Chapter Text
The ink on Gem’s gloves had never fully washed out since her first oath of knighthood, as if duty itself had decided to stain her skin.
By dawn, the castle of Aldermere had already begun to wake around her in snippets of sound that traveled unevenly through old stone— the low thunder of gates being raised, the scrape of pikes against courtyard gravel, servants murmuring to one another in hallways still blue with early light, and, somewhere below her chambers, the muffled clang of a blacksmith beginning his work long before the city bells had announced the morning hour. Gem stood beside the narrow arched window, fastening the leather ties of her bracers with practiced efficiency, as the mountain wind pressed cold against the glass and turned the banners outside into restless streaks of teal and white.
The Spring Tournament would begin within three days.
Ordinarily, that would have meant little more than ceremony, spectacle, and the exhausting obligation of diplomacy disguised as celebration, but this year the atmosphere in court had sharpened into something brittle enough that even the servants had noticed it, and Gem had spent the better part of the last month moving between council meetings, border inspections, and training grounds with the constant awareness that everyone around her was waiting for something to break.
Not openly, of course. Aldermere prided itself on composure. The mountain kingdom had survived far too many wars to indulge in panic where others could witness it and its nobility wore restraint with nearly religious devotion, but restraint was not the same thing as peace. Gem had long since learned how to recognize tension in the subtle shifts beneath proper court etiquette— the hesitation before a diplomat accepted wine, the increased frequency of patrol requests along the southern pass, the way conversations stopped whenever certain lords entered the room.
War rarely arrived all at once.
Usually it came politely, subtly, deceptively.
——
A knock sounded at her chamber door.
“Come in,” Gem called without turning.
The door opened almost immediately afterward, accompanied by the familiar sound of boots that moved with enough confidence to border on disrespectful, as False stepped into the room carrying two folded cloaks over one arm and the expression of someone who had already been awake for hours and intended to make that everyone else’s problem.
“You’re up early,” False observed, though her tone suggested she found the concept personally offensive.
Gem snorted softly. “You say that every morning.”
“And every morning I continue to be right.”
False crossed the room without ceremony and dropped one of the cloaks onto the bed, its heavy wool embroidered at the shoulders with the crest of Aldermere— a great stag stitched in gold thread— and Gem reached automatically for the fastening clasp. False moved toward the table near the hearth where several reports had been stacked in precarious towers sometime during the night, murmuring something about Gem’s sleep schedule.
The commander of the royal guard looked infuriatingly awake already, blond hair braided neatly back from her face and dark uniform immaculate despite the early hour, though Gem noticed she was favoring her left leg again, which meant yesterday’s sparring session had aggravated an old injury she continued pretending no longer existed.
“You should rest that leg,” Gem said.
“You should stop volunteering for every border inspection personally.”
Gem settled the cloak across her shoulders, clasping it with practiced ease. “That’s different.”
“It is absolutely not different.”
False picked up one of the reports and flipped through it with visible disdain before tossing it back onto the table. “Three villages requesting additional grain reserves before summer, one merchant dispute near the western pass, and a formal complaint claiming your knights frightened a nobleman’s hunting dogs.”
Gem blinked. “What?”
“The dogs apparently refused to leave the road when the patrol approached.”
“That cannot possibly be my fault.”
“It became your problem when Lord Briar threatened to bring the issue before the council.”
Gem groaned quietly into one hand while False grinned with the particular satisfaction of someone whose own morning had improved considerably by delivering terrible news to another person.
“You’re enjoying this.” Gem accused, not moving her hand away from her face.
“A great deal.”
Outside, the first bell rang across the city.
From her window, Gem could see the lower terraces of Aldermere beginning to emerge fully into morning light, slate rooftops catching pale gold rays beneath the mountains while smoke curled upward from chimneys in uneven ribbons, and, for a moment, her attention drifted beyond the castle walls toward the distant marketplace where merchants would already be setting up stalls despite the cold.
She loved her city most at this hour.
Not during feasts or ceremonies or triumphal processions when the kingdom dressed itself in grandeur for ambassadors and wandering bards, but here in the ordinary heartbeat of morning. Here, when bakers opened their shutters before sunrise and children raced through narrow streets carrying bundles of firewood twice their size and farmers from the lower valleys arrived with frost still clinging to their cloaks. Here, because this version of Aldermere felt real in a way court rarely did, grounded— not in reputation or politics but in the simple persistence of people continuing to build lives despite everything history demanded from them.
Gem had been eleven the first time she’d seen the aftermath of war beyond castle walls.
Not glorious cavalry charges sung about in banquet halls, but burned farmland and empty houses and villagers staring at passing soldiers with the hollow exhaustion of people too tired even for anger. She remembered standing beside her father among the ruins of a border settlement while snow drifted silently through blackened beams overhead and realizing with sudden, horrifying clarity that power meant nothing if the people beneath your banners still suffered.
That understanding had shaped every decision she’d made afterward.
It was why soldiers trusted her.
Why villagers greeted her by name when she traveled through the countryside instead of lowering their heads in fearful silence.
Why stable boys and kitchen servants and blacksmith apprentices smiled when she passed them in the castle corridors despite her reputation in court as the kingdom’s most intimidating knight.
Gem did not fight for glory.
She fought because someone had to stand between ordinary people and the ambitions of men powerful enough to treat war like strategy instead of tragedy.
False watched her expression carefully from across the room, knowing her well enough to recognize when old thoughts had resurfaced.
“You’re doing it again,” she said.
Gem glanced back. “Doing what?”
“Thinking yourself into a headache before breakfast.”
“That’s rich coming from you.”
“Unlike you, I think angrily. It’s much faster.”
“What, I don’t think angrily?”
“You think like a petulant child.”
Gem laughed softly despite herself, and something in False’s posture eased in response, subtle but unmistakable.
They had known each other too long for pretense.
False had arrived at court nearly a decade earlier as a newly appointed guard captain— one quickly rising through the ranks— from one of the northern provinces while Gem was still struggling beneath the impossible weight of becoming the youngest commander Aldermere had ever appointed. Somehow, somewhere, between military campaigns, sleepless strategy meetings, and years of surviving court politics side by side they had become something beyond friendship, beyond family, though neither of them had ever bothered defining it precisely.
Twin souls, perhaps.
Forged slowly through shared disasters and shared triumphs.
False picked up the second item she had brought into the room— a sealed letter resting atop the still folded cloak— and held it out.
“This arrived late last night.”
Gem froze.
Immediately, False’s expression changed.
Not dramatically— False was not a dramatic person by nature— but her eyes sharpened with quiet amusement as Gem crossed the room perhaps a bit too quickly and accepted the parchment with considerably more care than she had handled any of the official reports scattered nearby.
“No royal seal,” False observed lightly.
“No.”
“No military insignia.”
Gem fought valiantly for composure. “Correct.”
“And yet somehow this particular piece of correspondence becomes more important than border disputes.”
Gem shot her a look, not-so-subtly losing her battle.
False leaned lazily against the table, entirely unrepentant. “I have known you for nine years, Gem. You look less nervous facing cavalry charges.”
“I am not nervous.”
“You nearly snatched it out of my hand.”
“I did not.”
“You absolutely did.”
The seal itself was simple dark red wax pressed with no identifying crest, but Gem recognized the handwriting instantly even before she turned the envelope over in her hands, and something inside her chest loosened in quiet relief so immediate it almost embarrassed her.
Two weeks.
It had taken nearly two weeks for the latest letter to arrive.
Ordinarily, correspondence delays meant little during spring travel season when mountain roads became unpredictable with rain and thawing snow, but the worsening tension between kingdoms had made every silence feel heavier lately, and though Gem would never have admitted it aloud— even to False— she had begun checking for new riders each evening with growing restlessness.
“Still no name?” False asked after a moment.
Gem shook her head.
The anonymous correspondence exchange hosted through neutral clergy had existed for decades, originally established after the war as an attempt to encourage cultural reconciliation between noble houses across kingdom borders, though most participants treated it as little more than an intellectual novelty before eventually losing interest.
Gem had not expected hers to last beyond the first year.
And yet somehow, through patience and coincidence and the strange intimacy afforded by distance, the unnamed correspondent signing their letters only with the initial P. had become the person in Gem’s life to whom honesty came easiest.
It should have concerned her more than it did.
Perhaps it once had.
Now, however, the ritual had embedded itself too deeply into her life to untangle cleanly— the anticipation before each letter arrived, the hours spent rereading particular passages late at night after council meetings left her exhausted, the absurd comfort of knowing somewhere beyond mountains and borders existed another person who understood precisely how lonely duty could become.
P never wrote like nobility usually did.
There was no polished artificiality to the letters, no performance of cleverness for admiration’s sake. Instead, the pages arrived crowded with observations that felt refreshingly alive: stories about storms over distant coastlines, complaints about court musicians incapable of maintaining tempo during dances, passionate arguments regarding military strategy squeezed between sketches of wildflowers found along roadside ditches.
And occasionally, buried unexpectedly among humor and wandering commentary, confessions so quietly sincere they left Gem staring at the page long after finishing them.
False cleared her throat pointedly.
Gem realized she had been staring silently at the unopened envelope, at the scrawled My Dearest G, for nearly a full minute.
“You’re smiling,” False said.
“I am not.”
“You are, unfortunately, because otherwise I would be considerably less invested in this mystery.”
Gem rolled her eyes, though warmth still lingered stubbornly beneath her ribs as she slipped the letter carefully inside her cloak for later.
False watched the motion with unmistakable fondness.
“You know,” she said, “one day I’m going to discover this mysterious correspondent is actually some seventy-year-old monk with excellent penmanship.”
“Then he has remarkably strong opinions about swordsmanship.”
“That does narrow the suspects somewhat.”
A laugh escaped Gem before she could stop it, brief and genuine enough that False looked disproportionately pleased with herself afterward.
Then the second morning bell rang across the city below.
Duty returned immediately.
False straightened from the table. “Council begins within the hour.”
Gem exhaled slowly.
The Spring Tournament meant diplomats from other lands would already be nearing the capital by now, along with merchants, nobles, foreign knights, and enough political tension to choke half the kingdom if mishandled badly enough, and somewhere among them would inevitably be Valedune’s infamous champion.
The thought alone was exhausting.
Dame Pearl Moonshadow of Valedune had spent the last five years becoming progressively more difficult for Gem to ignore.
Not because she lacked skill— quite the opposite— but because she fought with an infuriating combination of instinct and unpredictability that rendered Gem’s strategy nearly useless against her, adapting mid-duel with reckless brilliance that made every encounter feel less like combat and more like surviving a natural disaster with a sense of humor.
Worse still, the people adored her.
Even in Aldermere.
Especially in Aldermere, if the betting circles surrounding tournament season were any indication.
Gem still remembered the first time they had crossed swords during a midsummer competition years earlier, when Pearl had grinned at her across the field like the entire event was personally amusing and proceeded to dismantle three separate defensive maneuvers Gem had spent months perfecting.
Neither of them had won that duel.
Neither had properly lost, either.
Since then, their rivalry had become something bordering on folklore.
Bards exaggerated it constantly.
Children reenacted their tournaments in city streets using sticks for swords.
Last winter Gem had overheard two visiting merchants arguing passionately over which of them would finally claim victory at the next Spring Tournament while buying apples from a market stall.
It would have been flattering if Pearl herself were not so deeply irritating.
“You’re scowling,” False noted.
“I’m thinking.”
“About Pearl?”
Gem’s silence answered loudly enough.
False grinned outright this time. “You know, one day you might admit you enjoy the rivalry.”
“I enjoy winning.”
“You barely do that.”
Gem narrowed her eyes.
False’s grin widened further.
Somewhere below them, another bell sounded through the city, echoing against mountain stone while sunlight slowly spilled across the castle walls, and Gem reached automatically for the hilt at her side as if grounding herself in familiar weight before turning toward the chamber door.
Outside waited diplomacy and politics and expectation.
Outside waited nobles eager for advantage and whispers of unrest along the border.
Outside waited another season balanced precariously between peace and catastrophe.
But beneath her cloak, hidden safely against her heartbeat, rested a letter written in careful familiar script by someone who made the burden feel lighter simply by existing.
And that, perhaps, was dangerous enough already.
——
By the time Gem and False descended into the lower halls of the castle, Aldermere had fully awakened around them, the corridors alive now with servants carrying folded linens and silver trays between chambers while messengers hurried past beneath hanging banners heavy with the stag crest of the crown. Through the narrow windows lining the stairwell, Gem could see the city beyond the fortress walls gleaming beneath pale morning sunlight, its steep roads already crowded with carts and travelers arriving ahead of the tournament festivities.
Spring always transformed the capital.
Even now, three days before the official opening ceremonies, the lower districts would already be overflowing with visiting merchants and performers from neighboring territories eager to profit from the influx of nobility, blacksmiths working through the night repairing armor for competitors who insisted their equipment required “minor adjustments” immediately before entering the lists, taverns preparing for the inevitable flood of gamblers, spectators, and foreign knights determined to spend the week proving themselves immortal.
Under different circumstances, Gem might have looked forward to it.
There had been a time, years ago, when tournaments felt uncomplicated— exhausting but exhilarating, full of ceremony and competition and the rare freedom of reducing politics into something honest enough to hold in one’s hands. A duel, at least, meant clarity. Two combatants entered the lists and emerged victorious or defeated according to skill rather than manipulation, and though nobles loved dressing such events in symbolism and diplomacy, Gem had always preferred the simple reality of steel striking steel before a crowd too invested in spectacle to lie convincingly about what they witnessed.
Now, however, every aspect of the tournament carried political consequence.
Who sat beside whom at royal feasts mattered.
Which visiting delegations arrived together mattered.
Even the arrangement of matches during the opening rounds would be scrutinized for perceived insults or favoritism by courts desperate to interpret meaning into every possible gesture.
False moved beside her with the purposeful stride of someone mentally organizing security logistics before breakfast had even concluded, one hand resting near the sword at her hip while castle guards straightened automatically as they passed.
“The western delegation arrived before dawn,” she said quietly once they reached the main gallery leading toward the royal dining hall. “The Valedune embassy should reach the outer gates by midday if the weather holds.”
Gem nodded once.
“How many?”
“Larger escort than last year. Forty mounted guards, at least.”
“That’s excessive for a game and a peace summit.”
“The chances of a peace summit,” False replied dryly, “depend entirely on how peaceful everyone intends to remain.”
Gem grimaced faintly.
They passed beneath a vaulted archway where servants were arranging fresh spring flowers along the windowsills, pale violets gathered into silver vases polished bright enough to reflect the sunlight spilling across the stone floor, and, for a moment, the beauty of it struck her with unexpected force. Aldermere had always excelled at this— at creating elegance sturdy enough to survive harshness, warmth carved carefully from inhospitable mountainsides.
People often assumed the kingdom cold because its nobility valued restraint, but Gem had grown up here. She knew better.
Aldermere’s kindness simply existed quietly.
It was in the kitchens where extra soup always appeared during winter storms.
In the way villagers rebuilt damaged homes together after avalanches without waiting for their neighbors to ask.
In the old traditions insisting no traveler be turned away from shelter during snowfall regardless of origin or allegiance.
Perhaps that was why the possibility of renewed war unsettled her so deeply. She knew precisely what would be lost.
False glanced toward her. “You slept poorly.”
“I slept fine.”
“You reorganized your entire desk before sunrise.”
Gem frowned. “And?”
“That’s when you were supposed to be sleeping.”
“I was organizing reports.”
“You alphabetized supply records.”
“…It was a long night.”
False’s mouth twitched with barely restrained amusement.
They reached the carved oak doors of the royal dining chamber moments later, two guards stepping aside immediately upon recognizing them, and the warm scent of fresh bread and cedar smoke drifted outward as the doors opened.
King Scott Major was already seated at the long table near the eastern windows when they entered, sunlight catching against the gold embroidery along the sleeves of his deep blue court robes while several open documents rested beside untouched tea near one elbow, and though he was considerably younger than many foreign rulers expected upon first meeting him, there was nothing uncertain about the composure with which he occupied the room.
Scott ruled Aldermere the same way the mountains endured winter: patiently, carefully, and with far more strength than outsiders initially recognized.
He looked up as Gem and False approached.
“There you are,” he said. “I was beginning to assume the two of you had abandoned diplomacy entirely and fled into the mountains.”
“We discussed it,” Gem replied immediately.
False pulled out the chair opposite the king with a sigh. “Please pay her no mind.”
“I rarely do.”
Scott smiled faintly as servants moved forward to pour tea.
Unlike many monarchs, he preferred private breakfasts before formal council sessions began, particularly during politically sensitive weeks when information spread through court faster than wildfire through dry grass. Gem suspected these quieter morning meetings were often the only opportunities he had to speak honestly without half the kingdom listening from behind decorative pillars.
“How bad?” Gem asked once the servants withdrew again.
Scott leaned back slightly in his chair.
“That depends which issue you mean.”
“A promising start.”
“The southern trade routes continue deteriorating,” he said, expression sharpening. “Three merchant houses formally petitioned for increased military escorts yesterday after another caravan disappeared near the border passes.”
False folded her arms. “Disappeared?”
“No bodies. No recovered goods. Simply gone.”
Gem frowned.
Bandit activity had increased steadily throughout winter, but organized attacks capable of targeting heavily protected caravans suggested something more deliberate than ordinary desperation.
“Valedune?” she asked.
Scott exhaled quietly. “That is what several councilors would like to believe.”
“But you don’t.”
“I think someone benefits from making us suspicious of one another.” His gaze shifted briefly toward the windows overlooking the city below. “And unfortunately, suspicion is easier to cultivate than trust.”
A servant arrived carrying breakfast trays before the conversation could continue further, interrupting them with plates of warm bread, roasted vegetables, soft cheese, and smoked trout from the northern rivers, though Gem noticed Scott barely touched any of it once the servant departed again.
He looked tired.
Not visibly enough that most courtiers would comment upon it, but Gem had known him long enough to recognize exhaustion hidden beneath royal composure, particularly now with the tournament approaching and every noble house in the region preparing to descend upon the capital carrying ambitions sharp enough to rival weaponry.
False reached for a cup of tea.
“Any movement from Briar?”
Scott’s expression cooled immediately.
“Too much,” he admitted.
Lord Briar had spent the better part of two decades positioning himself as the loudest advocate for military expansion within Aldermere’s court, disguising aggression beneath rhetoric about national strength and security while quietly amassing influence among noble families who had profited enormously during the war years.
Gem distrusted him instinctively.
False distrusted him professionally.
Scott, meanwhile, tolerated him because kings were rarely afforded the luxury of removing powerful men simply for being dangerous.
“He’s requested additional guards for the tournament,” Scott continued. “Claims he received anonymous warnings regarding potential violence from Valedune sympathizers.”
False looked unimpressed. “Convenient.”
“Extremely.”
Gem tore a piece of bread apart absently while considering the implications.
If Briar intended to provoke unrest during the tournament, the consequences could become catastrophic quickly. The annual competitions existed partially to reinforce diplomatic ties between kingdoms through ritualized rivalry rather than warfare, allowing tensions to release safely through spectacle and ceremony, but public violence involving foreign delegations would threaten the fragile trust sustaining the entire arrangement.
And everyone knew it.
Which meant anyone attempting sabotage understood exactly where to strike.
Scott looked toward Gem again.
“You’ll face Pearl during the opening exhibition.”
Gem blinked once. “Already decided?”
“The crowd expects it.”
False muttered something under her breath suspiciously close to “Of course they do.”
Gem suppressed a sigh.
Opening exhibitions were traditionally ceremonial rather than competitive, intended to entertain visiting nobles and establish tournament prestige before official matches began, but her rivalry with Pearl had evolved into such an anticipated event over recent years that separating them now would probably disappoint half the continent.
Scott studied her expression with quiet amusement.
“You object?”
“I object to the fact that apparently none of you enjoy peace.”
“You fight beautifully together,” he said simply.
Together.
Not against.
Gem disliked the warmth that sentence stirred unexpectedly beneath her ribs and focused instead on slicing fruit with considerably more force than necessary.
False noticed immediately.
Naturally.
“The tournament schedule itself remains unchanged otherwise,” the captain said smoothly before Scott could continue observing Gem too closely. “Opening feast first night, exhibitions second day, elimination rounds throughout the week, final joust at week’s end before the ball.”
“Security?”
“Tightened significantly.” False set down her cup. “Additional guards stationed near the western gates and ambassador quarters, patrol rotations doubled overnight, and I’ve restricted access to the lower armories until the delegations depart.”
Scott nodded approvingly.
“We’ve also altered seating arrangements at the feast,” False continued. “Briar requested placement near the Valedune delegation.”
Gem scoffed softly. “So he could insult them more efficiently?”
“Precisely. Which is why he’ll instead be seated beside Lady Katherine and three bishops with strong opinions regarding public decorum.”
Scott nearly smiled into his tea.
“And Pearl?” Gem asked before she could stop herself.
False’s eyebrows rose instantly.
Scott noticed too.
Unfortunately.
“The Valedune champion knight will sit with their diplomatic retinue,” he answered carefully, the faintest hint of amusement entering his voice now. “Why?”
“No reason.”
“Mm.”
Gem suddenly hated both of them with more passion than she had ever felt.
Outside the eastern windows, bells rang across the city once more as sunlight spilled brighter over the mountain slopes beyond the capital, illuminating the distant roads winding toward Aldermere’s gates where foreign banners would soon begin appearing one by one against the horizon.
Soon the castle would fill with music and politics and silk and steel.
Soon the tournament would begin.
Soon Pearl would arrive.
And somewhere beneath Gem’s cloak, resting hidden against her heartbeat like a second dangerous thing, was a letter from someone who still did not know her name.