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Chapter Text

Late summer sunlight fills the small clearing. It brushes everything it touches in warm golden hues, but it’s on the surface only. Autumn hovers in cool shadows, in the sharp bite of the breeze that picks up stray wisps of their hair. This might be the last day they can be out here without thick gloves and boots.

Mira loves this time of year, however bittersweet it might be. Knowing that soon the skies will be grey and the world around them covered in frost makes her want to soak up every bit of sunshine that she can, and she tilts her face up to the sky with her eyes closed. Dappled light flickers behind her eyelids, and she breathes in deeply, appreciating the warmth on her skin. 

“What are you thinking about?” Rumi interrupts her train of thought, and Mira opens her eyes. They’re lying sprawled in the low grass of the little meadow, just far enough from the castle to feel like they’re in a world of their own. 

They’d come out here to spar, but it had been far too pleasant to focus properly. After a half-hearted session (Mira would still say that she won, but that’s besides the point) they’d ended up tossing their swords on the grass and dozing instead. 

“Winter,” Mira shrugs, crossing her hands behind her head and squinting up at the bright blue sky.

Rumi huffs a little sigh that nevertheless speaks volumes, and Mira knows what’s running through her mind without needing to ask. 

Winter equals being indoors, for the most part. Long dinners and formal dress wear and lessons; it means being under the nose of the captain day in and day out, who, however kind he might be, adheres to Correct Protocol so strictly Mira thinks he might actually faint dead away if he saw the way she teases Rumi in the privacy of her own rooms. 

Her Highness, that is to say.

But out here, it doesn’t matter about protocol. It doesn’t matter that Rumi is the crown princess, that Mira is one of her sword maidens, that they come from completely different worlds. 

They can just be themselves. 

If someone had told a younger Mira that one day this would become the place she’d feel most at ease, she’d have laughed out loud in their face. When she’d first been sent here, she had been furious. 

Her family had said it was the best thing for her future — what greater honour than to serve their Kingdom? To be the companion to not just any noble, but the princess? — but Mira had seen it for what it was. They wanted the connections in society, the doors that this would open for them. 

It was just an added bonus that they would finally be rid of their own troublesome daughter, while she would be stuck for the rest of her days with a spoiled, pampered little aristocrat. It had been easier to focus on her anger about this, than to acknowledge the sting of being unwanted. Unloveable. 

She’d been determined to be the worst sword maiden ever. Surely if she misbehaved enough they’d send her away? Or perhaps she could just escape; maybe if she ran far enough she’d find a place where she belonged. 

But then she’d met Princess Rumi (the daughter of the late Princess Mi-Yeong, and now Queen Celine’s only heir to the throne), and she’d been nothing like Mira had expected. 

Mira rolls onto her side to look at Rumi lying in the grass now, the tall stalks swaying around her catching the glow of the sun. 

It’s been six years. 

She knows Rumi’s face better than her own, now. The smattering of freckles across her high cheekbones. How she presses her lips together when she’s trying to appear serious and focused, but she’s actually trying not to laugh. The little line between her brows when she’s actually focusing, her habit of biting her lower lip at the same time. 

Rumi tries so hard to be what everyone wants her to be — the dutiful heir, the obedient student, the promising young warrior — but Mira likes it best when she’s just Rumi. 

Six years of spending every day by her side. 

The inside jokes, the rolled eyes behind backs. Helping Rumi braid her impossibly long purple hair when they’re running late. Training with the sword master together, practising on their own, the thrill of pushing each other. They’re both talented, both quick; it’s not a given which of them will win a fight on any given day. 

Rumi delights in making her laugh, a triumphant smirk on her lips whenever a proper snort escapes Mira unexpectedly. Mira pretends to be irritated by this (she has truly perfected the art of the eye roll) but in truth she loves Rumi’s silliness, how endearingly awkward she can be. 

She’s lovely and ridiculous and kind, and sometimes when Mira looks at her it’s like she can’t quite breathe, as though there isn’t enough oxygen in the atmosphere. There’s possibly something wrong with her, she thinks vaguely, wondering how she can feel unbalanced when she’s lying down. 

A cough from the edge of the clearing stirs her from her tumbled, sun-kissed thoughts.

Mira leaps to her feet in an instant, sword in hand, feet planted firmly in the soft grass. She relaxes ever so slightly when she recognizes one of the younger knights in the queen’s guard, but she doesn’t let go of her sword.

“Your Highness,” he bows deeply to Rumi, who has also risen fluidly to stand, uncaring that stalks of grass are sticking out of her braid. “Milady,” he adds as an afterthought to Mira. 

Mira glares at him. She’s annoyed to have been caught off guard like this, and also that he’s interrupted what might be their last warm afternoon of the year. “What do you want?”

The knight bristles at her tone. It’s difficult to say who between the two of them has the superior ranking, but he clearly seems to think that it’s him. (She honestly couldn’t care less). 

“Well?” She prompts impatiently.

“The Queen requests your presence,” he says to Rumi, pretending Mira doesn’t exist. 

Rumi tucks a strand of loose purple hair behind one ear. “Tell her we’ll be back shortly.”

Being treated like a carrier pigeon also clearly irks the knight, though he’s too polite to say so. Mira wonders why the Queen sent him; there are plenty of servants in the castle who are perfectly capable of carrying a message. 

“Highness,” he bows again. “She asked that you return immediately. I am to accompany you back.”

Rumi frowns at him. “I have no need of a guard.”

“Be that as it may,” he shrugs (a slightly more respectful version of Mira’s own I don’t give a fuck expression on his face) but then reconsiders and offers another little half bow. 

Rumi exchanges a glance with Mira, whose own frown is more of an unimpressed scowl. 

“As the Queen wishes.”

—

By the time they reach the castle, the grounds are already full of lengthening lilac shadows and the air is chilly on Mira’s bare arms. Rumi turns toward the direction of her own rooms first, but she’s stopped once again by the knight clearing his throat. 

“You’re to go to the council room at once.” 

Mira’s lips press together as she glares at him. She might not have felt like sparring earlier, but she’s definitely in the mood for it now. 

“Can I not change?” Rumi raises one eyebrow, gesturing to her sparring outfit. Her tunic is rumpled and dirt stained, and there’s still grass in her braid. Despite all this she still looks every bit the royal; her chin held high, shoulders back, brown eyes deceptively calm — but Mira notices the way her hands clench into fists at her side. 

“The request was for you to come immediately.” 

So not exactly a request then, Mira thinks, but doesn’t say out loud. Years at court have taught her to hold her tongue (for the most part). 

Rumi inclines her head. “Very well,” she says with a little shrug, and she turns in the opposite direction. Mira follows her without asking whether she was requested also; it’s generally assumed that where the princess goes, she follows. 

Once, that would have irritated her. Now she doesn’t even think to question it. 

The heavy, ornate gilded doors to the council room are closed when they reach them, but Rumi doesn’t pause. She pushes them open and strides inside, before coming to a startled halt so suddenly that Mira nearly walks into her. 

She’s not sure what she’d been expecting, but it hadn’t been this.

Queen Celine sits in her carved wooden throne at the far end of the long table. Her closest sword maidens are behind her in the shadows, and the knight who escorted them joins the others who are standing loosely at attention at the edges of the room. There are more of them than usual, Mira notices — and then she sees the figure at the opposite end of the table. Mira recognizes him, though she’s never seen him before. Her pulse picks up. 

It’s clear that he’s a tall man, even seated, with purple hair so dark it’s almost black, and skin pale as snow — but it’s his eyes that are legendary. Flashing gold, like two burning embers glowing in his face, their pupils eerily glassy and changeable.

King Gwi-ma.

He smiles at them — at Rumi — and it’s so cold and empty, yet somehow simultaneously so cunning, that it makes Mira shiver inwardly. She moves instinctively to step in front of Rumi, but of course the princess sidesteps her. She shoots Mira a short look that says, I got this.

Mira knows she does, but it still makes her skin crawl to see the way the king looks at her when she curtsies low, inclining her head toward him in greeting. “Your Majesty,” she murmurs, before turning to Celine. “Highness.”

The queen’s eyes rake over Rumi as her heir walks toward her and pulls out the seat at her side, taking in the lack of a proper dress, the dirt on her tunic, the sword still slung at her back (Rumi shrugs it off and places it at her side when she sits). Stray strands of hair escape her braid in little waves across her forehead. Celine looks ever so slightly pained by her appearance, and it makes irritation flare even brighter within Mira – it’s not like they were given the time to make themselves presentable – and she leans against the stone wall with a casualness she doesn’t feel.

“Princess Rumi,” King Gwi-ma nods at her, his strange eyes glowing. “What a pleasure. I do apologize for interrupting your…” He pauses. “Studies.”

Rumi clasps her hands together in her lap, her posture perfectly erect. “There is no need to apologize,” she demurs. “We were finished for the day.”

“It’s wonderful to see a young person so enthusiastic about their training,” the King continues. Every syllable drips with condescension. “I was just discussing with your guardian, how I wish my own protégé were so motivated.”

Rumi glances briefly at the Queen, but Celine remains silent. “Oh?” Rumi says politely.

The King nods. “Yes, indeed. I think you will be very good for him.”

 “I — excuse me?” Rumi falters. Mira stands up straighter.

“Oh, I’m getting ahead of myself, aren’t I?” He laughs a cold little chuckle. “I’m here to offer a betrothal to my nephew, Prince Jinu. Our two kingdoms will be so much stronger together, I’m sure you’ll agree.”

He sits back in his chair, his eyes gleaming, and Rumi turns to look at Mira, confusion and panic written plainly across her face. 

Every bit of court protocol flies out of Mira’s head. She hears the word come out of her own mouth before she even realizes that she’s spoken. 

“No.” 

Chapter Text

Mira paces back and forth agitatedly. 

After her brief outburst in the council room (she’d attempted to cover it as a cough) she had somehow managed to remain silent for the remainder of King Gwi-ma’s proposal, but she’d felt sick just listening to it. When she’d been dismissed she’d been almost relieved to leave, though she hated leaving Rumi there alone with them. 

She can see Gwi-ma’s smirk in the back of her mind, cruel and taunting, and a sense of aching desperation twists in her chest. How could the queen give Rumi to him? She’s never met Prince Jinu, but she can only imagine he’s just as unfeeling, just as heartless. 

Letting out a loud huff of frustration, Mira kicks the wall angrily. Of course, the wall doesn’t care that everything is unfair or that her kick is entirely justified, and the movement is immediately followed by a hiss of pain. 

“Ow!” 

The door creaks open as Mira jumps about swearing, hopping on one leg, and she looks up to see Rumi enter. The pain in her toe is immediately forgotten. (Well, mostly forgotten). 

“Are you–” Mira cuts herself off. Are you okay? is a ridiculous question. Of course she isn’t okay.

Rumi’s face is pale. She looks as untethered as Mira feels inside, and Mira just wants to wrap her arms around her, to help hold her together. But she holds herself back, waiting for Rumi to speak. 

“Celine offered a deal,” Rumi says dully, sitting down heavily onto Mira’s bed. All her perfect posture, all the masks she wears in front of the court, are gone. Her shoulders slump. 

Mira’s stomach drops. 

“I don’t have to marry the Prince.”

“Wait, what–”

“But I do have to pick someone.”

Mira fights the urge to interrupt, but it’s not easy holding back her what the fuck?

“Apparently it’s time I grew up,” Rumi continues, trying for a sarcastic laugh, but it comes out as more of a choked sob. “I guess I always knew this would happen, I just…” she trails off, and shrugs. 

“So you…” 

Rumi leans back into her hands and stares up at the ceiling. “There’s going to be three balls. At the end of the month, at the new moon. The whole kingdom, and all the foreign nobility will be invited. And at the end, I have to choose.”

“A husband,” Mira says disbelievingly, sitting down next to her, her brows furrowed in a scowl, fists clenched unconsciously. 

The nod that Rumi gives is the picture of defeated helplessness. “Celine says it’s the best thing for the kingdom.” Her voice is hollow as she repeats the queen’s words. 

Mira doesn’t know what to say. She’s filled with a strange kind of numb anger that she doesn’t know what to do with. Her first instinct is to run away – could they use their hair as a rope? Escape out the window of their tower before anyone even noticed they’d left? – but no, Rumi would never agree. 

She loves her kingdom too much, and much as she’s loath to admit it, it’s one of the things that Mira loves about her.  And so she takes a deep breath in, trying to steady herself. 

“But you get to pick anyone?” Mira tries to make this sound like a good thing, attempting to make her voice positive and supportive and not like she wants to strangle someone. After all, what did she think would happen? The obligations of Rumi’s future have always loomed over them, but they felt so far away. When the time came, Mira had imagined she’d be prepared for it – actually, she’d just tried very hard not to think about it at all. 

“Yeah,” Rumi says quietly. “But I think Celine is hoping it’s Prince Jinu. The Shadowlands have so much trade to offer. And they’re our biggest neighbouring border.”

Mira knows all of this. She also knows it’s the fucking Shadowlands. The thought of Rumi – her brilliant, funny, goofy Rumi – being sent there as a bride makes her clench her jaw tightly.  

“But you’d have an escort, right?” She says finally, groping for some kind of hope. She doesn’t care if Rumi picks the dark prince of the shadows or a gremlin from the furthest southern isles; she’s not letting her face it alone.

“Yeah, but –”

“Don’t even say it, princess,” Mira warns her with a little bump of her shoulder, the title more a teasing endearment than anything else, although she’s not joking in the slightest when she tells her, “You’re stuck with me.”

Rumi sniffs, wiping her nose with the back of her sleeve in a distinctly un princess-like manner. She opens her mouth to say something, but can’t seem to get the words out, and so she just sniffles loudly again before resting her head against Mira’s shoulder. 

She smells achingly familiar, like lavender and sunshine. Like home. Mira holds her gently, one arm over her shoulder, because right now there isn’t anything else she can do.

“Can I stay here?” Rumi asks after a long while, wiping her eyes with the palms of her hands. They’re a little red rimmed, and she looks so sad it breaks Mira’s heart.

“Well, that’s a stupid question.” Mira rolls her eyes with pretend impatience. “Of course you can.”

Rumi punches her shoulder. (Honestly, her attempt at joviality is pathetic). “Be right back.”

Their rooms connect via a secret stairwell in the tower that’s concealed cleverly into the thick walls of the fortress. It was probably built originally as a means of escape in case of attack, but now it’s just a useful passageway that means no one knows Rumi spends more time in Mira’s room than her own. The slanted ceilings are cosier than Rumi’s own palatial quarters; on clear nights they can see the stars through the skylight.

Mira slumps back onto her bed, staring up at the night sky visible in the little window. Anger and sadness war within her, tangled with confusion. She hates this. Like they’re just pawns in someone else’s game, not real people with real feelings of their own – and most of all, she hates having these stupid feelings. That she cares so fucking much. This would be so much easier if she could just… not. 

So the princess has to marry – that’s how it is, how it’s always been – she should just accept it. 

Except the princess isn’t just the princess. She’s Rumi. 

Mira is still trying to find a way out, her mind running over possible options again and again, but she hasn’t come up with anything that even remotely resembles a good idea when Rumi quietly re-enters her room. She’s dressed in her long embroidered night clothes, little stars and moons sewn in intricate detail across the fleecy woven material. She looks lovely and soft and lost, and Mira stops trying to think of an escape for the moment. What if this is one of the last nights they have together? 

She’s her best friend. 

She’s so much more than that, even if Mira has never admitted it out loud, not even to herself. 

Mira swallows, the thought causing a sharp pang in her chest, and she tries to ignore the ache. It doesn’t matter how she feels. She needs to be there for Rumi; that’s what matters the most. 

Rumi curls up next to her. 

“We’ll figure it out,” Mira tells her in a low voice, blowing out the candle by her bed before tugging the blankets up over them both. She can feel Rumi’s warmth next to her, and she reaches out a hand to find Rumi’s and interlaces their fingers, giving them a little squeeze. Maybe if she tells herself that enough it will come true. 

“I wish…” Rumi’s voice trails off. She shuffles beneath the blankets so that she’s facing Mira in the moonlight, letting go of her hand. Her dark eyes trace Mira’s outline, and she bites her lip before shaking her head with a small sigh. “It doesn’t matter, I suppose.”

Mira pulls a face. “I guess not,” she says, even if she wonders what Rumi was going to say.

They lie there quietly for a long time, both lost in their own thoughts. They’ve spent countless nights like this – talking and joking until they fall asleep, discussing their fears and worries, and Mira doesn’t remember when it became less of a comfort and more of a torment to have Rumi so close to her.

How intoxicatingly good she smells. How lovely her dark brown eyes are, her long lashes fanning over her high cheekbones. Sometimes Mira gets so entranced by them she forgets what she was thinking about. 

And sometimes, she can’t help wondering what would happen if she reached out a hand to brush Rumi’s hair off her forehead, that rogue lock that always escapes the braid. If she traced a finger along the soft curve of her cheek. The question of what she tastes like haunts her.

Mira squeezes her eyes shut, trying not to think about that, anything but that – but then she just imagines some faceless prince kissing Rumi instead, and her eyes snap open.

“What?” Rumi asks. The blanket is tucked up beneath her chin. 

“Nothing,” Mira says. And then, crossly, “I just hate everyone.”

“Even me?”

“Never you.” 

Rumi looks at her in the darkness, eyes bright, and Mira’s blunt, honest words hang between them. She blinks, and Mira thinks she sees a tear sparkle at the corner of Rumi’s eye before it trickles down her cheek onto the pillow.

She means so much more in those two words, and it’s not like her not to say what she’s thinking, but she doesn’t want to lose her. Rumi is her family. She can’t ruin that. She can’t make this harder than it needs to be. 

“Come on,” she sighs, breaking the sudden tension simmering between them. “We should sleep.”

Turning onto her back, she crosses her arms over her chest, closes her eyes tightly, and then proceeds to spend the next several hours doing pretty much the exact opposite of sleeping. 

She’s too wound up by both anger and unspoken desire simmering in her veins, and she can’t stop thinking, stop worrying, and all the while Rumi is right there. Usually, Mira can bury the feelings that bubble up inside her when Rumi mumbles in her sleep, when she thrashes unconsciously with her own demons, but tonight it’s downright impossible.

Mira lies there wrapped in moonlight, in the slow count of Rumi’s heartbeats, feeling too much of everything all at once. 

Chapter Text

At some point in the night Mira’s worries become nightmares as she slips into an uneasy sleep where she’s running, always running, but it’s never fast enough. No matter how desperately hard she tries, she can't make her legs move more quickly.

She can’t find Rumi anywhere, and the voices in her dream whisper that she never will, that she’s not enough, that she doesn’t deserve to find her – and the next thing she knows, she’s waking up with a start to early morning sunshine streaming through the skylight, sweaty and shaken. 

She blinks, sitting up in bed. 

Rumi is nowhere to be seen.

It shouldn’t cause the pang of hurt that it does. Rumi is always up early, she knows that logically, but she can’t help wishing she was there. The sense of unease from her dream lingers in her chest as she dresses for the day, muttering to herself to get her shit together.

A knock at her door surprises her as she laces her boots.

Frowning, Mira rises to answer.

She finds one of the queen’s sword maidens on the stone spiral staircase. Each of the sword maidens have a different duty, and she knows Jo-Lee quite well, as they share the same essential role of protection. They’ve spent a fair amount of time training together, and Jo-Lee was the first person to explain fighting to Mira as though it’s a dance – a series of choreographed steps that can be learned and honed, not just a series of attacks or defenses.

Now, however, Jo-Lee appears stern and closed off. She inclines her head in greeting and then says, “Queen Celine would like to see you in her quarters.”

Mira’s eyes narrow. “Why?”

She can’t remember the Queen ever requesting her specifically. With Rumi, all the time, but alone… never.

Jo-Lee gives her a look as if to say, “Even if I knew I wouldn’t tell you,” and turns on her heel to march down the winding staircase, the heels of her boots clacking on the stone. 

Pushing away a sinking sense of dread, Mira grabs her sword, and follows. 

–

The room the queen often uses to entertain visitors is lined with tall, arching windows that allow the sun to stream in at different angles throughout the day. It’s filled with plants and vines creeping up the stone arches, and little couches and tables are strategically scattered throughout the space, creating an illusion of cosy comfort.

But it’s also where Mira has heard the queen lecture Rumi countless times over the years, and any sense of warmth or cosiness she might have once felt there has long since evaporated. 

When she enters, Jo-Lee trailing behind her, she finds the queen with her long dark hair unbound and loose down her back, gazing out of one of the windows. She almost looks sad, Mira observes – but then she turns toward her, and her face is devoid of any emotion at all. Maybe Mira was imagining it.

“You and my niece have become very close,” the queen comments by way of greeting, gathering her long skirts and then sinking into an armchair patterned with tiny roses. She gestures toward the lounge opposite her. “Sit, sit.”

Mira would actually prefer to remain standing awkwardly at attention, but she sits stiffly, her hands resting on her thighs.

“Very close,” she repeats, once Mira has sat down. “Wouldn’t you say?”

“It’s my duty,” Mira says flatly, managing not to roll her eyes.

“To assist her in her studies, yes,” the queen muses. “To train with her – you’ve both become quite formidable, I believe – but I wasn’t aware that she also required protection in her sleep.” She says the words with a casual calm that doesn’t match the sudden steeliness in her brown, almond shaped eyes.

Mira says nothing, though the accusation causes a jolt of anxiety to ripple through her. Shit. 

The silence between them becomes chilly. 

“The princess will have much on her plate over the next week to prepare for the upcoming balls,” Celine continues, sitting back in her chair, her tone now brisk and sharp. “She cannot be distracted.”

“I understand,” Mira says, attempting to keep her face as impassive as she can, although she has a feeling she’s failing.

A small smirk appears at the corner of the queen’s lips.

“I don’t think you do, my dear. You are a distraction.”

Mira feels her heart pounding against her ribcage. “I am not” seems like a futile kind of thing to argue, so she remains silent, her jaw clenched.

“Like I said,” the queen says, her gaze now fixed sharply on Mira, any traces of amusement gone. “She cannot afford to be distracted. She will be assigned another sword maiden, one who understands the boundaries of her position. One who will not hold her back.”

“I have never held Rumi back,” Mira snaps.

“I have informed the princess,” the queen pauses meaningfully at Rumi’s title before continuing, “That you have requested a different position, and will no longer be in her retinue.”

“But I–”

“She understood,” she says, cutting Mira off. “She was disappointed, of course.”

Disappointed.

Mira stares at the queen, blood pounding in her ears. She knows it can’t be true, can’t be what really happened – Rumi wouldn’t believe that, surely. She wouldn’t accept it willingly, she’d fight for Mira – she’s her best friend, her family, her favourite person. 

But that little voice, the one that creeps into Mira’s dreams and catches her when she’s feeling most alone, whispers in her mind. Is she? 

“I would prefer to stay in her service,” Mira says stiffly, trying to ignore the voice, the sense of desperation creeping over her. “I can assure you–”

“It has been decided.” The queen interrupts her again decisively. “Your belongings have already been packed. One of the squires in the countryside has requested a swordswoman for his daughter – perhaps you will learn your place there.”

She glances at Jo-Lee, who moves to stand next to Mira. 

“Can I say goodbye?” Mira hates the way the words sound, small and lost and pathetic. Suddenly she’s sixteen, and her parents are sending her away to a foreign land. All the cracks in her heart that she thought had scarred over feel raw and fresh all over again. 

“The princess agreed it would be for the best if you didn’t,” Celine says. “No need to make this harder than it needs to be.”

Mira sits there on the stupid little couch, feeling like she might break into two, but she refuses to show the queen just how hurt she is. She stands abruptly. 

“Fine.” She bites out the word, even though nothing has ever felt less fine. 

“Jo-Lee will escort you to your carriage,” the queen says with a dismissive wave of her hand. 

The queen’s sword maiden moves to stand at her side, more like a guard than an escort, and Mira knows that even if she tried to run she wouldn’t stand a chance. Jo-Lee is more than an equal match to her own skills, and there are too many other sword maidens and knights in the way for her to get far.

She hears the queen behind her as she leaves. “It’s for the best,” she says again. “You’ll see.”

Fuck that, Mira thinks, and because apparently she’s never learned her place, she raises her middle finger up to the queen in a gesture of farewell. 

–

It takes an entire day to reach the estate of the squire. 

Mira spends the carriage ride staring blankly out of the window, watching numbly as the landscape changes from the thick forest and woods that surround the castle to rolling hills and green fields. Eventually the air grows colder as the carriage winds its way up into the mountains – Mira has never been here before, but she knows these ranges are said to border the shadowlands. It’s whispered that strange magic lurks in the cloudy valleys and wild crags. 

She is entirely unsurprised that this is where the queen decided to send her – getting back to the castle is only going to be that much more difficult.

Because of course she’s going back. 

As the wheels bump over ruts and holes along the dusty dirt road, Mira thinks of Rumi. She refuses to believe this is what she wants; she refuses to let them send her away – not again. If there’s any chance that Rumi needs her, then she’s going back, no matter what it takes.

She holds onto that thought fiercely whenever the doubts creep in, and by the time the carriage rolls through the tall, iron gates of the estate and comes to a stop in front of a large manor, she’s determined to escape the second she has a chance.

Jo-Lee opens the door to the carriage. If Mira gave a fuck it would be vaguely flattering that the queen thought it was necessary to send one of her best fighters as her escort – but she doesn’t, and so she just glares at the woman as she steps out into the chill night air, staring around her. 

Dusk has already fallen and the manor is shrouded in shadows. High peaks of the mountains form a black jagged horizon behind it, making the manor itself feel even darker and more imposing than it would be otherwise. 

“Well,” Jo-Lee says, meeting Mira’s eyes for the first time since leaving the castle. She hesitates, and Mira thinks for a moment that she might be about to apologize - but she doesn’t. Instead she bows, admittedly perhaps a little lower than is strictly called for, and climbs back into the carriage. 

She leaves without another word, leaving Mira standing alone outside the entrance to the manor. 

The sound of the horseshoes clip clopping on the dirt road fade into the distance as Mira stares up at the double doors. She wonders if she should just make a run for it now – but where would she go? It would be too easy to find her on the road, and even Mira can admit that the idea of wandering through these mountains in the dark makes her nervous (although she might not admit it to anyone out loud, of course). 

Before she can make a decision between running or hiding, one of the doors swings inwards.

“Oh!” Says an unexpectedly bright voice. “You’re here already!”

Mira frowns at the small figure peering out at her. She looks familiar. 

“Aren’t you cold? Is that all you have?” The girl steps outside, taking stock of Mira’s sole bag of belongings, the sword hanging at her back. She grins up at her and doesn’t seem to be even remotely deterred by the fact that Mira is most definitely not smiling back, nor bothered that she doesn’t answer her questions. 

She tries to remember where she’s seen the girl before – it must have been at court? 

“I’m Zoey!” The girl says, before belatedly dropping into a hasty curtsy. “And you’re the princess’ sword maiden! Why did they send you?”

“Uh,” Mira says, still frowning perplexedly at her bubbly interrogator. This is not what she’d imagined. “Apparently I’m a distraction?”

Zoey cocks her head at this. “But that’s ridiculous. You’re like… the best.” She breathes the word “best” in an almost whisper, her eyes widening.  

Mira shrugs. She’s cold and hungry and soul weary, and worry for Rumi hovers constantly in the back of her mind. 

The smaller girl peers up at her, her brown eyes suddenly sharp, like she’s really seeing her. It reminds Mira achingly of Rumi and she tries to press her lips together, to look tough and stern like the formidable sword maiden that she is. She hopes Zoey doesn’t see the way her lower lip wobbles. 

Zoey stares at her intensely for another second and then declares, “You need to eat! And then you can tell me everything.” 

She grabs Mira’s bag before she can protest and bounds inside, leaving Mira with no choice but to follow.

Chapter Text

“I’m sorry. But what exactly am I doing here?” Mira is sitting opposite Zoey in a grand, if a little forlorn dining room, with a bowl of steaming soup in front of her. She’s gone from being exhausted and angry and determined to being – well, still all of those things, but now she’s also confused. “Did your father send for me, or–”

“Oh, yes! Well, sort of.” Zoey slurps her soup.

The glare Mira shoots her is one of impatient annoyance, but Zoey remains cheerily unperturbed. 

“Papa is so protective, you see,” she explains. “But I think he thought they would send just any old swordmaiden, or someone to teach me, maybe. You know, defensive stuff.” She waves her hand airily. “But why would they send you? Who’s with the princess?”

Mira grits her teeth, slumping back in her chair. “I don’t know.”

Zoey blinks at her. Mira can practically see the questions buzzing in her head, desperate to explode out, and so she cuts her off before she can even start. “King Gwi-ma wants her to marry Prince Jinu.” She continues to explain in a flat voice about the balls, how Rumi must pick a husband at the end of them. 

“But shouldn’t she have you there in case something bad happens–”

“Yes,” Mira snaps. “But the queen…” She has to blink away sudden angry tears that threaten to overflow, which only makes her feel more frustrated. She sniffs. “She said I overstepped the boundaries of my position. That I’ve been holding her back.” 

Zoey’s mouth falls open. “But you’re the best!”

“Uh. Thank you?” 

Mira tries to discreetly wipe her eyes, while the smaller girl continues to slurp her soup, but she doesn’t stop staring. Mira crosses her arms over her chest. “What?” She says finally.

“I’m just thinking.”

“About?”

“Well, how we’re going to get you back. And how to get you into the balls.”

It’s Mira’s turn for her mouth to drop open. “You –what?”

“You’ll need a disguise, obviously,” Zoey continues, her forehead furrowed thoughtfully. “Your pink hair is kind of a giveaway. But good thing the balls are masked.”

“How do you know–”

“Oh, we got an invitation earlier today. Everyone in the kingdom is invited, even the nobility from the isles – ooh, ooh! Aren’t you from the north? Hmm, I wonder if anyone will recognise your family name, or if we should just come up with a new one…” She taps a finger on her chin.

“Hang on. What are you talking about?” 

Zoey frowns at her, like it’s obvious. “The princess has to pick someone. So we need to get you there. So she can pick you.”

Mira blinks.

“Don’t you love her?”

Her mouth opens, then closes. Her heart beats fast in her chest. “Um.”

“I saw you, last time we were at court. The way you look at her, I just thought…”

Well, that’s mortifying. A blush creeps over Mira’s cheeks. 

“I just –” Mira doesn’t know what to say. She’s never told anyone how she feels about Rumi, never really even admitted it to herself – she doesn’t really understand how she feels, except that it’s big and confusing and all encompassing and actually kind of terrifying. She’d rather face one of the shadow demons that are rumoured to lurk in these mountains than talk about her feelings.

But Zoey is still watching her, waiting for an answer. 

“I just… need her to be okay,” she finally says through gritted teeth, slouching back in her chair, attempting to look annoyed rather than anxious. 

“Okay.” Zoey doesn’t push her any further. 

“Okay.”

There’s silence for a moment. Zoey slurps another spoonful of soup. “If it makes you feel better,” she says, her voice bright once again, “She looks at you the same way.”

Mira wrinkles her nose and tries not to blush harder.

“It’s not like that changes anything,” she says finally. “Even if she wanted to…which, like, I’m not saying she would? …But she couldn’t pick me.”

“Why not?”

Mira raises one eyebrow sardonically and deadpans, “In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m kind of lacking one of the key ingredients needed in a husband.”

“So?” Zoey shrugs. 

She says it so simply that all of the reasons Mira could have argued with suddenly sound stupid. She’s never particularly cared for rules before; why should she care now? 

Maybe because breaking them means admitting how she feels. 

Putting herself out there as an option also opens herself up to being rejected, and the idea of being rejected by Rumi hurts more than anything Mira can think of. But – well, fuck, what other option does she have? She can’t not go. 

She sighs.

“Okay. How exactly could I attend the ball? And if you suggest wearing a false moustache I swear I am not above stabbing you. ”

Zoey beams. She seems very unconcerned about the possibility of being stabbed. “I have a plan.”

–

The next day Mira wakes to grey, muted light filtering through the window of the room she was given. 

She hadn’t slept well at all, tossing and turning in the unfamiliar bed, her dreams an echo of her worries. She’s desperate to do something. This is the longest stretch of time she’s been away from Rumi since she was first sent to the castle all those years ago, and now the absence of her feels jarring; wrong. It’s like a piece of her is missing.

While she’s angry at everyone, most of all she’s furious at herself for allowing them to take her so easily. That Rumi is back at the castle now having to prepare for the stupid balls thinking that Mira left her to face it on her own. 

“Ugh,” Mira mutters to herself, pulling her cloak over her shoulders and pushing the door to the room open, striding out in search of Zoey.

At the end of the hall she finds the dining room, and with a little searching it’s not difficult to discover the kitchens attached. The manor is strangely quiet, but a loaf of bread rests on one of the old wooden counters, and Mira cuts herself a slice. She chews on it thoughtfully as she wanders through the halls, looking for signs of life.

It’s not until she passes a window facing an enclosed courtyard that she sees anyone – and that someone is Zoey, dressed in a tunic and long worn looking brown leather pants, her soft boots reaching the bottom of her knees. She’s standing in the middle of the courtyard with an intense expression on her face, and – Mira blinks – a dagger in one hand.

Mira watches, nonplussed, as Zoey aims the dagger, squinting, and then throws it smoothly toward what Mira assumes is a target out of her viewpoint. She can’t see from where she’s standing where the dagger lands, but she’d bet all the coins she has (so, technically none, but if she had some she’d bet a lot) that it strikes home. 

Zoey is sure and poised as she aims again and again, and as sweet as she might seem, Mira realises that she’s also deadly. (It makes her like her all the more). As Zoey flicks three more of the glittering daggers in quick succession into the faded old target, Mira steps into the courtyard. 

“Huh,” she says, biting off another chunk of bread. “Not bad.”

Zoey looks up and grins. “Hi!”

“Why exactly does your father think you need protection?” Mira wonders out loud. “You seem pretty capable of protecting yourself.”

“Oh, you know.” Zoey shrugs as she wanders to retrieve her daggers. “Concerned father, and all that.”

Mira does not, in fact, know. She’s pretty sure her father never held even the slightest bit of concern for her welfare. But she brushes this off and just says, “Uh huh,” before polishing off the rest of her bread. “So, what was that plan you were talking about?”

“I have sooo many ideas,” Zoey tells her excitedly, sheathing her daggers in the leather belt at her waist. Mira kind of wishes she could be annoyed by Zoey’s bubbly energy, but there’s something hopeful and sweet about her – and besides, she could really do with some ideas right now. 

“Yeah?”

“Yes! So many! I’ve been practising my illusion spells and I’m pretty sure I can change your hair, and make you look a bit less… you. Maybe not for a long time? But if you leave early enough each night, it should work. A mask can cover your face – we have some super cool old fashioned ones! There’s a wolf, and a couple of demon ones, and one that’s like a sun, and –”

Zoey continues to prattle on about all the different disguises she has and which one would suit each night, but Mira is still stuck on one point. “Wait, you can do spells?”

“Hm?”

“Spells. Like magic?”

The smaller girl nods, and then bites her lip. “I’m not really supposed to tell anyone? But I figured you wouldn’t mind…”

“Why would I mind?”

Zoey shrugs. “In our last village, people thought it was… unnatural. Weird? I don’t know.” She pauses, and looks down. “Sometimes they weren’t very nice.” 

Mira can tell “not very nice” is an understatement; that perhaps beneath her bubbly exterior Zoey has demons of her own that haunt her. 

“I think it’s awesome,” she informs her bluntly, and Zoey’s eyes brighten. 

She goes back to rambling about disguises and demons and suitors and something about a pumpkin patch, and Mira tries to keep up with her even as her own mind spirals. The thought of disguising herself to see Rumi feels inherently wrong – but there’s no way she can attend the balls as herself. She could try and climb Rumi’s tower? But the odds of being caught (or falling to her demise) are just a little too high for her liking. 

And maybe there’s a little part of her that wants to dance with her, wants the chance to be chosen. Her stomach twists with nervous excitement at the idea, but it’s mixed with the worry that Rumi might not forgive her.

Fuck, what if she just makes everything worse? 

She takes a deep breath in, trying to calm herself. “When can we leave?” She asks Zoey, interrupting another soliloquy (this one about mice). 

“Hm,” Zoey scrunches her face up thoughtfully. “It’ll take us a couple of days to get there… two sleeps? We need to work on your costumes. And I need to find a really big pumpkin.”

–

If Mira is confused about Zoey’s obsession with pumpkins, it soon becomes clear. While her father owns several horses, they do not possess a carriage, and – according to Zoey – they simply cannot arrive each evening on horseback if Mira is to be taken seriously as a suitor. 

“Why not?” Mira grumbles, feeling as though they’re wasting time. “I’d rather marry someone good on a horse than in a fancy carriage.”

“Well, duh. But that’s not what this is about,” Zoey says (somewhat) patiently, placing the pumpkin in the dirt in front of them. She steps back. 

“I still don’t see how a pumpkin – oh, my god!” She leaps back as the enormous vegetable suddenly transforms into a round carriage, its ornate carvings twining like leaves around its window and door, its silver colouring admittedly still somewhat orange. 

Zoey smirks triumphantly. “Perfect.”

–

It turns out, however, that the pumpkin doesn’t much like being a carriage for an extended period of time. A few days later Zoey and Mira set out for the castle on horseback with three medium sized pumpkins in their saddlebags along with the rest of their disguises, and enough snacks to keep them going, because Zoey has excellent priorities. 

They see no shadow demons, although when they pause for breaks Zoey tells her the stories she grew up with of monsters and demons, of powerful strange magics and colourful skies. 

She speaks of King Gwi-ma in slightly nervous, hushed tones, as though she’s afraid he might overhear her, and Mira wonders if Prince Jinu is also a shadow worker. It pushes her to ride all the faster, nerves jangling inside her, the thought of him using that magic on Rumi making her feel sick to her stomach. 

As they get closer and closer to the castle, the road grows steadily busier around them. They pass carriages of noblemen and women clearly also headed to the festivities (none of them seem to be riding pumpkins) and Mira eyes them all with suspicion. Are they coming hoping to secure Rumi’s hand? Are they just big fans of dancing? She hates them all, just a little bit. (Fine, a lot). 

None of them pay her or Zoey the slightest bit of notice; after all, they just look like two scruffy travellers on horseback, not particularly like competition for the throne. Nonetheless, she’s relieved when they finally come to a small house on the outskirts of the town surrounding the castle, hidden away from view of the road by ancient, leafy oak trees. The grounds are covered in the orange and gold of fallen leaves, and their footsteps crunch over them loudly in the quiet as they approach the house.

“This is yours??” Mira raises an eyebrow as Zoey pushes open the front door confidently. 

“It’s our town house,” Zoey shrugs, as though everyone has multiple houses. “But papa doesn’t like it here much.”

A tangible sense of neglect hovers in the air along with the dust motes. Zoey sneezes – once, twice, then once again for good measure. She shakes her head, blinking. “Ugh. I forgot how sneezy it is here.”

They spend the rest of the evening going over and over their plans for the next day until they’re both yawning and Mira’s eyelids are drooping. She’s both exhausted and excited – although maybe that nervous edgy feeling is fear. Adrenaline fizzes through her like electricity at the thought of seeing Rumi, and it’s impossible to calm down because she’s so close. 

Her tower is visible just above the trees. Mira is so tempted to sneak out and see her – just to make sure she’s okay – but she knows that if she did see her it would be almost impossible not to say something. Not to touch her, to hold her. 

One more day, she tells herself, staring up at the glow of light emanating from the window of the tower. Just one more. 

–

Mira stares at herself in the mirror on the wall – except she doesn’t feel like she’s staring at herself at all. A stranger looks back at her.

Zoey has already cast an illusion over her hair; and now it appears almost blue black, shiny and smooth, tied back neatly at the nape of her neck. A dark mask hides the majority of her face, leaving just her dark eyes and the lower part of her face visible; her lips press together in her reflection and Mira wonders if Rumi will recognise them, hoping both that she will and that she won’t. 

Sparkling stars cover the mask, constellations mapped out across it, spelling out the tales of the gods from Mira’s own homeland. They’ve decided to stick with some semblance of the truth for Mira’s cover story – she’ll pose as a young nobleman from the north, using her grandfather’s last name instead of her father’s. If any questions are asked about her origins, at least she can answer them accurately, and the slight lilt to her accent that still lingers will only add to her story. 

Not that Mira plans on talking to many people, but she’s spent enough time around the court to know how nosy people can be. 

Mira turns a little, examining her reflection, slightly unnerved to see the stranger mirror her movements. Her breasts are bound tightly against her chest, and the long coat she wears over a starched white shirt and vest makes her shoulders appear broader and more masculine. Her boots are heavy, black and thick soled, so that she’s even taller than usual. 

She doesn’t wear her sword – it’s too recognisable, and for some reason none of the glamours Zoey had experimented with had worked on it – and instead has several daggers stashed about her person. Just in case. 

The stranger looking back at her looks mysteriously forbidding. Doubt mingles with hope inside her – how will Rumi choose her if she barely even recognises herself? 

Zoey has no such qualms. “Perfect,” she says happily, examining her own handiwork in their reflection as she comes to stand by her. She’s dressed in a simple turquoise gown, her shiny dark hair pulled back into two little buns, a feathery black mask covering just her eyes.

“There’s no way this is going to work,” Mira mutters in return. 

“Of course it will,” Zoey responds. Mira wonders if she’s ever not an optimist. “You look so handsome!”

“Ugh,” Mira pulls a face behind her mask.

“Come on. I just finished the carriage. It’s the best one yet.”

Mira cannot deny that Zoey has outdone herself with her latest creation. The enormous pumpkin is saddled to their horses, who have also been dressed up for the occasion, and it glistens with a subtle silver glow underneath the dusky sky. It doesn’t even smell like a pumpkin when Mira climbs inside it, which is a marked improvement on the first few attempts.

Her leg bounces with impatience as they ride up the winding road to the castle. Lanterns and candles light the way, and it becomes increasingly busy the closer they get, until Mira is pretty sure she could have walked faster. She peers out of the pumpkin-carriage window, eyeing the other noblemen with wary eyes. 

No one else’s mask covers quite so much of their face, and some have chosen to forgo a costume altogether, perhaps hoping the princess will be charmed by their features. (Seeing them, Mira sincerely doubts it). 

Once they reach the huge double doors of the castle, they are greeted by footmen who bow low to them as they step out of the carriage – Mira recognises them vaguely from her years living there, and she makes an awkward little bow, hoping they don’t see through her disguise immediately. 

They don’t. 

In fact, it soon becomes clear that to the people surrounding them she’s just another foreigner; she might as well be invisible, and some of the nerves that have been plaguing her these past few days relax, only to make way for the enormous butterflies (more like bats, really) in her stomach at the thought that she’s really doing this. 

As she and Zoey make their way through the crowd they’re surrounded by voices and laughter and a merry tune being played by the band off to one side of the ballroom, but Mira barely hears anything. She has eyes for one person and one person only.

“She’ll be here last,” Zoey assures her, grasping Mira’s elbow and steering her in the direction of the long buffet. “Come on, you need sustenance. You look wobbly.”

“I do not look wobbly,” Mira grumbles. (Okay, she kind of feels wobbly). “I’m fine.”

Zoey gives her a look that even beneath her mask says she clearly does not believe her. She shoves a little pastry into Mira’s hand, and as she eats it her gaze continues to scan the room, hardly tasting the sweet apple cinnamon.

And then everything stops – time stands still –  because there she is.

Rumi.

Her long hair is braided back as it always is but there are little jewels woven through the strands, glittering under the lights of the ballroom. Her gown is a deep midnight blue; she looks like a creature of the night sky with her silver mask perched delicately above her nose. 

Mira stares at her from across the room, her heart pounding in her chest, every nerve in her body desperate to go to her. To hold her hand. To tell her it’s going to be okay, because she’s going to make it okay; she won’t accept a world in which Rumi is not okay. 

She looks so sad, and so fucking beautiful. 

“Okay, you are so not playing it cool right now,” Zoey mutters to her out of the side of her mouth.

Mira stuffs the rest of the pastry into her mouth in an attempt to be cool. She chokes a little on it, coughing.

Zoey pats her back forcefully, steering her away to the edge of the crowd. “Much better.”

–

The night turns into what feels more like a strange dream. Mira has attended various dances like this in the past, and in some ways they’d been much the same as this – watching Rumi. Making sure she was okay. Keeping an eye out for danger.

But back then Rumi’s eyes had always found hers across the room; she’d grin and Mira would roll hers, and after they would leave together, laughing about so and so’s terrible dancing, about their favourite snacks of the evening.

Now, Mira’s eyes follow her, and Rumi is oblivious. She greets the guests, the suitors, the noblemen and women from throughout the kingdom, all with that politely distant smile on her face. Occasionally, perhaps when she thinks no one is looking, she gives a little sigh, her shoulders drooping ever so slightly, but her attention is immediately captured by someone else bowing or curtsying before her.

Mira wants to talk to her, but she's afraid of Rumi smiling blankly at her like that, too. 

Instead she watches closely from the sidelines, glaring at each and every suitor as they introduce themselves, although she saves her most venomous scowl for when she sees Gwi-ma approaching Rumi through the crowd. She instinctively steps closer, her hand itching to grip her sword.

The tall young man striding next to him must be Prince Jinu. Zoey’s excited jab into her side only confirms this.

He has short black hair, artfully tousled off his forehead. His deep blue coat-tails and silvery mask match Rumi’s own costume for the night; together they look like an otherworldly pair of stars fallen to earth. 

Perhaps to everyone else they look like the perfect couple, destined to be together – but Mira sees the empty expression in Rumi’s eyes as she curtsies to both men. As she accepts Jinu’s outstretched gloved hand.

Fuck destiny, Mira thinks, edging slightly closer. 

Jinu leads Rumi to the middle of the room. The crowd hushes, moving back to make space as the music shifts into a more traditional tune, and every eye is on them as they face each other, and then move through the opening, familiar steps of the waltz. 

They’re both excellent dancers. It makes Mira hate him even more, watching as he twirls and spins Rumi. His hand rests on her waist, and she daydreams about cutting it off. 

Zoey gives her a look, like she can tell exactly what she’s thinking. 

“No stabbing,” she whispers.

Mira grumbles under her breath. 

"Not yet, anyway."

After that first song other couples join the dance floor, until the whole room is a swirl of movement and colour. Eventually other suitors take the prince’s place – Mira expects him to go up to the small dais where Gwi-Ma sits, watching the festivities next to Queen Celine – but he heads instead to stand next to a man who must be his own guard. 

The man is huge, a long sword strapped to his broad back, and as Jinu approaches him it’s the first time she catches an actual expression flash across the prince’s smooth face. They look so familiar with each other as the tall man punches his shoulder that it sends a pang of longing through Mira. That’s exactly how she and Rumi would usually have been at one of these events.

She searches out Rumi again instinctively. She’s dancing with another foreign nobleman now, pastel purple hair falling across his eyes as they move amongst the other dancers, and the urge to stab (or just maim him a little) isn’t quite as strong, but it’s definitely not gone. 

Zoey elbows her again without the least bit of subtlety. “You going to dance with her, or just scowl all night? It’s getting late, you know.”

“How long will your magic last?”

She shrugs unhelpfully. “Hard to say, really.”

“Oh goody,” Mira deadpans. Her palms feel sweaty. But fuck it – she can’t chicken out now. “Wish me luck,” she mutters. 

“Luck!” Zoey says. “I’m crossing all my fingers and my toes!”

“Awesome.”

Mira weaves her way through the crowd, her heart hammering harder the closer she gets to Rumi. She’s aware of a few people in the crowd eyeing her curiously as she makes a beeline toward the princess – only what look to be higher born noblemen have so far offered their hand for a dance – but she ignores them and keeps her head held high, her shoulders back. 

As the last notes of the song fade to a close, she steps forward before anyone else can (and before she can second guess herself). She bows her head, palm flat and open in a gesture of invitation just like she’s seen done so often before, even if she’s never actually performed the gesture. 

When Rumi’s hand lands softly in hers, her heart skips a beat. 

She looks up, their eyes meeting through their masks. Rumi’s brows are ever so slightly furrowed, as if in confusion, or like she’s forgotten something that she can’t quite place – but then the music starts, and her frown becomes mingled with amused expectance. 

Mira realizes she’s just staring at her like a complete idiot.

She clears her throat, and quickly steps forward to move through the dance steps they’ve practised together so many times over the years she’s lost track.

They move easily together, their steps light and smooth, and as she spins Rumi away before bringing her back in close, their chests flush with one another's (oh, her heart), she catches the surprise flaring in Rumi's eyes, the small smile tugging at the corner of her lips. 

She loves that smile.

They move faster, in time with the merry beat, and they're so quick that other dancers back away to give them space (and avoid an enthusiastic elbow to the face). Maybe Rumi doesn't know it's her, but their hands know one another. Her embrace is like coming home, and Mira just wants to hold her tighter. 

Mira catches murmurs of curiosity about the mysterious nobleman with the princess, but she ignores them, revelling in Rumi’s touch, in her closeness, in the familiarity of her grasp. 

When – all too soon – the last notes of the song fade to a close, they come to a stop in the middle of the floor, facing each other. Mira drops Rumi’s hand and offers her a bow, her heart still beating double time. 

“You dance well,” Rumi comments, her voice slightly breathless.

“I know,” Mira says with a little shrug. She tries to make her voice an octave lower than usual.

Rumi’s brows raise. She ignores the suitor behind her, eyes still on Mira. “Oh, you do, do you?”

“Yup,” Mira can’t help the little grin that escapes her, and a glimmer of delight runs through her as a genuine half smile crosses Rumi’s face. 

“Are you always this cocky?” Rumi asks. 

“Only about the things I’m good at. So, pretty much.”

A surprised laugh bursts from Rumi and she tilts her head, staring at Mira. “You remind me of someone.”

“Oh?” Mira’s pulse flutters, her stomach somewhere in the vicinity of her throat. 

Rumi just nods, still frowning thoughtfully, and a flicker of sadness crosses her face. Mira’s heart twists painfully – she’s never been able to bear seeing Rumi sad – but before she can say or do anything stupid, Rumi turns away to the now impatient suitor. 

As she takes their hand, though, she glances back over her shoulder to look at Mira, like she just can’t quite help it. 

Chapter Text

“Everyone’s talking about the mysterious suitor the princess danced with last night,” Zoey informs Mira when she comes back from town the next afternoon, her cheeks pink from the cold.

“The princess danced with dozens of suitors,” Mira responds bluntly. She’s working through a series of exercises in the small courtyard behind the house. They usually help in calming her down, but they’re not working especially well today – she’s too keyed up about seeing Rumi tonight. 

Her mind won’t stop going around in circles – will she get a chance to dance with her again? Did she recognise her? Has she already chosen someone? Will she ever forgive Mira for disguising herself?

Annoyed with herself for being pathetic, she attacks an invisible enemy with a flurry of punches, followed by a spinning round kick. 

“Yeah, but she only talked to one.”

Mira’s heart flutters, thinking of Rumi’s words. You remind me of someone. 

“They’re all wondering why you wear a mask that covers most of your face,” Zoey continues cheerfully. “If you’re just really ugly? Or if you have something to hide.”

“Great,” Mira mutters, because that will make tonight that much trickier. She hopes Gwi-ma and the queen haven’t taken too much interest in the gossip; she’s well aware that she’s walking a fine line. 

“Don’t worry. I told them you’re very handsome.”

Mira snorts, and Zoey grins at her. 

–

As Mira prepares for the second ball, she wonders if she drew too much attention to herself at the first. Tonight, she decides, she just wants to see Rumi, to be close to her, even if they don’t get a chance to dance or speak to one another. 

Fine. That’s a lie. 

She’s hoping against hope she gets to dance with her again. To see her eyes crinkle up in surprised laughter behind whatever mask she’s wearing tonight. To feel her warmth up against her own body.

She wants Rumi’s eyes to seek her out in the crowd, inexplicably drawn to her, even if she doesn’t know who she truly is.

Later, as their transformed pumpkin bumps along the road toward the castle, she gnaws on her lower lip. Most of her face is covered by an indigo mask with two pointed little ears and narrow almond-shaped cut outs for her eyes, her long hair disguised as sleek and black once more. She looks like a creature of the night, feline and dangerous, and it helps make her feel a little better, at least - even if she's a wreck on the inside, at least she doesn't look it.

As she and Zoey (who wears her own animal mask; she looks like a mischievous little fox) make their way into the crowded ballroom, Mira notices the whispers that trail behind them. 

Who is he?

Look at his mask, again.

I bet he’s handsome. 

No, he must be disfigured.

Do you think the princess will dance with him again?

Where is he from? 

She ignores them all, attempting to slip into the shadows while also scanning the room for Rumi. 

Her gaze drawn like a moth to the flame, she immediately finds the princess standing with Queen Celine on the other side of the room, and just the sight of her takes Mira’s breath away momentarily. 

Fuck, she’s beautiful. 

If at the first ball she’d appeared otherworldly – a fallen star twinkling amongst mere mortals – tonight her costume is a little more understated, and she looks like a wildflower in her lilac gown. It’s just a shade lighter than her long, braided hair, its hem trailing along the floor behind her, and the neckline plunges low in a deep vee that Mira finds it hard to tear her eyes away from. 

Rumi is smiling absently at whatever the queen is saying, a glass flute loosely held in one hand, but her eyes are searching the room as if she’s also looking for something. Someone.

Mira watches her, not even realising that she’s holding her breath, until their eyes meet across the crowded room. 

She doesn’t look away. She doesn’t hear the musicians or the rumble of conversation, and she’s just debating whether she should just march across the room and ask for the first dance when a deep voice at her side startles her.

“You’re drooling.”

Mira whirls to find the enormous man she’d noticed the night before – Prince Jinu’s swordsman, she’d assumed – leaning against the wall, smirking at her beneath his own simple black mask. His shoulders are stupidly wide. 

“I am not drooling,” she snaps. 

He quirks a brow. “You might want to tone it back a bit if you don’t want Gwi-ma pulling that mask off and showing the world your pretty face.”

“I–” Mira snaps her mouth shut, scowling at him. “Who are you?”

He folds his arms over his (enormous) chest, that infuriating smirk still on his lips. “I’m Abby. Jinu’s swordsman. But everyone knows who I am. You’re the mystery here.”

She rolls her eyes and doesn’t answer him. “Why is it your business who I am? Shouldn’t you be worried about your precious prince?”

“That’s why it’s my business.” He’s still leaning against the stone wall, the picture of nonchalant arrogance, and to the casual onlooker he might appear almost bored – but when he locks eyes with Mira again she can tell he’s anything but. “It’s interesting, isn’t it, that the princess’ favoured swordmaiden disappeared only a week ago.”

“Did she?” Mira’s pulse picks up, but she keeps her voice bored and disinterested. “Huh.”

She has no idea what he wants from her. Is he here to threaten her to keep away from Rumi? Why doesn’t he just unmask her, if that’s his intention? 

Abby narrows his eyes. “She sounds an awful lot like you, from what I hear. Long legs. Didn’t know when to keep her mouth shut. Apparently she and the princess couldn’t take their eyes off each other. ”

“People are idiots,” she sniffs. “You shouldn’t believe everything you hear.”

He huffs a little laugh at this, but then zeroes back in on her masked face. He looks like he’s debating what to say next; whether or not to show his true hand. 

“Gwi-ma’s interests don’t necessarily align with Jinu’s,” he finally says. 

Mira looks up at him. She can’t help the surprise that flitters across her expression. “You–”

“So. I’m just saying. If the princess’ swordmaiden happened to make an appearance… Jinu wouldn’t stand in her way.”

Mira snorts. “How benevolent of him. If I meet her I’ll let her know.”

Abby just offers her another enigmatic smirk before he disappears back into the crowd, leaving Mira with her head spinning. 

“Who was that hunky hunk?” Zoey appears at her side, eyes wide behind her fox mask as she peers around Mira.

“Jinu’s right hand man, apparently.” Mira takes the cupcake Zoey offers her and takes an enormous bite, trying to figure out what the fuck is going on. “Pretty sure they know who I really am,” she says around the mouthful. 

“No! But your disguise is so good!”

Mira relays their conversation. 

“You do stare at each other,” Zoey acknowledges. “It’s cute.”

“I am not cute,” Mira grumbles, and she tries to stop staring at Rumi, but she just can’t help it. 

“But this is good, isn’t it? If the prince doesn’t want to marry Rumi either…” 

“Then why doesn’t he just say so? Why are we even here?” 

Zoey shrugs thoughtfully. “Maybe he’s just as trapped as the princess.”

Mira blinks at this, because honestly? She’s never thought of Jinu as his own person before; in her mind he’s just an extension of Gwi-ma. Scanning the dancing crowd again, she looks for his tall frame, the shock of black hair, (the annoyingly sharp jawline) – and when she finds him she does her best to see him not as a prince, but as a man. 

He looks as guarded as Rumi. His expression is polite but distant, and now instead of thinking it’s a sign of his lack of empathy, Mira wonders if maybe he’s going through the motions of a life he didn’t choose. Part of her definitely wants to roll her eyes at this assumption – poor little rich boy – but knowing Rumi like she does changes things. 

She leans against the stone arched window, a storm of confusing, conflicting feelings swirling within her. 

She doesn’t know if she should trust Abby – what if it’s all a trap to lure her into a false sense of security? – but she realises that she wants to. 

And besides, even if it is a trap, what would it change? 

Because she’s still going to go and dance with Rumi tonight. 

She sighs. “My hair still black?” She asks Zoey.

The smaller girl smiles up at her, seeing the resolution in her eyes. “Yup.”

“Okay. I’ll be back.”

“I’ve got my daggers,” Zoey says. “Just in case, you know.”

A genuine, true smile escapes Mira. Even if the past week has been a complete mess, she feels ridiculously lucky that it was Zoey’s father’s estate she was sent to. 

“Thanks.”

“Maybe wait til tomorrow to kiss her on the dance floor, though,” Zoey adds as an afterthought. 

Mira rolls her eyes (her stomach does a silly little flip at the thought), then turns and weaves through the couples and the whispers and stares, trying to steady her heartbeat as she approaches Rumi. 

This time the princess sees her first, and her lovely brown eyes remain fixed on Mira even as she dances with another partner, gazing over his shoulder as Mira makes her way to the edge of the dance floor. Her gaze is warily curious. 

When the song ends, the murmurs in the crowd only intensify as she heads directly to Mira, ignoring the other suitors standing there hopefully. If Mira had eyes for anyone but Rumi she’d probably smirk at them – but she doesn’t. 

“Nice mask,” Rumi comments, accepting Mira’s offered hand as she adds, “I didn’t get your name yesterday…”

Mira grasps Rumi’s hand gently, threading their fingers together instinctively as her other hand comes to rest lightly on the warmth of Rumi’s lower back. She can’t bring herself to use the alias she and Zoey had come up with. It’s one thing to be in disguise, but another to lie outright to Rumi’s face.

“I didn’t give it to you,” she says with a small shrug. 

Rumi blinks, her mouth falling open ever so slightly in surprise, but she doesn’t have the chance to push her further. The music picks up in tempo with a sudden, bright, overarching melody, and the steps are too quick to be able to speak and dance. 

It’s the liveliest tune of the night by far, pushing them faster and faster with the rapidly increasingly beat. Mira wonders absently if the musicians are doing it on purpose, but she’s definitely not mad about it. Instead she revels in the sensation of Rumi’s hand in hers, how they always instinctively know how to find one another when they spin away and then back into one another’s loose embrace. 

Their breath comes quickly, sweat beading on their skin. When Mira pulls Rumi close she can feel the rapid thrumming of her heart against Mira’s own chest, and for one suspended moment it’s almost possible to forget that the entire room is watching them. 

“Another?” Rumi asks her when the music fades, a hint of a dare in her breathless voice. Sweat glistens on her collarbone, just above her upper lip. 

Mira inclines her head, trying to recover at least some vague semblance of formality, and also trying to stop staring at the drop of sweat sliding down Rumi’s bare skin. “It would be my pleasure.” (Possibly the understatement of the century).

The low strains of a cello reverberate around them, filling the space with its haunting notes. Mira feels them through her whole being, all the way to her bones, and when she reaches for Rumi’s hand this time her own trembles, just a little. 

This dance is the opposite to the previous in every way. There are no drums – no quick, merry beat – just the pure, yearning strains of the string instruments. Each movement they make is slow and deliberate with the rise and fall of the notes, mirroring one another, never quite letting each other go.

Mira feels like her heart might burst. She tries to tell Rumi how she feels with the grip of her fingers, her thumb soft at Rumi’s wrist, her eyes steady and fierce behind her mask.

I love you, I miss you, I’m so sorry. 

A slow spin – a twirl away, then back together. Rumi is so close as they sway underneath the twinkling lights; she can feel her breath mingled with her own.

It’s so desperately tempting to lean forward, just that little bit – what would happen if their lips were to touch - but then the spell is broken as the music ends, one low and lovely note lingering in the hushed space before fading away. 

Mira blinks, the world coming back into focus around her. Rumi seems just as reluctant as she is to let go, her hand still warm in Mira’s – but then Mira sees Zoey in the crowd giving her a wild, wide eyed stare, and realizes Rumi is frowning at her. 

“Your hair,” she murmurs. “It looks lighter–”

Fuck. Mira drops her hand and bows hastily. “I should go. Until tomorrow, princess.”

And she makes a beeline for the stairs, ignoring the buzz of voices around her, praying Zoey’s magic holds on for just a little longer. 

Chapter Text

“Just do it,” Mira says to Zoey firmly, handing her the scissors impatiently. 

Zoey looks down at the scissors, and then back up at Mira. “This feels drastic.”

Mira rolls her eyes. “It’s just hair.”

“But it’s so long.”

“It’ll grow back.”

“But you’re going to reveal yourself tonight anyway,” Zoey protests. 

“Yeah, but this way I can stay until the last moment.” Mira is determined, her jaw set. “Come on, Zoey. I’ll still be hot with short hair.” 

She half expects Zoey to ask why she doesn’t just cut it off herself then, and she’s glad when the smaller girl doesn’t, because however much she knows she should cut it off, that it is just hair, deep down she’s stupidly nervous. Even when she might not have liked other parts of herself, her hair has always been one of her vanities; she can’t remember it ever being short. She likes how it makes her feel. And more importantly, she can’t help wondering – what if Rumi doesn’t like it?

“Ughhhhhhh,” she groans, tilting her head back and staring up at the ceiling. “Please?”

Mira isn’t sure if it’s the fact that she’s quite literally begging for help, or just if Zoey feels sorry for her pathetic self, but she finally takes the scissors from Mira and says, “Okay.”

“Thanks.” She huffs out an exhale. It’s just hair. 

Zoey scrunches up her face and wields the scissors like a weapon as she picks up a long skein of Mira’s hair as she stands in front of her. She closes her eyes.

“Okay, you have to look,” Mira reminds her.

Zoey peeks one eye open. 

“Good enough.”

And then – there’s a short, quick, snip – and a wave of long pink hair falls to the floor. 

“Still good?” 

“Yup,” Mira says, pressing her lips together. She’s glad there isn’t a mirror in front of them.

Zoey soon finds her stride, humming as she cuts and trims, pink hair piling up around the chair Mira sits on. Mira tries to sit patiently, but admittedly that is not her forte.

“Are you nearly done?”

“Art requires patience,” Zoey admonishes her. “Have you ever thought about shaving one side? That would be super cool. I could use my dagger and –”

“I’m good,” Mira cuts her off. 

Zoey grumbles quietly under her breath but doesn’t argue, and soon Mira’s head feels oddly light, lacking the absence of her usual mane. She raises one hand up to run her hand through the shorn strands – they reach just below her ears, now. It feels strangely foreign, but not necessarily bad. 

“Does it look okay?” The question comes out before she can stop it.

Somehow Zoey knows exactly what she’s really asking. “The princess will love it.”

Mira’s cheeks turn pink. “Okay, anyway, how can we make it black? No magic tonight.”

Humming thoughtfully, Zoey considers this. “I wonder if we can use the cinders from the fire…”

–

Come nightfall, Mira thinks she might be more nervous than she’s ever been in her entire life. She’d rather be beaten at sparring by one of the other sword maidens or knights of the realm; she’d happily take a black eye or some bruised ribs over having to wait like this. 

She’s dressed in essentially the same outfit as the night before, hidden tonight behind a plain black mask, but this time without any of Zoey’s glamours – she wants to be herself, as much as is possible tonight. 

Everything follows the same pattern as the two previous evenings – the bumpy carriage (pumpkin) ride to the castle, the bustle of the crowd, the swirl of colours and noise – although tonight it all feels even more overwhelming. The buzzing hum of chatter seems louder, people talking with feverish excitement, and the beat of the music is already lively and quick. 

Zoey is basically vibrating with excitement next to her, which is encouraging but not particularly calming, and so she takes a deep breath. 

This is fine. This is going to be totally fine.

She searches for Rumi, wondering how she’s feeling. If she feels like a mess, she can’t even imagine what Rumi’s going through – and when she finally sees her, sitting at the dais next to the queen, she can tell there is some expert compartmentalizing going on.

Rumi has her practiced and perfect smile on, but it doesn’t reach her eyes, not properly. Her dress is sparkly, all pale yellows and gold, a glittering golden mask across the bridge of her nose. She’s practically glowing beneath the twinkling lights hovering above them all, but Mira can tell even from this distance that none of it is real. 

Biting her lip, she clenches her fists at her sides. 

Fuck, she wants to take her hand. Whisper a joke in her ear and see her shoulders settle. She wants to remind her that she’s everything good and wonderful; she’s so much more than just a title.

The night drags endlessly on.

Mira stops pretending to even fake smile at people, standing unimpressed off to one side of the hall with her arms folded over her chest. When Prince Jinu dances with Rumi she catches sight of his swordsman (and his stupid muscles) also watching the pair. He notices her looking and gives her a wink – she scowls in response, still unsure what game they're playing, itching to throw her dagger at him. 

But that would not exactly help her cause right now (however satisfying it might be) so she just daydreams about it instead to pass the time. 

She keeps an eye on the ticking clock hanging on the gilded wall, trying to make herself wait until the last possible moment, the last dance, but she’s also afraid of waiting too long.

They near closer and closer to midnight, until finally Mira decides she can't wait any longer. 

She passes Zoey dancing with the lilac haired nobleman Mira noticed the other night, and when she sees Mira approaching she offers her an encouraging grin, and then mimes what might be stabbing someone, or maybe she’s just cheering for her? Hard to say, but probably the latter. Mira just nods at her, a muscle in her jaw ticking.

She’s too nervous to smile back. Too aware of both the queen and King Gwi-ma standing upon the dais watching the merriment, no doubt ready to celebrate the announcement of the joyous union between the princess and prince. 

Not if Mira can help it. 

She reaches the edge of the dance floor, waiting impatiently for the song to come to an end, and honestly, it’s almost worth all the anxiety and worry to see Rumi’s expression when she notices her. Her eyes light up behind her golden mask, and Mira’s heart thuds in response. 

Rumi curtsies to her previous partner. Mira wishes she could read the expression in her eyes - relief? Nervousness? Hope? She can usually read Rumi like an open book, but she's unsure right now.

“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” Rumi says by way of greeting. 

“I’ll always come.” Mira says it simply, her words low and fervent, and Rumi’s brows pull together at the sincerity in them. “Always,” she adds, taking Rumi’s hand, and maybe she believes her, because she just nods, allowing Mira to take her hand. 

They dance. Back and forth, slowly, and Mira wonders if Rumi is paying as little attention to the music as she is. She’s not trying to show off tonight, or to make Rumi laugh – not right now. Now, she just wants to hold her. To look into her eyes. To feel her heart close to her own.

They twirl beneath the twinkling lights, hands intertwined, and Mira thinks she could happily spend every day of the rest of her life like this.

If only she could be so lucky. 

“I have to tell you something,” she blurts out as they sway in the middle of the dance floor. Maybe there's a better place to do this, but she can't wait any longer. 

“Okay,” Rumi doesn’t look away.

“I–” Mira doesn’t know how to say it. So instead she pulls the mask off, letting it fall to the floor. 

Everything goes still, just for a moment – the entire room taking in what she’s just done, and who is truly behind the mask. 

She hears Rumi's breath catch in the quiet, and the whispers that become a not so hushed discussion. Vaguely, she recognises that the music has faltered, sees figures hurrying in their direction out of her periphery – but the only person she gives a shit about is the one facing her. 

Rumi’s lower lip is trembling as she stares, and stares – and then she tugs her own mask off, too.

Mira heart leaps, and she takes a step closer – just a little. “I’m so sorry –” she starts to say, but Rumi shakes her head, a tear slipping down one cheek.

She takes a shaky breath in, her brown eyes roaming Mira’s face – the oddly (sooty) black hair and its jagged cut – and then fixing back on her eyes, staring straight into them, straight at her.

“I wanted it to be you,” she whispers, another tear trailing after the first. “I wanted it so bad.”

“Yeah?” Relief floods through Mira with such force she could almost fall over. 

Rumi nods fiercely. 

Mira isn’t sure which of them moves first, but suddenly they’re so close she can see every tear drop glistening on Rumi’s long eyelashes. She reaches out a hand to cup Rumi’s face, one thumb swiping away the tears gently. 

“Don’t cry, princess,” she murmurs, tucking back a loose strand of hair behind her ear, taking in every detail of her lovely face up close. Her flushed cheeks, her sweet little dimple, her perfect lips. 

She pulls her closer instinctively, leaning down - and then a sudden cloud of pure shadow engulfs them. It's swirling inky black, like the darkest depths of nothingness come into writhing, living form.

Fear floods through her making it hard to breathe as the shadows twist around her, tugging her sharply away from Rumi, knocking her off balance. 

“Rumi!” She shouts, reaching for her daggers, trying to fight the shadows off – but they’re useless if she can’t fucking see. 

“Mira!” Rumi calls her name, and then Mira hears her scream more loudly, her voice panicked. “Mira!” 

Chapter Text

“RUMI!” She dashes in the direction of Rumi’s voice, shadows be damned. 

It’s one of her nightmares come to life – running and running and not getting anywhere, space and distance not making sense, the desperate panting gasp of her breath the only sound she can now hear. Where is Rumi? 

Mira understands with a sudden sharp clarity why the magic of the shadowlands is spoken of in such awed, fearful tones; because it doesn’t matter that she could kill almost anyone in the room in a duel— like this she is rendered utterly helpless, at the mercy of the darkness. 

Her inner demons whisper to her as she tries to find some kind of bearing in the shadows. Not good enough, they sneer. The princess deserves better. 

Mira grits her teeth, trying to ignore them, to hold onto the feeling of Rumi’s eyes on her. Even though it was only moments ago, it’s a struggle to recall the warmth they’d brought. Mira clutches at it like a lifeline.

She fights her way through the darkness, shadows tearing at her, and now it’s not just pure black emptiness surrounding her. The shadows themselves seem to have taken up monstrous, changeable forms, looming over her from all sides. It’s like they can sense that small determined flame burning inside her and want to do everything they can to douse it. 

“Rumi!” She yells, slicing through one shadow monster, then another, twisting and turning, trying to find her. She promised her that she’d always come. “Rumi?!

The faint sound of Rumi’s voice calling her name through the shadows reaches her. She sounds impossibly far away, but it must be an illusion, surely? 

She attempts to stab another dark spectre, adrenaline and desperation racing through her in equal measure, when – suddenly – the darkness fades just as quickly as it appeared. 

The bright lights of the ballroom are momentarily blinding, and it takes Mira a moment to understand what she’s seeing as she pants, trying to catch her breath. 

Prince Jinu is standing protectively in front of Rumi, who looks pale but fierce, a dagger clutched tightly in each hand. 

He keeps her behind him as he holds his longsword up to King Gwi-ma, repelling the shadows still attempting to flow from the king’s hands. The sword seems to almost burn them – they shy away from the glittering silver light emanating from it; it must be filled with magic of its own.

Shocked silence fills the ballroom, broken only by a few quiet sobs. Mira edges closer to Rumi, wary eyes still on the king, her own weapons ready just in case. 

“Traitor,” Gwi-ma hisses at Jinu, golden eyes flashing furiously. “I gave you everything.”

Jinu gives him a cold look in reply. “I gave you everything,” he retorts. “And I’ve decided that’s enough.”

Gwi-ma all but snarls at him, his voice travelling loudly in the open space. “This should be our kingdom. Ours! And you’re going to throw it away, all because –”

“Because it’s the right thing to do.” Jinu says with an almost bored shrug, like the king’s tantrum is beneath him. Okay, Mira definitely can’t hate him now. 

He snaps a finger, and suddenly his swordsman is beside the king, his own long broadsword drawn. “Your highness,” Abby drawls, smirking. 

“This isn’t – you can’t do this –” the king blusters as Abby nudges him none too carefully in the direction of the door. His eyes burn brightly in their fury.

“I can,” Jinu says coolly, apparently utterly unafraid of the King's powers. “You’ve underestimated me long enough.”

“So this was all a ploy –”

“This was your plan,” Jinu rolls his eyes. “I just made some last minute adjustments. Take him,” he says, nodding to Abby. 

The enormous man escorts the king from the ball room at sword point, Gwi-ma shouting about revenge until Abby jabs him a little more forcefully with the point of his sword. Jinu watches them go, his expression difficult to read. He looks tired and worn out – he sighs a long exhale before sheathing his sword and turning to Rumi.

Mira’s heart clenches. Oh, shit. For a brief instant she thinks he’s going to get down on one knee, just like in every bed time story she’s ever been told (because of course the prince always gets the girl) but he just bows his head. 

“Princess Rumi. My apologies.”

Rumi stares down at him, her wide brown eyes still shocked. “Uh – that’s okay? You kind of saved us, I think?”

A smile quirks the corner of his mouth. “I suppose. I was hoping it wouldn’t come to that, however.”

“That would have been nicer,” Rumi agrees.

“Indeed. Anyway. I should go… he won’t be contained like that for long.”

He offers Rumi another bow, and when he makes eye contact with Mira he inclines his head in her direction with a small smile. 

“Wait!” 

The voice that breaks through the quiet is all too familiar. Mira is actually kind of surprised the queen hasn’t spoken up before this. 

She storms forward, her long dark hair loose around her shoulders. “The princess would still be happy to accept your hand –”

“Oh, would she?”

Rumi’s voice is sharp as she cuts the queen off. Mira’s chest swells with pride as she watches her face the queen with her chin lifted, her eyes fierce. 

“Of course you would. This was just an – uh – unfortunate incident. It will be for the best, Rumi, I’m sure you’ll –”

“No.”

“Excuse me?”

Mira has never seen Rumi speak to the queen like this before, and by the look on Celine’s face, she never, ever has. 

“I said no. It’s not for the best. I won’t marry him.” She glances at Jinu. “No offence, or anything.”

“None taken.” He looks vaguely amused. 

She whirls back to the queen. “You told me she left. You told me that was for the best. You lied to me.”

“She’s a swordmaiden!” Celine scoffs dismissively.

“I don’t care!” Rumi’s voice rings out through the ballroom. 

The entire room could be holding its breath, the silence is so absolute. 

“This is a mistake.” The queen shakes her head. “You’ll see.” She turns away stiffly.

“It’s not.” Rumi’s words are quiet but powerful, and she looks around for Mira as she says them. 

Mira is just standing there feeling like her heart has been cracked open and put back together. She kind of wants to cry, which seems embarrassing in front of all these people, but also she doesn’t really give a shit what they think of her; she only cares about Rumi.

“Um.” She blinks back tears.

“I should go,” Jinu says hastily. Maybe he really hates girls crying, or perhaps he’s just remembered the evil king outside? Either way, he strides out without another word, leaving loud, excited (and confused) chatter in his wake. Noblemen and women crane their necks back and forth between the doorway, clutching one another, gasping about how they nearly died. No one really seems to have a clue what’s going on, but they’re also apparently happy not to be swallowed up by shadow magic, either. 

Mira turns to Rumi. “Are you okay?” 

Rumi nods, the familiar furrow between her brows as they pull together in a frown. Mira longs to smooth it out – and so she does, pressing gently with her thumb, stroking the worry away. 

“What happened to your hair?” Rumi asks. 

“The king just tried to do shadow magic on you, we were saved by the prince – I guess he’s not so bad after all – you stood up to the queen, and you’re worried about my hair?” 

Rumi reaches up to brush a sooty strand back from Mira’s face tentatively, and it sends a shiver racing right through Mira’s entire body. Every nerve ending registers her touch, thrilling at it, craving more.

“Well. It’s pretty bad,” she says. But she steps closer, tilting her chin to look Mira in the eyes; Mira sees her gaze flicker down to her lips, and then back up.

“Oh?” Mira would like to say something at least vaguely witty to this – but Rumi is so close, and she’s looking at her like that, and her brain has quite literally stopped functioning.

“Mm hmm,” Rumi murmurs. 

Mira can taste her sweet breath on her own lips, feel her warmth against her front. Her hands tighten on Rumi’s shoulders. 

“I missed you,” she whispers.  

Their noses brush against one another’s. “Missed you more,” Rumi counters. 

“It doesn’t have to be a competi–” her joke is cut off by Rumi’s lips suddenly pressing softly against hers. 

Her heart stops. 

It’s everything she’s ever imagined it might be – a whole infinity in one moment, all of their possibilities bringing them here and now – and then it’s over, Rumi stepping back, her cheeks blushing pink. 

She swallows. “Want to get out of here?”

Mira grins (yes, yes she would) and gives an exaggerated curtsy. “After you, princess.”

–

Leaving the ball is, unfortunately, not so simple as just walking out together. 

Unlike King Gwi-ma and Prince Jinu, the crowd is not afraid of their princess, and to Mira’s great surprise, they seem to accept her choosing Mira joyfully and without question. Hands are shaken, endless bows and curtsies are both given and received, and Mira’s head is spinning with it all. 

Finally, they manage to sneak out a side entrance (used frequently in their younger years) into the cold night air. Stars twinkle above them. Their breath escapes in puffs of steam, and Mira is incredibly conscious that Rumi is dressed in only her ball gown. Her pale skin is pebbled with gooseflesh; Mira can see her nipples hard beneath the thin material.

Her throat goes dry, and a heavy longing sits blooms low in her stomach, an aching kind of warmth. 

Wants and desires that she has tried to ignore for such a very, very long time are suddenly all that she can think about, all she can feel, and knowing that Rumi wants her too makes it all very difficult to focus.

“I’m staying with a friend,” she blurts into the silence. “You’ll like her. But – uh – do you want to come with me? Or–”

Kissing Rumi has apparently scrambled each and every one of her brain cells, but really, who can blame her?

“Yes,” is all Rumi says, simply.

“Okay.” Mira swallows hard, and then takes her hand. 

They walk through the quiet night together, avoiding the carriages on their way home from the ball, taking the little back streets and laneways. They don’t talk much – but they’ll have all the time for that in the world, later. Right now the tension between them fills everything, taking up too much space for words.

When they reach the little townhouse Rumi looks about curiously, following Mira to her little room at the end of the hall.

Mira closes the door behind her. Her heart is thudding so loudly she’s sure Rumi must be able to hear it.

Rumi bites her lip, rubbing her arms absently, and Mira nearly groans at the look of her in the moonlight – so she does the only thing she can think to do: she steps forward to take Rumi’s face in her hands, and kisses her, hard.

She feels Rumi gasp into her mouth, before softening, and kissing her back.

How have they never done this before?

Mira feels dizzy with the taste of her, the sensation of her touch, the way her strong hands clutch at Mira’s back and waist. It’s like she’s trying to map every inch of Mira’s body, just as curious about her as Mira is in return.

Soon their lips are swollen, their breath ragged, and Rumi has untucked the shirt from Mira’s dress pants, her fingers dipping beneath the material.

“Ohh,” Mira breathes, her head tilting back, her eyes falling closed. “Rumi.” 

“I’ve always wondered what these would feel like,” Rumi tells her, her own breath coming quick and fast, too. She traces Mira’s hip bone, the ridges and dips of her lower abdominals, and then her thumb dips just below the waistline of her pants, and Mira can’t help the sound that escapes her.

“Is that okay?” Rumi looks flushed in the darkness, both nervous and curious. Her pupils are blown black with desire.

“Uh huh,” Mira nods a little frantically, tilting her head to kiss Rumi’s neck. She tastes so good – familiar and warm and enticing. Mira moves lower and lower, kissing the column of her throat (the little gasp that escapes Rumi only makes her do it again), her teeth nipping gently at the soft skin there, before dipping her head to kiss her collarbone. “Very okay.”

Rumi's fingers slide slowly down the line of her body until her hand is between Mira’s legs.

“Rumi,” Mira mutters her name again – her hips moving against Rumi’s hand in an involuntary, needy movement. “Oh – you –”

“You’re so wet,” Rumi whispers, sounding awed. She licks her lips, her finger tracing a little circle over Mira’s pussy that feels like it hits every nerve in her body.

“Oh,” she positively moans this time. “Fuck. Rumi –”

“You like that?” Rumi does it again.

“Yes.” Mira thinks nothing has ever been this good. 

Until now they’ve just been standing in the middle of the room clutching each other as they kiss, but now Rumi walks them back against the door, pressing Mira into the wood, her hand still touching her maddeningly slowly.

Mira’s legs fall open a little wider, desperate for more of her touch. Now that they’ve started she doesn’t know if she can stop; she doesn’t want to stop. She kisses Rumi hungrily, one hand sliding behind the back of her neck while the other slips the straps of the golden dress off Rumi’s shoulder. 

“Mm,” Rumi mumbles against Mira’s lips, two fingers playing with her now, working her in circles, as the dress falls down around her waist, leaving her chest bare.

“Shit,” Mira pants, trying to move with Rumi’s hand, chasing the sensation of friction against her swollen clit, her own palm gently cupping Rumi’s breast as their tongues slide against one another’s, hot and wet.

They’re a mess, fumbling and unsure, and at the same time it’s completely, utterly perfect. Mira wishes they were naked– she’s dreamed of what it might be like, to be with her like this, even if she tried not to.

Rumi’s fingers slip from inside her pants, and Mira can’t help the whine that escapes her – but it’s only so that Rumi can undo the buttons at her waist, and then she’s tugging them down impatiently, leaving Mira bare and wet from the waist down.

They stare at each other for a second, dishevelled and sweaty. 

Then Mira tugs her back fiercely, her tongue sliding into her mouth, and Rumi's hands clutch at her tightly. Her fingers slip back inside her, and one circles her clit, flicking at it almost teasingly.

“How are you so good at this,” Mira mumbles, her back arching against the door, pinching one of Rumi’s nipples between her fingers in retaliation.

“Practice.”

Mira blinks at her in surprise, but before she even has the chance to feel jealous, Rumi adds, “I mean – I like how this feels… when I do it to myself. Is it okay?”

The thought of Rumi touching herself only makes Mira wetter.

“Very okay. Oh – that’s –” she can’t speak. Can’t think. Pleasure, tingly and warm, builds from her lower back, blossoming in a wave that threatens to drown her. “Fuck, Rumi, please, don’t stop, don’t stop–” she kisses her neck again, biting on her hard this time, squeezing her perfect breasts in her hands, rubbing herself against Rumi’s fingers, slipping all over her.

“You’re so beautiful,” Rumi whispers against her mouth as she slips another finger inside her.

And Mira gasps as she comes hard, overwhelmed by sensation and feeling, thrusting into Rumi’s hand, riding her fingers with abandon. “Ohh,” she cries, biting her lip, squeezing her eyes shut, shuddering with the aftershocks of her orgasm. 

“Even with that hair,” Rumi adds teasingly. 

Mira looks down at her through heavy lids, leaning back against the door as Rumi slides her fingers from her. Her purple hair is completely dishevelled around her cheeks, her bare breasts sweaty and rising and falling quickly with her breath. She’s grinning at Mira, her eyes a little wild, a little hungry.

Mira fucking loves her like this – well, she loves her in every way, but wild Rumi is her favourite. 

“My turn now, princess.” 

Rumi presses her lips together, not taking her eyes from Mira’s. “Oh?”

“Uh huh. Get that dress off.”

She obeys with alacrity, and the dress is immediately in a puddle at her ankles. A moment later they’re tangled on the bed together, hands roaming and exploring, tongues tasting, licking, biting. Rumi’s breath comes in little panting gasps that are driving Mira absolutely crazy – she thinks she could come from just listening to her pant, the soft whine, the neediness of it. 

Rumi tugs her shirt off so that all Mira is left wearing is her chest binding. She traces the material gently, thumb moving over the raised pebbles of her aching nipples, while Mira lets her own fingers explore lower, and lower.

When they reach Rumi’s cunt, it’s so hot and wet, her mouth actually waters. She lets her fingers trace the folds, slipping in and out, pressing harder and then more softly – and then she slides herself down lower, kissing her way down Rumi’s body. She’s never done this before, but oh, she’s thought about it. 

“What are you doing?” Rumi whispers, with another little panting gasp. Mira presses a palm against her stomach, and then she dips her head to kiss the inside of Rumi’s thigh before giving it a soft little bite. 

“Ohh. That feels nice,” Rumi mutters, biting her lip, her head falling back. “So nice. Um. Are you going to – like –”

Mira knows that Rumi rambles when she’s nervous, and she holds her gaze. “You okay?” She murmurs. “I can stop –”

Rumi nods frantically, looking down at her. “No. I mean, yes. I mean, I’m okay.”

“Can I kiss you?”

“Uh – haven’t we already – “

Mira looks meaningfully down between her legs. 

Rumi swallows hard. “Yeah. Please. I want– yes–”

Bending down, Mira maintains her gaze with Rumi as her tongue darts out and licks her cunt, tasting her for the first time - she just tastes like Rumi. Mira couldn't explain it if she tried, but she'd recognise it in a heartbeat. 

Rumi lets out another soft moan, her hands reaching for Mira’s hair, clutching at her as Mira licks her again, more deeply this time. And then again, and again. Mira could come herself, maybe, just from eating Rumi out – her perfect sounds, the taste of her, the way she writhes against her mouth. 

“Mira,” she begs. “I want – oh –”

“What do you want, princess?” She wants to give her everything. Her fingers grip Rumi’s ass firmly, digging into her soft skin possessively. 

“I want– um – I think – your fingers? And I want to kiss you, please,” she whines, tugging Mira upwards, her mouth claiming Mira’s the second she’s close enough. They press against one another, tangled together, all soft skin and toned muscles. 

Mira’s thigh slides between her legs, feeling the wetness there, and when Rumi grinds herself up and down on her skin she bites down hard on her lower lip. “Shit, Rumi. You wanna ride me?”

“Uh huh.” Her eyes are glazed, her hips moving against Mira mesmerizingly. She could stare at the princess forever – her perfect round breasts, her pink nipples, the curve of her waist, the lines of her strong abdominals leading down to her hips. 

Mira moves her thumb to her pussy, stroking her steadily. She has no real clue what she’s doing, but she follows the sounds of Rumi’s breathing and exclamations against her lips – and then she lets two fingers slide inside the hot warmth of her, all the way to her knuckles. 

“Mira,” Rumi gasps, thrusting into her hand. “Oh –” she begins jerking her hips against her more quickly, rocking back and forth. Mira tries to just move with her, to give her what she needs. “Oh, that’s – mmm,” she whimpers, squeezing around Mira’s fingers, but Mira doesn’t stop. She searches for that place that makes Rumi cry out, her thumb making little circles, over and over, until Rumi stills – 

“I’m –” she rocks her hips into Mira’s hand again, trembling all over as her own climax rocks her. Then she lifts her head to capture her mouth in a kiss, shaking.

Mira holds her tightly, kissing her back. “You okay?”

Rumi nods fervently against her skin. 

“So okay.”

They spend the rest of the night wrapped in one another’s arms, learning each other by heart. Mira can’t imagine how they could ever sleep – but at some point they succumb to pure exhaustion, their eyes fluttering shut. The last thing she feels is a soft kiss on the back of her neck, and a whisper of I love you.

But maybe she’s already dreaming. 

-

One Year Later 

Horseshoes clop along the path, their sound somewhat muted by the leaves and greenery creeping over the trail. They crossed the border into the Shadowlands sometime before midday – although time here is fickle, and there’s really not much point trying to keep track of it.

“Remind me, whose idea was this?” Mira grumbles, ducking beneath another low branch, brushing the leaves away from her face. Her pink hair reaches just past her shoulders now, and it currently has several leaves and twigs sticking out of it.

“Mine,” Rumi turns to grin at her. “And you know it’s a great idea. You think it’s great too, right, Zoey?”

“Yes!” Zoey pipes up from behind Mira.

“Traitor,” Mira mutters, without malice. Zoey has become an integral part of their lives, ever since the balls. Her bubbliness makes Mira smile more often than she would ever admit, and she brings out Rumi’s excited goofy side. Sometimes Mira will be sitting by the fire in the evening, Rumi’s head in her lap, Zoey resting on the floor with her back leaning against Mira’s legs, and she has to pinch herself, because she never thought she’d find this. 

A family. Love. Acceptance, even when she talks with her mouth full. Even when she’s at her absolute worst, she knows without question that they love her.  

“It’s going to be fine!” Zoey says as she trots up alongside her. She’s been teaching them both what she knows of shadow magic – enough, now, that Rumi thinks it’s time to go to the shadowlands to speak to them about trade.

Mira can’t help giving her an affectionate little smile. “Maybe.”

Rumi glances behind her shoulder, the dappled sunlight catching her long braid, giving it a soft purple glow. 

“Of course it is. We’ve got each other.”