first time seeing her in some months. I met her on the balcony, and she took me to the rooftops so no one could find us. It should’ve been cold, but Cat Sìth is big enough to block the wind. She told me about her recent travels to Saint Lotier and was very enthusiastic about the seafood and scenery.

I asked if she would consider settling down in the palace this time, but she still seems averse to the idea. I suppose I’m not interesting enough to stay around full-time just yet, and pale in comparison to fresh tuna. I’ll work harder for her.

Cat Sìth left, but promised to return when the mood strikes. When I went back to the party, it was over. I ripped my skirt on the roof tiles, too. Isa scolded me—again. I know she’s well-meaning, but she’s doing it much more lately.

-

I had tea with Lady Thea, the twins, and Emile today. She seemed sentimental, so she told stories of my mother: What her laugh sounded like, or the way the opera houses would sell out when she performed. She also said I have a similar laugh to Mother. It was simple politeness so I’m uncertain how true it really was, but I admit: even when Isa took me away to study, I felt pleased.

-

I asked Phares about Uranus. He told me he’s been traveling, like Cat Sìth; most dragons feel uncomfortable in human settlements, pact or no. I know that, but haven’t seen Uranus in a year at least. Phares seemed irate at the questioning; maybe it’s a sore spot for him, too, especially since Uranus used to never leave his side. I’d hoped to ask Uranus about a book, but I don’t think I should ask about him again.

-

Lady Thea collapsed today. Emile and the twins are distraught, to say the least. Finding out your mother is mortal isn’t easy.

-

Valkaheim is overrun with lawlessness. Cat Sìth says its nobles are corrupt and lazy and spend most of their time fighting over mining rights; she said she couldn’t tell if the rivers flowed red with blood or lava (which seemed a touch dramatic). Father says there needs to be a firm, unyielding hand. Leonidas will be leaving soon, I would guess.

-

Thea was well enough to go outside today. We sat by the lake, but it was cloudy. She asked me to care for Zethia. I don’t know what to do. The Auspex shouldn’t lower herself, and I don’t think I can climb to divine heights. But, I can find something. I’m sure.

-

The doctors said there isn’t much time left. I never know what to say when I see Thea, or my father, or Emile and the twins.

-

I fought Marquis Norne’s granddaughter today. There were people watching, and I still did it. I can still feel her bones. Why did I

-

Leonidas came back. I asked if he would speak to the children, but he snapped at me for not doing it myself.

-

Tonight, Thea asked me to open the curtains so the stars could see her. We said goodbye.

-

I don’t want to go to the funeral.

A rip echoes through the library, and on the far side of it, a door opens. A voice exclaims, “Jeez, it’s so stuffy around here!”

Chelle jolts and clenches the torn pages tighter in her fist. Her head snaps to the right, but the surrounding bookshelves have isolated her from whoever entered. She picks out one, two, three sets of feet. Her hackles rise, then she smells bread and spices. The bottoms of their shoes are hard like good work boots; not the softly-padded soles of an assassin’s footwear. Kitchen maids, then?

“It was so boring before,” a second voice interjects. “And now it’s like everyone is too scared to even peep.”

“Any wonder?” says a third, slightly older and flatter. “None of us know if that woman’s the type to cut our tongues out if she wakes up on the wrong side of the bed. Do you want to be the one to find out?”

“She’s, like… a little off, right?” asks the first maid. There’s a sound of scraping chairs. Chelle wonders if this is their favorite break spot. Like they know they shouldn’t be talking, their voices lower so she can only just hear. “She barely ever calls for anyone but her butler. I thought she’d have us dressing her up and stuff, but nope.”

The second maid says, “Maybe she thinks northern bumpkins can’t doll her up like her fancy capital maids. Hell, she’s probably right—I wouldn’t know where to start if she asked me to do her hair.”

“You’d think she’d’ve brought a battalion of them in that case! But, just Mr. Peter. I wonder who she expects to get her ready for the wedding.”

“I’d assume the royals will bring stylists and stuff when they show up.” An awkward silence follows, lingering for so long that Chelle wonders if they might be eating or such. Then, the same maid asks, “So… if we were gonna compare her to Lady Yelda, how’s she shape up for you two?”

So instantly it makes Chelle feel even sicker, the third maid replies, “Lady Yelda had pedigree, education, good manners—the whole shebang. Compared to the princess who barely looks at us? Do the math.”

A sharp hissing noise—the second maid shushing—makes Chelle wince. “If we’re gonna talk, keep your voices down! You know Dina, who does the laundry?”

“Uh, yeah?”

“Well, Dina’s a snake who’d sell us out for a cracker. I’m not letting Dina sell me out for a cracker.” The second maid sighs. “Lady Yelda was so sweet. I miss her.”

“Right? She was so nice,” the first maid says. “Also, did I tell you guys my uncle brings back papers from Sol Alberia?”

A sick, frigid feeling settles in Chelle’s chest.

“Just based on those, I dunno how… stable this princess is.”

“Oh?”

“I know gossip columns aren’t reliable, but so many makes you wonder, right?”

Another heaving sigh, from the third maid this time. “Wouldn’t have to worry with the alternative.”

“Maybe we’ll get lucky!” exclaims the first maid. “I mean, Lord Elua loves Lady Yelda, and this whole thing is just for diplomacy’s sake with the king. So, for all we know, the lord’ll bring her in as a second wife!”

Someone laughs, though Chelle certainly doesn’t want to. “Molly, you’ve been reading too many novels lately! Is that really how you think it works?”

“I dunno!” she blusters. “Nobles are weird! I think that’s how it works?”

“She’s not too wrong,” the third maid says.

The rest of their words fade into a buzzing white noise. A thumping rages in Chelle’s ears. Carefully, rationally, clenched hand quivering, she tells herself that they have the right to discuss politics, but her thoughts are interrupted by something choking her throat and one of the maids saying, “Wait, do— do you smell smoke?”

A scorching sensation explodes over Chelle’s hand.

Gasping, she erupts from her seat, flames engulfing the notebook pages in her hand. The paper turns black and crumble. Pain licks her wrist. With a choked sound, Chelle drops them without thinking, and everything happens somehow fast and slow: her flame-engulfed pages drop unceremoniously onto the rest of the notebook, and orange holes immediately start to burn through the twin’s scribbles.

Hand burning, Chelle lunges to grab the teapot. It’s hot, so boiling it scalds her. Her heart pounds as she dumps it, relieved when the blaze instantly hisses in protest and sputters. A glow catches the corner of her eye; a small stretch of flames traces the table, headed right for the stack of books—for Ramona’s journal. The teapot falls, shattering on the hardwood. Chelle throws her hand against the flames, letting the shadows in her palm eat them just before they lick the journal’s edge. Reluctantly, the fire finally dies.

She heaves a gasp and slouches on her arms, sweat racing down the side of her face. Swallowing, she clutches her chest, but winces and recoils to her feet, hands held out. The beginnings of blisters greet her. Everything spins around. Through the gaps in her fingers, she gazes at the bits of broken porcelain and can’t help but see that Paladyn, pale-faced as a cup flies past her cheek.

Aurelia, hunched over amidst knocked-over plates and splattered tea. The terrified look in her eyes.

Doesn’t that serve you right?

“Y—Your Highness!”

Chelle snaps her hands down, forcing her wailing fingers to weave together. Hot tea seeps into her shoes and splatters on her from the table’s edge. The three maids stand next to a bookshelf, wide-eyed. The youngest-looking one has her hands over her mouth. What must Chelle look like? Probably a little pale, with an unroyal tension in her shoulders. Not like their prized Yelda of Fadden.

The eldest’s eyes scan the mess of burned paper, shattered porcelain, and small tea puddles, then Chelle standing next to it all. “Are you alright?”

The steadiness of Chelle’s own voice surprises her. “Goodness, were you three here the whole time?” she asks, noting the relief spreading over their faces. Angling her scarlet hands away, she gestures to the table. “The tea warmer fell over and the candle caught some of my study materials ablaze. It was a small fire; the table was the only casualty.”

“Fortunately,” the maid replies. “It’s good you weren’t hurt, Your Highness.” The maid turns and points at the door. “Molly, Bea, go get cleaning supplies and ask the footmen to come get the table.”

Chelle lingers awkwardly as the other two maids scurry for the doors, whispering all the while, and the third crouches down and starts collecting shattered porcelain. “I apologize for the mess,” she says.

The tone with which the maid replies, “It’s alright,” contradicts her words. “You ought to go rest somewhere, Your Highness. We wouldn’t want to bother you with the cleaning.”

Chelle opens her mouth, but what does she say?

Sorry she almost burned the place down?

Sorry she interrupted their break?

Sorry she’s seemed so quiet, so avoidant—she thought she was giving everyone room to breathe?

She says, “Don’t cut yourself,” and turns.

In the hallway, a nausea more from the fiery pain in her fingers and the thought of those licking flames overtakes her. The manor seemed very empty this morning; now it seems too full, milling with people who don’t bother with anything more than a passing glance. Chelle strides past them and can’t decide whether to focus on the befuddled eyes around her or the sickness worming up her throat. Every step, every whispering voice grows louder, rattling around her skull.

Loud.

Loud.

Always so damn loud.

Chelle fights the urge to wrap her blistered palms around her throbbing ears.

She needs out.

Fresh air. Quiet. To put herself back together before Elua sees her and people start whispering about the devil wicked enough to strike a holy woman.

A day can kill, but a few hours, she thinks, can’t.

Chapter Text

“Ironic place for refuge, isn’t it?”

The chapel is still. Silent. Its interior is dark—spooky almost, if Chelle hearkens back to ghost stories about the palace cathedral Peter used to tell. The mid-afternoon light streams in through a colorful pane of glass, casting a pattern onto the middle aisle. Sol Alberia’s churches feature pale interiors that seem bright even in the dark, but this one is filled with earthier tones.

In the center of the church’s front is a podium, with a set of steps behind it leading to an altar. To its left, a statue of Ilia, her head down and draped with surreally-lifelike fabric. To its right, a stone man standing upright, his hands firm on the pommel of his broadsword stuck into the base, and a fiercely warm expression on his familiar face.

Chelle sits on the front pew, knees drawn to her chest and arms crossed. She gazes at Alberius. “I didn’t mean to end up here,” she says, and her voice echoes very softly. “A street dog chased me up the hill. It was all very dignified.” She stares at him some more. “I don’t really like dogs.”

Alberius doesn’t offer his own opinion, but he’s always looked like a general animal lover to her.

“The doors were unlocked, so I came in,” she continues. “Know something? The streets here are so empty. The marquis told me it’s because the people here were rich enough to flee.” Chelle sighs. “It’s a strange place to find you. You’re everywhere in Sol Alberia, but not here. Maybe this area is so empty, no one could be bothered to tear your likeness down.”

More silence.

Chelle tucks her cheek against her knee and closes her eyes. “I remember once, I’d had it with my lady-in-waiting. There was an incident with a suitor she demanded I apologize for. Rather than write that forsaken letter, do you know what I did?” A wry smile crosses her face. “I leapt from my window and spent the rest of the day trying to escape the grounds. The entire palace was panicked; Father feared I’d been taken again. It rained that day, but the knights scoured the grounds for hours.

“Here, I simply left. No one stopped me or asked where I was going.” A pause. Her eyes flit to Alberius. “Is this freedom?”

Chelle unfurls her legs and stands. Slowly, she approaches Alberius, then turns. She places her aching, blistered hands on the cool stone and hoists herself up next to him. Her legs dangle. She awkwardly shoots a glance up at the statue’s profile before looking back down. The quiet echoes in her ears.

“Are we the same?”

Her question lingers in the air. Alberius stands still.

“Everyone always says you were perfect, but I stopped thinking that way,” she continues. “I like thinking you had uphill battles. People like that give better advice.”

And yet, the statue doesn’t come to life, place its sword to the side, and sit with her. But, she likes thinking Alberius would clap a hand on her shoulder and say something soft: that he, too, was different. That sometimes he was a fool behind closed doors. It runs in the family, he might say, and she wonders if their laughter would sound anything alike.

And yet.

Chelle watches the floor. Her heels tap the wood in a steady rhythm. She’s alone here. Questions, worries, rants rage on her tongue. Again she casts a look at Alberius. For as long as she can remember, she’s liked talking to him. Stone—the dead—don’t judge. There are no misunderstandings. No one warps words. They can’t lash out and ask things like, “Why do you have to be like… this?”

“I hit someone,” comes out of her, and she wishes she could snatch it back. A raw feeling swells below her ribs. She screws her eyes shut and keeps going. “I can’t stop thinking about how afraid she was. But then, I get angry thinking of how she’s told the marquis, and then— I only end up upset at myself.” Chelle touches her lips. “And who do I tell without making them liable? The priestess must have been ashamed, too; I wouldn’t want people knowing any details of my beatings.

“If only you could speak sage words,” Chelle says. “But the reason you are so pleasant to speak to is why you fall short—I suppose no one is perfect.” Her hand lowers to her chest. “Here only a month, yet I’ve already made a damning mistake. Maybe I shouldn’t have come here on a pathetic whim.”

Chelle stares down. The wet spots on her shoes have dried, yet the scent of tea still lingers. Though it was mint, the scent that wafts around her, drowning the nausea and pain, is just like red roses. She screws her eyes shut. “Your Majesty?

“I wish I’d never spoken those words that night.”

The loud chime of an hourly bell jolts Chelle from her thoughts.

Swiftly, she slides off her perch. The bell keeps chiming, and underneath it, there’s a bustle outside: a multitude of footsteps, the creak of an iron gate, and quiet talking. The paranoid thought that a mob has found her flits through her head, but she brushes it away. It’s the weekend; it’s not uncommon for there to be a crowd at a church. Still, she warily studies the side entrance. As she steps slowly towards it, she grabs a tall, iron candlestick and drags it behind her.

At the door, she places a hand and ear against it. Without the ringing bell, she can hear a grim tone in the many voices. Chelle steps away, hand halfway to the carved doorknob, and chews her curiosity for a second before giving in. She cracks the door, slowly dragging it further open, and peeks out. Her stomach drops.

A massive crowd is gathered in the church’s yard.

She blinks, studying the throng through the crack. It’s not just humans. Tall ears, curled horns—there are sylvans and rokkans in the group. An odd scent tickles her nose, and she wonders if there’s even a dragon among them. They’re all either in groups of lingering on their own, but everyone’s head looks bowed.

More curious than before, Chelle drops the candlestick with a dull clank and slips out. A few people turn their heads her way, but no one’s eyes linger. It’s then that she picks out the sniffles, thick voices, and through the crowd, she spies a tall, gray stone in the yard. Her eyes snap to the other side: a coffin.

A funeral.

Though Chelle immediately reaches back for the door, a mild voice asks, “Are you alright, sister?”

She lets go as two people approach: a stocky, short-haired older woman in trousers and a black shirt, and a younger man with dark green hair pulled over his shoulder, a fox-like face down to his seemingly-closed eyes, and the ivory robes of an Ilian priest.

Her gaze flits over their faces, but there’s nothing accusatory or confused. “Perfectly well, Father. I’m sorry to have—”

“No need to stand all the way over here, lass,” remarks the older woman. She approaches with an arm held out, and since Chelle doesn’t fancy brutalizing an old woman on top of a priestess, she braces herself. The woman guides Chelle down the stairs and into the courtyard, where she gives one more pat. “There, where you oughta be.”

The priest says, “You might feel more comforted amidst others.”

Chelle eyes them, then quickly studies her skirt. Black. She wore a simple black dress today, and though she has on a white blouse underneath, it’s definitely the defining color of her outfit. Flanked and unnecessarily comforted on either side, an embarrassed sensation pricks her. Pink fills her cheeks. If she had a chance to leave gracefully, it’s gone.

She keeps her blistered hands close and replies, “I shouldn’t go closer. I prefer to be on my lonesome when it comes to these affairs.”

“Oh!” The older woman looks ashamed and claps Chelle on the back again, sending a chill up her spine. “I’m so sorry. ‘course you had your reasons for standin’ all the way over there.”

“No harm done.”

With one more smile, the woman wanders to another group who bring her into their midst. Chelle watches, again noting the sheer number and kinds of humanoids present. It’s no family funeral. A wind rustles around her, stirring the grass in the yard, and Chelle turns her attention to the graves there.

There are too many.

One of her earliest memories is standing outside on a bitterly cold, rainy day, Father gripping her hand with a sort of desperation while they watched Leonidas refuse to move from his vigil in front of Mother. There have been others besides her: Grandfather, of course. Loyal knights. Lady Thea. In some way, Chelle has always felt a cold familiarity in these places.

But now, the cemetery seems to stretch out forever as she looks out at it. The rows of tightly-packed headstones grows longer, longer, and longer. Something grips her throat. A nausea worse than all the waves before it threatens to make her keel over right in the midst of the mourners. The voices around her grow distant, and Chelle asks herself to look away. Look away, before she draws the dead’s eyes to the blazing gold of her hair, the thin slits in her eyes, the inhuman points of her fangs.

Look away, the heavy and cold thing says, sneering at her from among the sea of corpses. You’re disturbing what little peace they have.

“How did you know Father Etienne?”

Chelle stiffens in place. She didn’t realize the priest never left her side. If he had, she could slip away without embarrassing anyone. “What?”

The priest tilts his head slightly. “I’ve never seen you in the congregation before. We have a few in from out of town, so I thought you were one of them.”

She tells herself to dart, but lies instead. “I met him outside the city when I was young.”

“Ah, I have stellar intuition,” the priest jests. Despite its sly look, his face radiates a kindness more than anything. When he smiles, her heart slows down a fraction. “It was kind of you to come. Thank you.”

Guilt stabs her. “Don’t thank me.”

A priestess begins to speak from next to the coffin. Though her voice wavers, she carries on, citing personal experiences with the deceased priest rather than scripture. Many heads lower. A stifled sob cuts into a brief, poignant silence. At the edge of the crowd, a rokkan removes his mining cap.

Since the priest refuses to leave, Chelle quietly asks, “A question?”

“Anything.”

“Who takes over this church, now that the father is gone?”

She realizes too late how blatantly insensitive her curiosity is, but the priest replies evenly. “I will. Father Etienne prepared me; he was more like a real father than anything.”

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you.” He smiles again. “Father was sick for a while, so we had time to make peace and say farewell. I count myself lucky; he wasn’t ripped away too early.”

The guilt sharpens itself and stabs again.

“It’s large boots to fill for sure,” he continues. “But what are people but adaptable?”

Though Chelle has no place here—though she doesn’t want her feet to be stuck so firmly in place amidst the suffering and grief—she can’t help but listen. Whether it’s interest, embarrassment, she doesn’t know. But, she scrapes together what she can about this Etienne: When plague swept through and clergy and doctors alike fell deathly ill, Etienne wrapped a cloth around his face and tended to the suffering; and, if the boots of Gramsian soldiers beat against Raywall’s streets, Etienne would herd whoever he could into his church, barricade the windows, and stand guard outside while they all prayed that the Holy City’s wrath stopped at the steps of a chapel.

In the corner of her eye, the priest’s hand clenches. No sooner has she glanced at him than he says, voice firm in that way one always is when bracing against tears, “It’s odd. He’s been dead for days now, and I’m not in denial. But I— I—” Finally, his smile wavers. “When I wake up, I expect him to be doing morning prayers. I plate his lunch. I go to tell him things that happen throughout the day, and yet—” He braces the heel of his palm against his eye. “I wonder when I’ll stop searching.”

Chelle angles her head, watching that miserable color fill his pale face. Is it from misery? Grief? The shame of lingering on the outskirts of a crowd left to you by a father, ranting unbidden to a stranger?

Her hand dips into her pocket. She pulls out an embroidered handkerchief. “You don’t,” she replies. “Not really.”

The priest exhales sharply, hiccuping as he attempts to keep silent. Chelle takes a short step closer, hesitates, then grips his wrist in her reddened hand. He jolts as she presses the handkerchief into his palm.

“I’ve thought of loss like this: when people die, they leave holes in us.” She pulls her fingers back, letting him close his over the fabric. “Each person’s shape is different, and so is the wound they leave. Nothing else ever fills the hole exactly. And, maybe it’s not meant to be. Maybe searching desperately for something to stuff inside only makes the wound worse.

“We can’t fill the gaps people leave, Father.” She turns her eyes from the tears rushing down his cheeks. “It isn’t comforting, but we must make peace.”

The priestess talking and the mourners sniffling fills the space between them again. Chelle lingers next to the priest, doing him the grace of not watching while he trembles. Now would be a good time to leave, while he’s caught in an onset of grief. She could turn right now and slink away, never see any of these people again, and—

And what?

Go back to the estate? Wait to be ignored again? Gnaw her fingernails, praying to any divinity that this entire plan doesn’t come crashing down around her? They’re all uncomfortable thoughts, but they are reality, and this is no place for the likes of her to intrude besides.

Chelle makes to move, then the priest says, “I think I like that.”

She stops. “Come again?”

The priest lowers her handkerchief from his swollen eyelids. “I think it’s better to be searching, instead of acting like he was… nothing.” He manages a hoarse, quiet laugh. “There’s ‘goodbye’ everywhere there’s ‘hello.’ But, you said it yourself: we’re not meant to act like people were never here.”

Arms limp at her sides, she searches his face. “Knowing that place will always be empty is a miserable thing.”

“It’s miserable,” he agrees, “and lonely. That hole won’t ever be filled, and I won’t ever forget.” He takes one more deep sniff that draws eyes towards them for a brief moment, then straightens up and smiles, though there’s a tinge of exhaustion as he regards her. “There’s a notion in our faith, sister, that I’m reminded of: if we didn’t know what bitterness tasted like, how would we know how wonderful sweetness is? Misery, sorrow, grief—are they really so bad when they enrich happiness?”

He opens his hand, staring at her damp handkerchief, then holds it out to her. “Father Etienne told me once, ‘what is grief but love?’”

Her jaw twitches. Slowly, she takes the handkerchief back. “And you suppose it’s a price worth paying?”

“For me? I think… yes.” The priest turns back to the funeral, but opens his eyes a sliver to peer at her. “I’m sorry for rambling. Should you need an ear—”

“You’re kind,” Chelle interrupts. “But focus on your ‘flock’ rather than a stranger.”

“I don’t think respectable people stop at their front door. I—” He stops, eyes darting lower. “You’re hurt.”

Chelle turns her palms towards her skirt. “It looks worse than it is. I heal quickly besides.”

“It looks like you put your hand in a fire. If you come inside, I can—” From the front, someone calls a name Chelle doesn’t process. The priest straightens, his fingers curling away from her, and shoots a look that clearly means, Wait for me.

He strides forward, the crowd parting. With his shoulders back, he looks firm enough that Chelle wouldn’t have guessed he was sniffling a few minutes ago. He turns to the crowd, smiling, and extends a hand towards a bucket of flowers. From his own garden, he says, in case anyone doesn’t have their own to give to Etienne.

And though Chelle knows this truly is her best moment to slink off while everyone is shuffling forward, she feels the priest’s eyes on her. What did she expect but curiosity after philosophizing with him? If she turns now and leaves without showing respect to the man he held so dear, she wonders how that would stick with him.

Chelle forces her feet to move. The priest continues staring with no subtlety, and when she picks up a white chrysanthemum from his bucket, he smiles. It all feels wrong, despite that smile.

The sizable crowd shuffles around her, and it all feels so wrong in a way difficult to explain. More acutely than before, she feels like an intruder. These people have perceived her as one of them—one of them looked to her for comfort like she was his own kind. She can’t help but wonder: what would happen if she pulled her hair back, opened her mouth a little too wide? If they could suddenly see she’s not like them at all?

How shameless. She knows none of these people. She doesn’t know this priest, rotting more every second while she clutches a flower and dithers for the sake of trying to uselessly guard the feelings of his student. She ran out of her big, fancy house like a child and let a street dog chase her into his community’s sanctuary. She’s trampling everything that makes this moment sacred.

This was the type of man to sit on a church’s porch, waiting for enemy soldiers to slaughter him instead of others. If Chelle stood face-to-face with him in life, she wonders how he would look at the inhuman parts of her.

Before she can change her mind, she gets mixed into the line of people approaching the coffin. She feels small in a way Leonidas or Father probably haven’t ever felt. She makes herself smaller still, arms tucked in and the chrysanthemum pressed to her chest, and tries to not feel woozier at the sounds of whispering. As someone brushes her, causing a sharp chill to race up her spine, Chelle tells herself she’s done this before. Until she can leave without making a scene, pretend like it’s something else. Someone else. What was the last funeral she attended?

A single, hard exhale escapes her, and it is her turn at the coffin.

It’s a simple thing: well-polished wood and fine metalwork. A large pile of white chrysanthemums rests on top. She stares at it, clutching the flower stem tight, and asks herself if she’s capable of committing the final step in defiling this poor man’s funeral.

Everyone stares expectantly. Every hole inside of her gapes. The eyes on her back don’t feel like those of the living, but as though they’re coming from the tombstones behind them. And suddenly, something new comes to mind:

A sitting room, a general facing a wall while he drinks coffee, and a dead woman’s painted face looking back at him.

Chelle feels the priest’s eyes on her.

She drops the chrysanthemum on the coffin. A bead of sweat drips down her temple as she leans forward, her hair falling in a curtain around her and the coffin. The overwhelming scent of dozens of flowers wafts up, and in a moment, it’s somehow as comforting as it is overwhelming.

She sucks in a breath, pressing her blistering fingers against the cool wood, and tries to decide if the dryness in her mouth and the chills gripping her are the mana deficiency or pitifulness—but she startles and looks up when a young girl’s voice cries out, “Mom, look at the kitty!”

Though the priest has moved towards her again, Chelle slips away from the coffin and lets the next person take her place. She picks out the girl and her embarrassed mother and follows the child’s waving finger past the church’s fence, across the path, and to a short wall lining the yard. A small black cat, eyes bright green, stares directly at Chelle from it. Its tail thumps the stone wall before it stands and starts padding its way down the hill.

Behind her, the priest says a hushed, “Sister, I need to ask something,” but it’s distant in her ears. Chelle rests her hand atop the iron gate and casts one more look over her shoulder at him, who looks oddly nervous all of a sudden, and then the other mourners. Chelle slips past the gate, picks up her skirt, and runs down the bend of the hill after the kitten.

When Chelle opens her eyes, the first thing that hits is that it’s miserably wet and cold.

It’s night. The plaza she’s standing in is nearly deserted, lit only by sparse torchlight. A clamor comes from the distance indicates nightlife, but it’s a way’s off. Nothing is notable about the area, except that there’s something like a tavern—oddly abandoned, considering the apparent time—nearby.

Her gaze turns to the two people facing one another in the plaza’s center. Both are bundled against the chill. One of them, taller and broader than the other, pulls their hood down to reveal a grizzled-looking woman with silver hair cut close to her chin. An assortment of scars decorates her face and neck, but the poor lighting keeps Chelle from seeing them clearly. The person across from her has a thicker cloak, giving no clue to their body type. A heavy shadow hangs over their face; discerning anything about them is useless.

Without a word, the mystery figure holds out their hand towards the woman, who pulls something from her pocket: a small brooch. Curious, Chelle walks slowly in a circle around them. No matter what angle she looks at them from, it looks like a hunk of silver with meaningless, woven symbols, though it clearly means something to the mystery figure. The woman places it in their gloved palm and it disappears, quickly, into the recesses of their cloak.

When they speak then, uttering only the word, “Soon,” a chill rolls down Chelle’s spine. Their voice isn’t cold, nor grating like nails on a chalkboard. Instead, it’s so heavily distorted that it barely sounds human. Low and thick, it thumps unpleasantly in her ears. Chelle stops circling and grimaces, rubbing her ear as it rings. Magic, no doubt about it.

“Make preparations and strike the next rainfall,” the figure continues.

The woman leans forward, doubt on her face. “And the marquis expects nothing.”

“Absolutely nothing.”

“Too busy playing with the new bride, eh?” A bitter smile overtakes her lips. “What a joke this whole thing is. Does he really think anyone wants him playing house with one of Ludovic’s?”

“No need to rub it in,” Chelle remarks, squinting at her face.

The figure shakes their head. “It’s to our benefit. Bending over backwards for the Gramsians keeps them from seeing what’s at hand.”

“Mmhm. Sure.”

“Palace entry will be easy,” they carry on. The sound of crinkling echoes as they rummage around a pocket. They pull out a slip of paper and hold it out. “Provided your man can follow instructions.”

Chelle leans in between them and squints harder as the paper is passed from one person to the other. Though she’d love to be privy, it’s pointless; the paper’s contents are obscured by a sort of dreamlike haze, as though she’s trying to see the paper through a fog. The words are blurry, like someone dumped water and smudged the ink. Disappointed, she falls back on her heels.

“The pay?” the woman asks while she pockets the paper.

“You have the deposit already. Everything else will be paid when the job is done.”

“You’ll regret it if you don’t make good.”

“All will be as promised so long as your man does the job.” With that, the mystery figure points past her to an empty ally. “Kill anyone who follows. We can’t afford risks.”

The conversation ends abruptly as it began. The woman draws her hood back up and vanishes into the same dreamlike haze that obscured the paper. Chelle watches her until she can’t make her out anymore, then turns her attention to the mystery figure looking left and right. She leans in with a frown, peering intently at their face, but the shadow is so thick she can’t see through it. It’s not a matter of the haze at all; like their voice, some manner of magic is keeping them hidden.

Chelle reaches out as though to lift the hood. Her hand goes directly through their head.

With a start, Chelle opens her eyes.

Immediately, she squeezes them shut again. It was cold a second ago, but now it’s warmer. Brighter, too, though at least its not midday. She keeps her eyes screwed up for a minute, breathing in and out until her body readjusts to reality.

When she opens them again, the black kitten in her lap greets her. Even though it’s only a mana construct, it purrs when she brushes her thumb against its cheek. Chelle pets it while she sucks in a breath and stares out at the empty streets. There were at least a few people heading home from work when she sat down on the bench some time ago, but not anymore. The rain clouds have moved back in during that time, shrouding the incoming sunset.

“You could have gotten a peek at the paper,” she chides the kitten, “but you still did well enough.” As it shuts its eyes, purring harder when she scritches its chin, Chelle tilts her head back to the sky. “The moon was a… waxing crescent, so that must have been just last night.” The thunderclouds rolling in will surely bring a downpour, and with it— “So they’re going to kill the duke tonight then.”

Out of habit, Chelle touches the pocket of her dress, but doesn’t find a notepad. Of course the assassins choose to move on a day when it’s an inconvenience. She pats the kitten at the base of its tail. “You have to go back to Cat Sìth so she can inform the marquis, alright?”

The kitten stops purring, displeased at the lack of affection as she draws back. It rubs its cheek against her hand. Chelle offers its nose a hard boop and urges it out of her lap. It leaps to the ground, shakes out its whole body, and then takes off to a patch of deep shadows.

When the kitten is out of sight, Chelle gives a long, unladylike sigh, puts her head back, and sniffs. The air is cool, but tastes increasingly humid. She lazily turns her head against her shoulder and grimaces at the sight of the manor, even though she’s come so far it’s almost a speck in the distance. At the very least, she’s been given an excuse to not go back tonight. There’s no need to hurry to the palace either. Lord Caspar’s assassination isn’t likely, considering his hard-as-bedrock guard.

Chelle sighs again and pushes her hands against her face. If there was a remaining chance of suggesting they use Caspar as bait, it’s long gone now. Though, there’s not a non-zero of catching the assassin this way. Now that Elua will have been warned, they can let the assassin onto the grounds, let them spook at the sheer scale of Caspar’s security, and lock everything down before they flee. A nagging thought prods her even so: assassins are slippery by trade, and catching them is no guarantee.

But, this is fine. Caspar will be safe, the war faction’s plan will be foiled, and Chelle will be able to take some credit for the whole thing. Nothing will be public, but what matters is that Elua looks on her favorably. Maybe saving the duke’s life is a good enough deed to neutralize the mishap with Aurelia at the diplomats’ table, and maybe Elua will think well of her, and maybe he will go through with the wedding.

“Maybe” is good enough.

“Maybe” has to be good enough.

“What a day,” Chelle mutters, gingerly placing a cheek in her less-wounded hand. Her eyes find the sky again; the rain clouds continue drifting in, surprisingly fast. Digging through mud won’t be fun—the churchgoers ought to wrap up their farewells soon, lower the coffin, and let Father Etienne rest before the rain falls. They should hurry back to their homes and inns soon, too. A group that size, already in mourning, shouldn’t have to worry about—

Chelle pauses.

As she remembers the sheer amount of people—human, rokkan, sylvan, perhaps even dragon—in that small church yard, each one so uniquely upset, something strikes her. Not guilt or nausea, and not the pain of her burns, but realization.

Abruptly, Chelle stands from the bench. She moves out towards the middle of the empty street and stares up at the church on the hill for a moment longer, then over at the palace even further in the distance. A small rumble echoes through the sky. Chelle turns her face skyward, and a raindrop strikes her cheek.

The realization settles into horror.

Chapter Text

“Do you know how daggers can be deadlier than swords, Chelle?”

Leonidas sheds his cape with effortless regality. One of his attendants takes it, then blends back into the background. Leonidas approaches a rack of mock weapons, but doesn’t take his favored sword; instead, he picks up a small dagger. He faces Chelle expectantly.

Chelle squeezes her bow. “I’m… not sure. A sword is bigger, so…” She looks aside. “Shouldn’t it always be stronger?”

Before Leonidas replies, a mild voice speaks from the edge of the training yard. A tall woman with a gentle face, pale pink hair in a bun at her nape, and the clothes befitting a noble attendant, steps forward. “Your Highness, as your sister’s caretaker, I urge you to reconsider this.”

“What am I to ‘reconsider,’ Countess Vernille?”

“Her Highness is 15. Daggers, swords—she could be harmed.”

“I’m fine, Isa,” Chelle says, but Leonidas speaks over her.

“The precise purpose of this is to teach her self-defense. If she nicks herself, I find it preferable to an assassin’s blade in her gut.” His eyes move to her. “You find it preferable as well, Sister?”

The place below her ribs aches. “Yes.”

“There are knights to guard her,” Isa reasons. “Please, Prince Leonidas—”

Leonidas looks to the two knights standing behind Isa, both bored until his gaze falls on them. “Chelle, do you believe hounds can protect lions?” he asks.

“N—no, Brother.”

“Correct. Now, answer my first question. Properly.”

With practiced ease, Leonidas spins the blunted dagger. His eyes stay fixed on her, but Chelle can’t help but find Isa. She looks as though she wants to take Chelle by the wrist and drag her away.

Chelle looks away. “A sword can be unwieldy by comparison. The first cut will wound you more, but it takes more power to draw back and time to slice again. A dagger is light enough that even if the first blow doesn’t do as much damage, it’s easier to strike again.” Her fingers tighten on the bow. “In rapid succession.”

“Precisely,” Leonidas responds, pointing the dagger at her. “And that’s to say nothing of what a blade could be coated with.” He tosses and catches it by the handle. “If you could shapeshift, no dagger could pierce your scales. How is your progress?”

“I… have yet to accomplish it.”

“Learn.”

Something in Chelle wants to snap that it’s easier said than done, but Leonidas’s tone isn’t unkind. He’s never truly unkind to her; only blunt. In a way, she prefers it to Isa’s hovering, Father’s constantly worried gaze, or Phares’s now-distant smiles.

“I’ll learn,” she promises. “And I’m ready for the lesson.” She holds her bow up, frowning. “I suppose I can’t use this, can I?”

“Countering daggers with a bow is lunacy.” Leonidas tosses the dagger again, and when he points at her with it, she spies Isa shifting anxiously in the corner of her eye. “Fortunately, you’re a semi-resourceful creature. You can figure it out.”

Two spears cross, blocking Chelle’s path.

Blinking rapidly, she stares at the weapons, then their wielders. The guards regard her with a note of befuddlement peering out from their helmets. It’s only then—the first time she has stopped moving since she stood from the bench—that she realizes what a mess she must look. Ladies should walk with their shoulders back, stride assured. But in the drizzling rain, Chelle’s hair is frizzy, her clothes wrinkled and uncomfortably damp, and her face flushed and soaked with sweat.

“You need permission to enter the guest annex,” one guard says. He looks her up and down, exasperated. “Servants can’t run inside willy-nilly, girl.”

Chelle’s hands twitch. She looks over her shoulder briefly, taking in the setting sun vanishing behind the rolling storm clouds. The rain comes down harder each second.

“Get on, lass,” he continues, “before we have to make you.”

She tucks her frazzled hair back, cups her ears, and pushes them forward for the guards to see. Firmly but politely, she says, “You can move.”

The second guard withdraws her spear and has the courtesy to open the door for Chelle. The first retreats more reluctantly, bows, and offers a terse apology. Chelle breezes past him, out of the cold, and ignores the immediate staring of at least a dozen servants and attendants.

Unlike the last time she was at the guest annex, Chelle doesn’t stop to admire the decor. She walks in wide strides, wet skirt hiked up just shy of being scandalous. To the staff still working, she must look terrifying. People veer away when she gets near, reconvening in small groups in her wake to whisper various theories about her appearance.

There’s a templar standing guard at the hallway’s end. She pauses to catch her breath and makes a shoddy attempt at presentability by yanking her fingers through her hair, patting down her skirt’s worst wrinkles, swiping under her eyes for stray makeup. The templar only notices her when she’s done with this and already halfway to him. To his credit, he puts a quick hand on his sword and draws it an inch. When he registers who she is, he pushes it back in, but doesn’t let go entirely.

“Your Royal Highness.” The templar’s eyes do a noticeable scan over her. “Uh, to what does—”

Casual. Friendly. Cute, even. She smiles. “I’m so sorry to drop in unannounced. But, I have something to ask the priestess, so could you please allow me—”

Before she finishes, the door whips open. Both Chelle and the templar jump as Ruth the Paladyn takes one step out, looming even over the templar, and casts a ferocious gaze upon Chelle. Her hand clenches the doorway.

It’s not fear bubbling in Chelle as she looks up at Ruth. However, she manages a polite curtsy, forcing her jaw to not shake. “Paladyn Ruth. I’m delighted to meet again.”

“Your Highness was not invited,” Ruth replies. How she says “Your Highness” indicates that she would dearly love to call Chelle something else.

“Yes, well!” Chelle steps forward. Ruth sidesteps to block the way, but Chelle puts a hand on her waist and casually shoves her. The hefty oof! she gives as she smacks the doorway is enough fuel for Chelle to put genuine delight into, “Priestess Aurelia, how lovely to see you!”

A fire crackling in the hearth casts its light over Aurelia, dressed in a simple nightgown with her hair over her shoulder. Her brown eyes widen. There’s a softness—a sort of caution—to her voice. “P—Princess Chelle? It’s half past eight!”

Quickly, Chelle allows a glance at Aurelia’s hands: no bandage.

She stops a polite distance, puts a hand to her mouth, and takes a look at the guest room. It’s absurdly nice by the standards she’s come to expect from Raywall’s dismal finances, but Chelle nevertheless hums. “Oh dear, it’s as bad as I thought.”

Aurelia’s bafflement grows. She stands, a book tucked to her chest. “What? Sorry?”

“You see, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about how you deserve much more from your hosts, Your Holiness.” Chelle rests a hand on one of the fine wooden bed columns and mournfully draws it down. “This room just… Well, I think it won’t do anymore.”

“Excuse me?” Ruth storms over, a hand firmly planted where Chelle shoved her. Fury sits plain on her face, even in her sneer. “Does Her Highness want to throw my priestess in the dungeons instead?”

Eyes round and sad, fingers to her lips for good measure, Chelle exclaims, “Oh, no! What would cause you to say something so frightening, Paladyn Ruth?”

Ruth bares her impressively sharp canines. “I won’t see you acting so innocent, you—!”

“Ruth!” Aurelia snaps. Her narrowed eyes soften as she turns back to Chelle. “I’m pleased with my room, Your Highness. Honestly, it makes me feel like I’m on vacation!” She stays silent, watching, then adds, “You look… Um, c—can I offer you something hot to drink? I’ve wanted to talk again, so—”

“You are divinely humble, Priestess, but I insist on a better room. There is one, oh, two floors up? It has no windows, but it is very well-decorated and will keep you quite cozy. Should it not be to your liking, we can make adjustments tomorrow.”

“No windows?” Ruth blusters. “You’re not even trying to prove me wrong!”

Aurelia holds up a silencing hand. She sets her book down on a tea table. She’s quiet—observational. Chelle maintains her polite smile and hopes Aurelia notices everything, down to the shortness in her breath, the plain and wet clothes.

After a long moment, Aurelia smiles back. “Far be it from me to reject kindness.”

Chelle throws open the bedding cabinet, stacking sheets and blankets as a boom of thunder lights up the sky, flooding in through the window.

The rain ferociously spatters the windows. Every bump in the dark makes Chelle jolt. Once she has a heft amount of bedding, she scrapes it all into her arms. Breathless, she drops it next to Aurelia’s bed, yanks the blanket back, and shoves the longest pillow underneath. Once she’s finished arranging a human-esque mound, she places a hand on it and pushes her mana out. Thick, lavender tendrils of fog slip from her palm, pushing against the lump before dispersing. The fog curls into a restful face, a splayed arm, and curly brown hair spilled across the pillow.

Chelle draws her hand back. If the room were light enough, all the illusion’s ample flaws—the odd face, awkward hands, and flatness—would be noticeable. With the dark to cover it though, her rudimentary illusions shouldn’t hurt too badly.

Thunder crashes again. Chelle jumps, clutching her skirt. Woozy, she steps back, picks up the spare bedding, and studies the room. It looks unassuming enough, even with how hastily Aurelia evacuated. The hallways outside are silent, bereft of employees, but it hopefully won’t raise any flags.

She exhales and packs the bedding away, listening past the heavy thud of rain. There might be time to send for help now. It would take more mana than she has, but if she pushes it, she could send a message. But then, how long would it take for anyone to come? She hesitates and studies her blistered hand, then holds it out.

Something moves outside.

Chelle freezes and turns her head, eyes flitting left and right. As the thunder claps, another small movement sounds, like feet on tile. She curls her hand and steps back towards the thickest shadows in the room’s corner. Her breathing comes out shallow. A tree’s dark silhouette sways directly outside. Just barely, she makes out another silhouette moving with it. Thunder again. Slowly, the shadows crawl up Chelle’s ankles.

As a tiny, tiny click pricks the air and the shadows swallow the gold of her hair, it strikes Chelle: An annex on the edge of the grounds, the cover of a tree, a room with such a wide window.

Isn’t this too perfect?

The storm grows louder as the window creaks open. A shadow slips inside, pressing one soft foot on the carpet as it glances around. When its eyes linger on her for a second too long, she fights the urge to flinch. But, it doesn’t retreat and instead comes all the way in, closing the window behind it.

Underneath the shadow’s feet, the floorboards don’t so much as creak. They approach the bed. Their movement as they draw a long, wicked dagger from their belt is well-practiced. Chelle holds her breath and watches them stop, then the tip of the blade as it rises.

The assassin doesn’t even grunt when they bring the dagger down in time with the next thunderclap. Their entire body startles after a split second. The blanket flies off the bed just before a male voice exclaims, “Wait—!”

Chelle snaps. The fireplace roars to lift. “Now, isn’t this unfortunate for you?”

At the sudden light and heat, the assassin throws an arm across his face. With him illuminated, she can pick out his average height and wiry frame, but nothing else about his angular face and plain brown hair peeking out from his head wrap are distinctive. When she steps out of the shadowed corner, he recoils; his eyes instantly fly to the window, rattling against the storm.

“It’s improper to leave early,” she warns. A tendril of fog manifests and crashes against it, harsh enough that the glass cracks. It stays there, writhing, and she smiles. “You look so worried, but don’t be! Priestess Aurelia is somewhere quite secure.”

To his credit, the assassin doesn’t panic at the blocked window, nor her standing between him and the door. He loosens the fabric around his mouth, but he’s no more recognizable unmasked. The fire illuminating the side of his face betrays a small bead of sweat. “You’re the princess. How did you—?”

Chelle’s smile drops as she angles her head. “Know that you were targeting the priestess? Well.” She glances behind at the door. “Truthfully, it’s far stranger why you thought we wouldn’t know.”

The assassin adjusts the dagger in his hand. Catching the firelight, it looks much more menacing than it did even raised over his head. “You weren’t the target, but still. I can’t see how leaving you dead here wouldn’t be beneficial.”

“None of that. Rather, you may explain who it is you work for.” Her eyes narrow a fraction. “The woman with the scars, and her mysterious friend.”

That cool expression shifts to shock; the assassin’s jaw tightens. “You believe I would sell my comrades out? Maybe that’s how it works among you foul royals, but you’ll find I’m made of sterner stuff!” When he bares his teeth, they look like they could rip out her throat. “I’d warn you to not be arrogant enough to believe you could take me out alone.”

“My, but I wonder which of us is truly the arrogant one?” is barely out of her mouth before the assassin strikes.

He’s faster than she expected. He flips the knife in his grip, swiping widely. Chelle sidesteps; the dagger slices the air, nearly catching the flow of her skirt. She opens a hand and lets shadow collect in her palm before flinging it. The assassin stops his momentum on a foot and pushes himself backwards. The shadow narrowly misses him. When it hits the opposite wall, it fizzles and leaves a black mark.

The assassin meets her eyes. Chelle frowns.

A sharp noise splits the air as he draws a second dagger from his thigh. Expression steely, he lunges again and brings both knives down at separate angles. Chelle dodges, one, two, one, two, as he keeps slashing. Mana pulses in the air as she opens her hand, but she realizes: it’s not just hers.

His next slash releases an arc of water, flecked with foam as it spirals towards her. She staggers and meets the water with a swipe of her shadow-clad hand; the water splatters and soaks her harmlessly.

Mostly.

Blood drips onto the floor. Chelle settles on her feet, holding up her mangled hand limply. A deep gash stretches between her thumb and pointer finger, all the way to the back of it.

“Oh,” she remarks. “You got lucky.”

The assassin braces himself and swipes again. Another, larger arc flies towards her. Chelle lunges, leaving behind a streak of blood on the rug as she falls on her hand, pulling the wound. She bites the inside of her cheek, shoulders coming up towards her ears. The water crashes against the wall behind her with a cacophonous sound, ripping through wallpaper and wood that rains down on her in shards.

Chelle collides with the tea table as she comes back up. She braces herself against it, pushing off when the assassin brings a single dagger down. The tip catches her sleeve as it buries into the table, ripping the fabric and shattering the delicate wood. Both the table’s chairs topple over, squarely under her feet. Chelle staggers. He lets go of the knife embedded in the table and lashes out, gripping the front of her blouse and dragging her in.

The remaining blade gleams as it tears towards her. Chelle grabs his forearm in both hands, holding him in place as she stares down the dagger. Adrenaline roars in her ears. The assassin leans in and pulls her forward, straining until he’s trembling, and then lets go. His free hand snaps back, gripping the hilt of something behind his back. She catches the glint of metal and reacts boorishly; she frees his forearm from her wounded hand and bashes him directly in his chest.

Something audibly cracks under her fist. The assassin’s dagger clatters to the ground while he heaves a silent gasp. His balance shifts away from her. Chelle shoves him back; he barely catches himself on the table. As she tries to collect mana again, a sick feeling overtakes her. The spell sputters out pathetically in her oozing hand. Her fist clenches as the assassin starts catching his breath. Before she can snatch his abandoned dagger from the table, he yanks it out, rearing back as though to fling it.

Chelle charges, scooping up a chair by its leg along the way. Clarity comes back to the assassin’s eyes a second too late. He flips the dagger and dives forward, mana frothing from the blade, but his fractured bone has made him clumsy. He doesn’t move fast enough. She grabs another of the legs in her other hand and lifts it over her head.

It explodes apart as she brings it down, and her esteemed guest goes out like a light.

He drops like a dead weight. As the dagger falls from his hand, she stomps on and kicks it away. It skitters across the floor and under the bed. He’s out, but maybe not for long; Chelle braces a knee on his chest and starts stripping him of every visible weapon.

Yellow light floods the room as the door flies open. Chelle stops yanking the assassin’s weapon-loaded belt from around his waist and freezes, staring at Elua, Alistair, and two knights in the doorway. For a time, no one says anything. She studies Elua for the first time in a week, and he looks back, utterly shocked.

“Oh my, hello my lord!” She finishes dragging the assassin’s belt off of him and tosses it at their feet. “This certainly isn’t what it looks like.”

“I told mew, I’m out a meal ticket if you die. Would it kill you to be more cautious?”

Chelle grips a splinter with a pair of tweezers and pulls. She drops the nauseatingly-long shard on the growing pile next to her on the infirmary bed, then glares at Cat Sìth. “It’s so nice, having such a caring companion.”

Lying comfortably on the bed across from her, Cat Sìth scoffs. The fluffy tip of her tail sweeps the infirmary floor. “Should I cry over mew piteously?”

Her hands sting something fierce as she plucks splinter after splinter out. “Mangled” is the only way she can describe her flesh. It might hurt worse to be fretted over though, so she lowers her eyes. “Is there any ointment in that cabinet?”

The bed creaks as Cat Sìth gets up and crosses the room. With some effort, she hooks a claw in the handle and opens it. She nudges around with her nose, occasionally turning things as best she can with a paw, then reports, “This looks to be for wounds, but nothing for burns.”

“Bring it here, please.”

Gingerly, Cat Sìth takes the jar in her mouth and drops it into Chelle’s outstretched hand. The pain of the burns, the gash, her sickness, everything starts catching up with her in the adrenaline’s wake. Just the jar falling into her palm hurts wretchedly, but when she flinches, so does Cat Sìth. She steels herself and unscrews the lid with her fingertips.

“You could have let meow know what was happening,” Cat Sìth points out.

“I didn’t have enough mana for a messenger or time to go to you directly,” Chelle explains, lightly dabbing the ointment on. “I couldn’t be certain of who to trust with a missive. It was best handled quietly besides.”

“But—”

“It was only an assassin.” Chelle’s lips twitch as the ointment stings. “How did you and the marquis know to come?”

Cat Sìth sighs. “We were diligently guarding that dullard after the first kitten, and then a footman arrived on the housekeeper’s behalf to tell us you’d pawsitively stormed the annex.”

“Sensible of her, I suppose,” she mutters. She hesitates, her fingers hovering over the ointment’s glossy surface. “And the marquis’ reaction?”

“He seemed surprised is all,” Cat Sìth replies. “But he didn’t waste time arguing that you were acting crazy.”

“So, no concern.”

Cat Sìth thumps her tail. “‘Concern?’” she echoes. “Over you? How silly! He’s only a human; why worry over someone better than him in every way?” One of Cat Sìth’s ears twitches. “So he truly used the priestess as bait?”

Chelle pauses. “You heard us talking.”

“Oh dear. Should I not have?” Cat Sìth’s mouth pulls into a smile. “You told me the other day… what was it? That you saw him as a ‘by-the-books type?’”

That’s right. She found Elua intelligent, but so straitlaced that he would brand her a witch if she dared to bring up using the Gramsians. Even in that moment when she paused to think about how everything was so convenient, she hesitated to think it was more than coincidence—until Elua watched Alistair and the knights carry the assassin away and she found no trace of surprise on his face. And, when she pried, he only smiled and confessed.

So, she was the coward all along.

The innermost set of Cat Sìth’s ears twitch. “Someone’s coming.”

Chelle hastily screws the ointment’s lid back on and stands. Something roars in her ears; is Elua already through with the assassin? Given his mask-off moment, Chelle wouldn’t be shocked if his methods in the dungeon weren’t cutthroat. But then, maybe he’s here to talk about her, ill-timed as it would be; after all, even if she proved herself worthwhile tonight, slapping around a priestess also proved her volatility.

The person who knocks and enters isn’t Elua, though. It’s Aurelia, draped in a shawl and right on her Paladyn’s heels. She looks frazzled, like most people would after realizing they were nearly murdered in their sleep.

Chelle’s stomach flips as she recalls that sickening pop! of Aurelia’s wrist. She gingerly pulls the side of her skirt in a small curtsy. “Priestess Aurelia. How good to see you again.”

“Yes,” Aurelia replies quaveringly, and then stronger, “Right, I’m also… happy to see you.” She steps past Ruth while resting a hand on her arm. “Could you leave Her Highness and me alone, please?”

Ruth’s stoic expression is replaced by reluctance, but she doesn’t spew anything about leaving Aurelia with a beast. Instead, Ruth quite reasonably says, “Aurelia, what if another assassin—”

“The marquis said there are extra guards around now. Besides.” Aurelia spares Chelle a look. “I’ll be with the one who fought the killer with her bare hands, won’t I?”

Heat rises to Chelle’s face, especially as Cat Sìth shoots a smarmy look. She wouldn’t call it her “bare hands,” but if that’s what impresses Aurelia, she won’t deny it. Saying anything is difficult anyway.

Cat Sìth briefly brushes her tail against the back of Chelle’s legs and slips past Aurelia. As she leaves, she takes the end of the Paladyn’s cloak in her teeth and starts dragging her. Ruth looks displeased, but there’s not much to do when a dragon pulls on you. She casts a final look at Aurelia, the gray of her eyes glimmering as the door shuts on them.

Aurelia doesn’t allow for any awkward silence. “You should sit. Forgive me for saying, but you look…”

Bad?

“Bad.”

She thought so.

Chelle’s hands throb so wildly, she doesn’t bother tucking her dress under her when she sits. She awkwardly holds them in her lap, unwilling to show them to Aurelia, but also unsure of what to do. In the end, as Aurelia settles opposite her, she keeps them semi-clenched, palms towards herself, and searches for words.

A heaving sigh bursts out of Aurelia, who exclaims, “What a night!” She pushes a curl out of her face. “I thought the target would be the duke, if there was going to be an attempt. The templars, Ruth… they could’ve died, too.” Her eyes meet Chelle’s. “If you hadn’t come, I mean.”

Automatically, she replies, “I only did as a good hostess does,” before wanting to smack herself upside the head. Only a fool writes off diplomatic leverage as Tuesday night.

Aurelia shakes her head. “You could’ve passed your suspicions off to the guards, but instead you ran straight for me.” Like something is suddenly amusing, Aurelia smiles. “I have to admit, seeing you run in so bedraggled was… funny.”

Her day’s been anything but “funny,” but Chelle forces her hackles down and smiles in reply.

Aurelia’s own falls from her face. She stares down, awkwardly quiet for a time. She’s thinking, but Chelle can’t puzzle out what. Is she figuring out how to let Chelle down gently that, despite everything, the incident still has to come to light in the diplomacy talks? Or—

Aurelia leans forward, her curls falling into her lap. “I’m sorry.”

Chelle tightens her jaw.

“When I made that remark about the scandal sheets, and when touched you, I was being overly familiar.” Aurelia’s hands tighten into fists against her knees. She doesn’t lift her head. “I’m deeply ashamed of myself. I’m so sorry.”

It’s recited, but not in a bad way. Chelle has heard—given—plenty of practiced, scripted apologies before, each one lifeless. Something about Aurelia’s is oddly different. Less like a servant wrote it out, and more like…

Like what?

Like for the past week, Aurelia thought about what happened and practiced her apology in the mirror?

It’s just not realistic.

But she should apologize back, because Chelle is an adult, and adults admit when they act poorly. She slung insults, belittled Aurelia, hurt her—far worse crimes than being too familiar with an acquaintance. She’ll come across as humble before persuading Aurelia to forget the incident in exchange for Chelle saving her life. It’s simple.

“What do you want from me?”

It’s not what she says.

Shocked, Aurelia lifts her head. “What do I ‘want?’”

A hard lump forms in Chelle’s throat: a swell of all the words she must say as a diplomat. The formal apology, the laugh, the negotiations. Chelle touches her neck—those words—and squeezes slightly, as though to force them up and out.

“Tell me what you want.”

Aurelia gets that same look that she had a week ago: The soft downturn of her slightly-parted lips, those round brown eyes. She says, “I know I said I would think about it, but I meant it when I said I don’t need anything.”

“No.” Chelle wants to grip her neck in both hands and squeeze, squeeze, squeeze until she says the right thing. She’s not asking herself for much. “Before that evening in the library. What were you so cordial for?”

The frustrating expression on Aurelia’s face deepens. “You’re asking why I was being nice.”

Something in Chelle aches.

After a moment, Aurelia shuts her eyes. “I understand. Sometimes, it’s hard accepting kindness at face value.”

“I would thank you to not make assumptions,” Chelle spits out. “I ‘accept kindness’ just fine, Your Holiness.”

But that isn’t this. Chelle is herself, and Aurelia is an enemy priestess. It’s logical for there to be an angle. If Aurelia isn’t an assassin after her life, not a spy looking to disrupt foreign relations, then she wants something. Yet, Chelle has nothing to give.

With a sigh, Aurelia reaches both her hands across the distance between her and Chelle. “May I?”

Chelle looks from Aurelia’s flawless hands to her straight face. To prove Aurelia wrong, she extends her less-bloody hand and braces herself.

“I do want one thing, Princess.” Aurelia places one hand under Chelle’s and the other over it. Her touch is so featherlight, it might as well not be there. Still, Chelle’s muscles tighten. “Just to be friends.”

A warm light comes from Aurelia’s fingers. Chelle bites the sore inside of her cheek. It burns—badly. Then, the vicious pain softens. With a slight exhale, Chelle watches the red of her scalded hand fade into pink.

“If friends is too much,” Aurelia continues, moving to Chelle’s other hand, “I can also settle for just being friendly.”

Aurelia’s lie is delicate and comforting. Chelle keeps her weary eyes fixed on their hands, watching her bloody, exposed flesh knit itself together. The burns and blisters fade.

“I wanted to prove that we could get along beyond diplomacy. And… Your Highness seemed like someone I’d like to be friends with. You seemed confident, intelligent. Considerate, even.”

Aurelia’s light fades. Chelle pulls her hands back and studies them: the splinter pricks are gone, the gash a mere line, and while the burns remain, they’ve turned into something easily treated by ointment and time.

Believing people isn’t easy. It’s not like Aurelia’s words have touched her deeply or made her rethink everything. However, if she can’t trust a priestess to speak a sliver of truth, then who can she trust?

“I would also like to apologize.”

Aurelia’s eyes widen and she throws her hands up. “Please don’t!”

“What I did was of greater insult,” Chelle reminds, tracing a vein in her wrist. “I cannot claim to be a moral woman, but I have some grace: I am deeply sorry, Priestess Aurelia, for my actions—and my outburst just now.”

Aurelia hesitates. Fear cuts Chelle for a split second before Aurelia lowers her hands and says, smiling, “Thank you. I accept the apology.”

A weight far larger than Chelle knew was there falls from her shoulders.

“Well,” she mumbles, then raises her head and smiles herself. “How wonderful to put this unpleasantness behind us. I’m glad to know this won’t impact relations between Raywall and the delegation.”

The emphasis on her last sentence flies past Aurelia, whose face lightens immensely. As though delighted, she claps her hands together. “It is wonderful, isn’t it? And I know friendship might be a little… much, but I’d love if we could spend some time together again before I leave.”

“Alright, that would be— that would be splendid, of course.”

“I’d still love to see your wedding dress when it’s finished,” she carries on, very effectively reminding Chelle of just how chatty she was before the incident. “And if you work on your veil, I’d really love to watch you make lace!”

“I can’t claim that would be exciting, but I could arrange it.” Chelle hesitates, then says, “I could show you how to make something simple.”

Like she just offered to fill Aurelia’s pockets with all of Alberia’s gold, her eyes sparkle. “That would be amazing! I— Oh!” The excitement dims all of a sudden. “I’d hate to eat into your time with the marquis, though.”

Chelle smiles wryly. “Considerate, but I doubt he wants to cavort with me right now.”

“Oh? Why?”

“Aside from tonight, I haven’t spoken to him since the evening in the library.” Something dawns on Chelle. “Did you not tell him?”

There’s a blank look on Aurelia’s face. “Of course not. Only Ruth knows, and I swore her to silence. Ruth wouldn’t break an oath between us.”

Chelle’s stomach drops, but she smiles. “Then he must be dreadfully busy! And I must have been so nervous that I misconstrued everything.”

This answers appears to put Aurelia at ease, but Chelle feels anything but.