Chapter Text
It is a common convenience among diplomats to call a threat an opportunity once a young woman has been found to absorb it.
Translation: It's easy to spin a disaster as an opportunity—just make a young woman deal with it.
You were wearing your brother’s trousers when the proposal arrived.
This was not, by itself, unusual.
They had become yours two winters ago, after he grew several inches overnight and abandoned them in a heap outside his room. You rescued them before a servant could carry them away and discovered they were ideal for riding, climbing, and spending long afternoons in rooms where a silk skirt would only collect dust, knock over glassware, or randomly catch on fire.
At present, they were helping you investigate a murder.
The victim had died eighty-three years earlier, which removed much of the urgency from the matter, though none of the irritation.
Lady Harcourt had fallen ill after supper, lingered for eleven miserable days, and expired beneath the care of three physicians who disagreed on nearly everything except her beauty.
One praised the delicacy of her features.
Another noted the graceful pallor of her skin.
The third devoted half a page to her eyelashes.
None had thought to preserve the contents of her stomach.
You sat cross-legged on the floor of the abandoned stillroom of a tower you had made your refuge, copies of their reports spread around you. The room smelled of dried herbs, damp stone, and the plum liquor you had poured into a chipped cup shortly after lunch.
A medical compendium lay open beside one knee, while a second volume devoted to common household poisons rested against a crate of old bottles.
You traced one passage with the tip of your finger.
Vomiting. Weakness in the limbs. Pain in the stomach. A gradual failure of the heart.
Arsenic was the obvious answer, which annoyed you because obvious answers were rarely satisfying. Antimony remained possible, and certain mushrooms might explain the early symptoms, although Lady Harcourt’s cook had sworn that none were served that night.
Apparently.
The husband had remarried within four months, which did not prove murder, though it did make him unpleasant.
“Translation,” you muttered, adding a note beneath the physician’s account. “Cannot legally say he killed her, but absolutely saying he killed her.”
You reached for the liquor and found your brother standing in the doorway. You hated how good he had become at sneaking up on people.
His gaze traveled over the papers, the bottles, and the wooden tray beside you, where several scraps of meat had been exposed to substances no sensible household would keep near a kitchen.
“Is anything in here going to kill me?”
“Eventually, yes.”
He remained in the doorway, so you took pity on him.
“Most of it is corked.”
“That is not much better.”
“It was not meant to be.”
Rainwater darkened the shoulders of his coat. He must have crossed the courtyard without an umbrella, which meant someone had sent him in a hurry.
You lifted the cup. “Would you like some of this plum liquor-brandy thingy? I found it in Father’s office—”
“No.”
“Hmm. Something serious has happened, then.”
“Father is calling for you.”
You returned to labeling your notes in your neatest handwriting. “Father frequently calls for me. He is unfortunate that way.”
“In the council chamber.”
That earned him your attention. You lowered the cup, watching as your brother shifted his weight uncomfortably.
“The full council?”
“Most of it.”
“Mother?”
He sighed with the weariness of someone who had endured sixteen years beneath the burden of being related to you.
“Mother says you are to come properly dressed.”
You looked down at yourself. Your shirt sleeves were rolled past your elbows, and smears of charcoal marked the inside of both wrists. A respectable princess would have been ashamed, which was fortunate, as there were no respectable princesses in the stillroom.
“How properly?”
“She said to wear pearls. The chancellor is there as well.”
Pearls meant visiting diplomats.
Pearls and the chancellor meant either a formal audience or a funeral attended by people important enough to care about necklines. They also meant your mother had anticipated your objections and wished to deprive you of the advantage of making them while dressed like a stable boy.
You studied your brother more carefully.
“Who died?”
“No one.”
“Have we lost another border post?”
“Not today.”
“Has Aunt Celia written to insist that I marry her ten-year-old son again?”
“She has, but that arrived yesterday.”
You grimaced. “Burn it.”
“Mother already did.”
“Good woman. Always believed in her.”
Your brother rubbed the back of his neck, an old habit he had never managed to outgrow. He did it after breaking windows, losing money, or learning something he had been expressly forbidden to repeat.
You set the cup aside.
“What did they tell you?”
“Nothing!”
He said it much too quickly, and your eyes narrowed as his eyebrow twitched.
“Ha! Your eyebrow moved!”
He clapped a hand over the offending eyebrow. “My eyebrow does not move when I lie!”
“I didn't accuse you of lying!” You yelled back, totally accusing him.
“It moved because you mentioned Aunt Celia!”
“Out with it.” You smiled despite yourself. “War? Death? Curses? What is worse than those? Marriage?”
His hand dropped. He attempted dignity but managed perhaps three seconds before his shoulders sagged.
“It may involve a marriage.”
You stared at him, and his eyebrow twitched again.
“Mine?”
“I didn't say that.”
His entire face betrayed him this time. He gave you a look of such sincere apology that you almost felt guilty for cornering him.
“Do you know to whom?”
“No.”
“Hmm. That one was true. Your eyebrow stayed still.” You closed the medical book and began gathering your things. “Must be important. Father wouldn't have summoned the council to celebrate my engagement to the baker’s son.”
“You do like the baker’s son.”
“I like his biceps. I have never asked his opinion.”
“That seems very unfair to him. Those are some very nice biceps.”
“It has preserved the attraction.”
You began stacking the reports. Your brother stepped closer into the room then and glanced at the page nearest his boot.
“Did he kill her?”
“Probably.”
“With poison?”
“Certainly.”
“Which one?”
“I have narrowed it down to six.”
“That doesn't sound too narrowed—”
“It was fourteen this morning.”
He bent and picked up one of the medical reports. “Lady Harcourt possessed a complexion of uncommon purity,” he read aloud. “Even in illness, her beauty remained undiminished.”
“He says nothing useful for another two pages.”
“Perhaps he was in love with her.”
“He charged her husband by the hour.”
“That doesn't rule it out.”
You took the report from him and slid it into your bag. “Tell Father I'm coming.”
“He told me not to return without you.”
“Then you may help.”
“With what?”
You pointed toward the tray of meat, where something had begun to bubble, twitch, and release an oozing white foam.
Your brother was gone before you turned back.
You lingered for several minutes, wondering whether you might climb down the window and disappear for a few days. Unfortunately, your parents had endured this impulse often enough to station guards beneath every window of that tower.
You groaned, stomped your feet twice, and decided you could at least take the long way back.
Whatever awaited you in the council chamber could not be faced in borrowed trousers with belladonna beneath your fingernails. Your family understood your peculiarities, but the rest of the court preferred its princesses pleasantly educated, delicately occupied, and ignorant of everything that might make a dinner conversation interesting.
This was especially stupid given how loudly the court discussed its secrets.
By the time you reached your rooms, your maid had already been warned.
Riko stood beside the dressing screen with a pale-blue gown spread across both arms and the expression of a woman who had been entrusted with the salvation of the realm by means of buttons.
“Nope,” you said.
“Yes.”
“There are at least twenty-seven hooks on that bodice.”
“Thirty-two.”
“What the fu—”
“It was made for court.”
“So were several methods of execution!”
Riko laid the gown across the bed. “Her Majesty said to wear pearls too.”
“My brother told me.”
“He was supposed to keep quiet.”
“He has an honest eyebrow.”
“When will you stop? You have bullied that poor boy since infancy.” Riko walked toward you, only to stop when her eyes found the brownish stain across your cuff. “What. Is. That?!”
You looked down. “Brandy I think?”
She leaned closer and smelled it. “Is that blood?!”
“Also possible.”
“Yours?”
“No. The butcher was very understanding.” You replied, crossing your arms. “He respects scientific endeavors.”
Her eyes closed briefly.
“I am sure that will comfort your mother.”
Riko took your arm and steered you behind the dressing screen, where the transformation required twenty-three minutes with the bodice alone.
Your trousers disappeared beneath the lid of a cedar chest, while your hair was combed, twisted, and pinned into an arrangement intended to suggest that you had spent the afternoon engaged in charitable embroidery rather than testing poisons on scraps of pig liver.
As Riko scrubbed the charcoal from your fingers, she discovered a faint green stain beneath your thumbnail.
“What did you touch?”
“Nothing dangerous.”
“That answer has never once been true.”
“It was only crushed foxglove.”
She stopped, moving on to lace your gown. You glanced over your shoulder.
“Through a cloth, I'm not stupid!”
Riko resumed, though with greater violence. “You promised Her Majesty that you would stop handling poisonous plants with or without gloves.”
“The plants were already dead—”
“That is not the reassuring distinction you think it is.” She said, tightening your bodice, which ended the argument through, mostly because you had to make important oxygen choices.
The gown was elegant enough to make breathing seem vulgar. Pale blue and white silk skimmed your shoulders and fell in soft folds to the floor. Pearl drops hung from your ears. A larger strand circled your throat.
When Riko finished, you regarded yourself in the mirror.
The woman in the glass looked composed, delicate, and entirely unlikely to know how long a man remained conscious after ingesting monkshood.
Your family would recognize the deception, though most of the court would not. For them, that was victory enough.
Riko adjusted one sleeve. “There. You look harmless.”
“I look virginal.”
“That is often the intent.”
Your brother waited outside the room. He had changed his wet coat and made an effort with his hair, although one lock had already fallen across his forehead. He looked you over. “You do not look like yourself.”
“That was the purpose no?”
“Should I be worried?” He smiled and offered his arm, which you took.
“You should always be worried.”
The palace had grown quieter while you dressed. Servants moved along the corridors with lowered voices. Two guards stood outside the council chamber instead of one.
The doors remained closed until you approached, at which point your brother released your arm and stepped aside.
Inside, the long table was crowded with maps and documents.
Your father stood near a map of the eastern border, one hand resting on its carved edge, while your mother sat at his right with her back straight and her face calm enough to worry you.
The chancellor occupied the opposite side with two military advisers and the master of coin.
Your sister sat near the windows, twisting a handkerchief between her fingers.
When her eyes met yours, she gave you a look of profound sympathy. That was not encouraging at all.
Your brother, having greeted by your mother before you entered, now avoided her eyes.
The military advisers stood. The chancellor rose more slowly, gathering several documents beneath one hand as you crossed the chamber and curtsied.
“Father. Mother.”
Your father looked at the pearls, then at your mother. “I see you were warned.”
“Only that my neck required decoration before meeting the ax.”
Your mother ignored the comment and gestured toward the chair beside her. You sat, though no one spoke immediately.
Rain tapped against the windows, and somewhere beyond the chamber, a bell marked the hour. The master of coin coughed. The chancellor rearranged the papers before him, although they had appeared quite orderly when you entered.
Your father came around the table and sat opposite you.
“I assume your brother told you something.”
“He told me enough to ruin the walk here.”
“Nothing has been decided.”
“That is not a particularly exciting answer.”
“No,” he said, “but negotiations have not gone far enough for anything to be final.”
The unease in your chest loosened only slightly.
Your father had never treated his children as pieces on a board, although kings were often praised for doing exactly that. During the walk from your rooms, you had wondered whether war had finally forced him into becoming the sort of man duty demanded and family feared.
Right now, he looked tired, but worse than that, he looked frightened.
The chancellor cleared his throat. He was a narrow man with a beard too carefully trimmed to inspire confidence.
“We have been offered a formal proposal.”
“By what poor fool?”
“His Majesty Ryomen Sukuna.”
... Well, fuck me sideways! You thought as the room seemed to draw in around that name and rain continue to tap against the high windows, based on the tales alone, he was neither poor nor a fool.
You looked from the chancellor to your father contemplating.
Everyone knew it in nursery tales, soldiers’ songs, sermons, and whispered conversations adults assumed children could not understand.
The Conqueror.
The Disgraced One
The King of Curses.
Every region appeared to have its own title for him, though none were affectionate.
You looked toward the map.
His territory spread across the eastern mountains and farther north than the parchment showed. Several smaller kingdoms had ceased to exist after quarreling with him. One had vanished from official records so thoroughly that scholars still argued over where its capital had ever stood.
“A proposal,” you repeated.
The chancellor inclined his head. “As a formal union between our houses—”
“Through marriage, you mean.”
“Yes.”
“Makes sense when you have civil unrest. It's not like we don't have two fertile daughters and a border dispute.”
Your sister gave you a wounded look. Your father’s expression tightened. “By all means, speak your mind.”
“I mean, I assumed that was why you sent for me rather than one of the tapestries at the entrance hall.”
The chancellor did not appreciate the comparison but looked relieved that you were keeping pace at least. “The marriage is his condition.”
Your sister’s handkerchief twisted tighter as you turned to your father.
“Did he request either of us by name?”
“No.”
Okay, well, that was something. Your brain, helpful as ever, immediately started running the numbers. No named request plus rushed diplomatic timing plus 'condition' rather than 'alliance' equaled one very specific equation: he needed a wife on short notice because something back home was on fire, and someone was needed to stand next to him while he pretended to put it out.
“He requested a daughter of the royal house,” the chancellor said. “Your sister is already promised to the Gojo family, and you are the eldest unmarried princess.”
“You mean a wife with good presence for the inevitable 'everything is fine' pretense?”
Your sister opened her mouth but you stopped her with a look.
She had been betrothed since spring to a young lord from the south. He was kind, wealthy, and wrote poetry so dreadful it had become an object of family concern.
He also adored her.
You would not hand her to a legendary murderer merely because you happened to dislike his sonnets and half-assed rhymes.
You had been trained since childhood to serve the kingdom in some manner. Most princesses did so by marrying men selected for political use. The practice was dressed in lace and called duty because calling it livestock exchange would have upset the chapel.
You could refuse.
You also knew the kingdom couldn't afford you to.
“What does his Majesty offer?”
“There's this generous marriage settlement." The master of coin pushed a ledger toward you. Your eyebrows shot up at the amount of zeroes.
“He would pay this amount upon ratification of the agreement,” the man continued, “with another payment released on the anniversary date. Beyond this, the eastern trade roads would reopen immediately. His soldiers would secure the mountain passes and protect grain shipments through winter.”
A military adviser pointed toward three marks along the border.
“He would also withdraw his patrols from these villages and recognize the river as the boundary between our kingdoms.”
You studied the map.
For months, merchants had avoided the eastern roads. Grain prices had climbed. Villages near the border had emptied after repeated raids by men wearing no colors and carrying weapons forged in Sukuna’s territory.
Sukuna denied ordering the raids, though he had shown very little interest in stopping them.
“And in return?”
“Mutual defense. Preferential access to our western markets—”
“How preferential?”
The master of coin hesitated until you stared him into finding the figure. “Eight percent below the standard tariff.”
“Too much.”
The chancellor shifted. “My Lady—”
“Five.”
“Sukuna’s envoys requested eight.”
“Then they don't expect us to object.”
Your father’s mouth moved slightly, nearly a smile, though the chancellor did not share his amusement.
“This is not an ordinary negotiation.”
“No. During an ordinary negotiation, the tariff would be the most insulting demand.”
Your mother touched one finger to the edge of the table. “Let her continue.”
You leaned over the map. “How quickly would the roads reopen?”
“Upon consummation of the wedding—”
Your brother made that same small strangled sound. Without looking at him, your mother said, “Leave if you cannot behave like an adult.”
Your father pointed toward the door, and your brother went with one hand clamped over his mouth snickering.
“Ok, gross. I'm going to need that to mean something else.” You straightened. “Write, re-opening needs to happen within ten days of the treaty taking effect.”
The chancellor’s pen paused. “But the consummation is what gives the treaty effect—”
“You know what? Give that here!” You snatched the document, writing in “... there is to be no physical claim without my consent. There!”
You dropped the document back on the Chancellor's hands, and turned back to the map as the men around the table inhaled as one. A few looked toward your father, apparently hoping he might apologize for you, correct you, or have you removed before you said the word women's rights next.
He did none of those things. Your father only watched you with an expression you could not read, leaving the chancellor’s pen hovering uselessly above the page.
Then your gaze landed on the ledger still clutched against the master of coin’s chest. The sum written across the bottom could repair the roads, refill the grain stores, and probably keep the man smiling through winter.
Well. Your dignity would recover.
“My dude—” You pointed at the ledger he cradled like a long-lost child. “Did you see that amount? Let's discuss what an agreement should look like, since you're all so excited to sell my virginity.”
You continued through the proposed terms. The eastern villages would be recognized as belonging to your father's kingdom. The missing grain caravans would be investigated jointly. Sukuna's soldiers could enter your territory only under specific conditions and with written notice, except in the event of an active invasion.
The military advisers protested that written notice would be impractical.
You asked whether they preferred four thousand foreign demon troops appearing without warning.
They became less enthusiastic.
The chancellor dipped his pen. “Five percent tariffs,” he said with visible reluctance. “The roads reopened within ten days. Formal acknowledgment of the river boundary.”
“And compensation for the caravans.”
“There is no proof Sukuna was responsible—”
“Then he should have no objection to helping discover who was.”
Your father leaned back in his chair. “You have thought about this.”
“You have discussed the eastern roads over dinner for six months.” You rolled your eyes. “Let us not pretend you seated me beside the master of coin by accident.”
Your father’s mouth twitched.
“I had not realized you were listening,” the master of coin mumbled.
“Well, learn to keep your mouth shut next time you discuss treasury losses over soup then.”
The master of coin looked faintly embarrassed.
The practical matters occupied the next half hour. With every amended condition, the proposal became less like surrender and more like an alliance your father might defend before his people.
That didn't make the marriage itself any less alarming.
When the chancellor finished writing, you sat back and, because curiosity had always been your particular downfall, asked, “What do we know about him?”
No one answered quickly.
This, too, was unpromising.
Your mother looked toward a leather case resting near the wall. The chancellor rose and fetched it.
“We have a portrait.”
He opened the case and lifted out a painted panel, placing it on the table.
The varnish had darkened to the color of old honey. Cracks ran across the surface. One corner had been damaged by fire, leaving part of the background charred and one side of the subject's face indistinct.
The man at the center wore ceremonial robes over a broad, powerful frame. Four arms emerged from the layered fabric, two folded across his chest and two hanging at his sides. The artist had given him an expression of profound irritation.
Bodies lay beneath his feet.
You leaned closer.
You had heard the stories, of course. Every child had. Sukuna had entered songs long before you were born, usually as the final consequence awaiting disobedient princesses. He had conquered six provinces, destroyed three noble houses, and once ended a siege by walking through the gates alone.
The songs disagreed on whether he was a man, a curse, or some divine punishment for administrative failure.
The portrait offered little clarification.
“Are those necessary?”
The chancellor followed your gaze to the bodies. “They may be symbolic.”
“One is missing a head.”
“Symbolism was more direct in that period.”
You studied the painted face.
Dark markings crossed his brow and cheeks. The damaged varnish made his age difficult to judge. He did not look feeble, although portraits were generous to kings and cruel to their enem—Wait a damn minute!
“... That period? How old is this portrait?”
“Erm, fourty-nine years, my Lady.”
“This portrait was painted fourty-nine years ago?!”
“Yes.”
You looked at the painted figure again. “And he was already king?”
“For some time.”
“Fuc—” You stopped at the look your mother sent you, “For how much time?”
“The records are unclear.”
You looked back at Sukuna.
Your sister leaned toward the portrait. “He looks stern.”
Your eye twitched. You were feeling the beginnings of a migraine.
Your brain started cicling that situation again. The portrait had been painted nearly five decades earlier, after an unspecified number of years on the throne. Some songs about him predated your father’s birth. Some history books suggested he had ruled before your grandfather’s coronation.
The conclusion seemed unavoidable.
“He's old, aint't he?”
Your brother, who had slipped back into the chamber and stationed himself near the door, made another choking sound.
The chancellor blinked. “Now, my Lady—”
“How old?” You asked through gritted teeth.
“No one knows precisely.”
“That is worse! If he has been ruling for years when this was painted and that was painted nearly five decades ago—” You tried finding the correct words, but found yourself stuttering, “It's-urgh! Unless his people crown infants, I am being offered to an old man!”
“Sukuna does not age as ordinary men do,” your mother said carefully.
“That is very elegant way of saying no one knows how old the man is!”
“That is in literal sense.” Your mother continued.
Your gaze returned to the portrait.
The painter had given him a severe mouth and eyes that appeared unimpressed by the existence of everyone else. His hair had been rendered as a dark, indistinct shape, perhaps because the artist feared getting close enough to study it.
The scientific part of you tickled your brain again as you regarded him. “So he ages slowly...?”
“We believe so.”
“You believe—”
“He hasn't permitted foreign painters into his court and neither has he been seen outside his territory in many, many years.”
“Perhaps he dislikes sitting still.” Your sister said, leaning toward the portrait. “He does not look terribly old here.”
“He does look quite young.” Your brother nodded looking closer. “But I mean, that was fourty-nine years ago!”
You tapped the edge of the panel. “If he had already ruled long enough to conquer half the east before this was painted, then he must now be at least—”
You stopped.
No one seemed eager to supply a number.
Your brother folded his arms. “Perhaps he is immortal?”
Your father gave him a warning look. He lowered his head, though his eyes remained on the portrait.
You considered the painted demon king again.
The four arms complicated matters. At least one appeared to rest near the hilt of a sword. The second pair suggested an artist unwilling to edit for modesty. Sukuna’s hair was swept back from his face, though the darkened paint made its color uncertain.
“How many wives has he buried?” You asked deadpan.
The chancellor stiffened. “None!”
“Kept alive?”
“No wives at all!”
That surprised you. “Really? No concubines?”
“There are rumors, but nothing confirmed.”
“Children?”
“None that we're aware of.”
“Engagements of any sort?”
The chancellor looked down at his papers. “Several negotiations were attempted that did not result in marriage.”
You waited.
He did not elaborate.
“Did the prospective brides survive?”
Your mother closed her eyes. Your brother looked delighted that you had asked. The chancellor’s face tightened.
“There is no evidence that King Sukuna harmed them.”
“That is not the same as yes.”
“The disagreements concerned the status of the brides’ households,” The chancellor said carefully. “Several families expected their daughters to arrive with ministers, military advisers, and permanent representatives."
“And he refused.”
“Rather emphathetically. Based on rumors, the King did not find foreign advisers being installed in his court under the guise of a household retinue being acceptable.”
“So he dislikes political wives.”
“That was the conclusion reached.”
“By men, I assume.”
The chancellor chose not to answer and looked uncomfortable.
“We do not know how he treats women privately,” Your mother spoke before you could press him further. “His court follows old customs.”
“That usually means someone is about to explain why I should be grateful for having a chair,” you said.
Your brother nodded. “Or why the chair belongs to your husband.”
“Perhaps he disliked interference more than women.” Your sister tried supplying gently.
“Or perhaps the men arranging his marriages had never bothered to discover the difference—” You tried.
“We are discussing diplomacy, not tavern gossip!” The chancellor threw his hands in the air with the weariness of a man who had explained taxation to nobility before.
Translation: It is exhausting dealing with rich people who don't understand basic stuff, just like they don't pay attention to how marriage politics actually worked for women.
You, being of sound mind, fully understanding the nature and extent of the situation and disposition thereof—shot back with, “Tavern gossip is often more specific, let me tell you.”
Your father rubbed his thumb along the edge of the table.
“He has a violent history,” he said. “There is no use pretending otherwise. He has killed men who challenged him, destroyed families that rebelled against him, and taken territory by force. He is feared for good reason.”
“We have found no record of him forbidding women from holding land,” Your mother added “Several of his military commanders are women. His chief physician is a woman as well.”
That complicated your opinion.
You picked up the treaty again and read the concessions. The mountain roads alone would restore half the revenue your father had lost since spring. Sukuna’s soldiers would secure the villages before the first snow. Every practical measure favored acceptance.
You wondered how many people had sat around this table hoping practicality would spare them from asking you to trade your life for theirs.
“Perhaps he is progressive between massacres.”
Your brother covered a laugh with a cough.
Your father’s gaze remained steady. “You do not have to accept.”
The room quieted. Even the chancellor stopped moving his papers as your father leaned forward.
“I will not send you unless you consent.” The words were low enough that the council might have pretended not to hear. “If you refuse,” he continued, “we will send the proposal back. Whatever follows will be ours to face.”
You knew what would follow.
The roads would remain closed. Grain prices would rise. Border families would keep abandoning their homes. The raids might worsen. Sukuna might lose interest in negotiation entirely.
Your father would not blame you. That did not mean no one would suffer either.
“With what leverage?” You asked.
His silence was honest. Your mother’s hand shifted nervously in her lap.
You looked down at the painted monster.
Four arms. Ancient reign. An enthusiasm for killing. No wives. No children confirmed. A collection of failed marriage negotiations and an age no one could calculate without consulting religious scholars.
Perhaps he was unbearable.
Perhaps he smelled of medicinal ointments and complained about stairs and young people standing on his lawn.
Perhaps he would ignore you after the ceremony and spend the remainder of his extraordinary lifespan shouting at servants and striking caretakers on the shins with a cane.
That possibility held a certain appeal.
Yes... You could most definitely refuse, but you weren't stupid. The court would praise your courage in private, then quietly remember it when grain prices doubled and another border village emptied.
Marriage to Sukuna offered another possibility, though you were not noble enough to pretend the kingdom was your only consideration.
He lived several days away, in a palace where no one knew which cupboards to lock before allowing you into a room. You would have your own household, your own rooms, and possibly an entire foreign archive filled with cursed objects no priest here would let you examine. If your ancient husband proved as inattentive as you hoped, you might spend the marriage wandering his libraries while he slept through council meetings and complained about his knees.
Freedom was too generous a word for marriage to a violent stranger, but distance had its uses.
Perhaps that was selfish. You found it difficult to feel guilty when the selfish option also reopened the roads and kept people from starving.
“I will meet the terms if Sukuna accepts our revisions.”
Your sister inhaled sharply. Your mother’s grip tightened around yours, but she didn't look relieved.
Your father’s eyes narrowed but not in anger. You knew that look. It was the same one he wore when he found an error in the household accounts revealed how much you had spent on medicinal herbs, poison texts, and occasional bottles of liquor.
“Do not answer because the council is watching.”
“I'm not!”
“Then why?”
You bit your lip, attempting to look innocent and sacrificial while choosing the most practical path to freedom possible.
“Because the villages near the river will not survive another winter like the last one. Because we cannot reopen the roads ourselves without inviting war. Because if Sukuna wanted to seize the border by force, he would not need to marry me first.”
The military advisers shifted.
You glanced at the portrait. “And because he is very old. That part is helping more than it should.”
Your mother stared, your brother made another strangled sound, but you continued before anyone could interrupt.
“An old man with four arms will either ignore me or require assistance locating his glasses. I can manage either.”
The master of coin looked down at his ledger.
Your sister pressed the handkerchief to her mouth, caught between laughter and tears.
Your father’s expression cracked.
It began with a twitch near his left eye. Your mother looked at him, which made matters worse. Within seconds, both were fighting nervous laughter while the chancellor sat rigid with disapproval.
“I am glad,” the chancellor said carefully, “that you have found comfort. I will send these terms to the delegation, along with the description previously provided of your character—”
“I'm sorry, my what?”
You knew at once that he had hoped you would never ask. Your mother’s ring clicked against the table. Your father looked toward her, but she offered no help.
“There was,” he began, “a summary of your accomplishments and disposition. We can assure you, very respectful diplomatic language was used.”
“That means someone lied on my resume.”
“No one lied. Your qualities were presented favorably.”
You were on your feet before the Chancellor finished. “Give me the letter.” You demanded.
He hesitated.
“Now!”
The chancellor reluctantly removed a sheet from beneath the treaty and placed it in your waiting hand.
The writing was his own.
You read the first paragraph, where you were described as gentle in temperament, modest in speech and devoted to the feminine arts. Then the second, which praised your devotion to music, needlework, and happiest when attending to the harmony of the domestic sphere. The third assured Sukuna’s representatives that you possessed no appetite for public influence and would be content to entrust matters of governance to your husband’s greater experience. There was even a P.S. assuring that you understood your foremost duty would be to provide the crown with legitimate heirs.
You looked up.
"Needlework."
The chancellor clasped his hands behind his back, studying the windows, suddenly finding them fascinating. “You embroider.”
“I stabbed my thumb so often that I learned to suture wounds instead!” You said exasperated, “You told them I enjoy music?
Your sister leaned forward. “She enjoys tavern and sea shanties.”
“She knows all the filthy verses in several drinking songs.” Your brother nodding, he was not helping matters.
“Her foremost duty will be to provide the crown with legitimate heirs?” You repeated the passage outloud again, increasingly offended by every word. The chancellor braced himself as you smacked the page down. “Why?”
“Sukuna has declined previous matches involving women known for strong political ambitions. We emphasized the qualities most likely to appeal to the king.”
“So you panicked and invented another woman? I'm so glad I added that consummation clause!”
The chancellor drew himself up. “The negotiations required delicacy.”
“You underlined ‘devoted to the feminine arts’ twice. What the fuck does that even mean?”
“We really were trying to emphasize your strengths—”
“You removed all of them!”
“You are courteous, poised, and well regarded—”
“You made me sound sedated!”
The chancellor’s face reddened.
“You told a foreign king that I would happily surrender governance to his greater experience.”
“He has been ruling for a considerable length of time, Princess.”
“So has Father and I still correct him.”
Your father gave a small nod. “She really does.”
You pointed to another sentence. “And what is this nonsense about domestic harmony?”
“You manage your household well.”
“Riko manages my household well. If I did, everyone would be drunk by 10am!”
Your mother held out her hand. Your father passed her the page. She read in silence while the chancellor seemed to shrink with every line. Finally, she folded the document. “You will send a correction.”
“No wait,” You dragged both hands down your face. “Ugh! Fine! It's fine! Leave it.”
Everyone looked at you. You reached for the portrait and turned it slightly toward the light.
“If he expects a quiet, domestic bride, the correction can wait.”
Your mother’s eyes narrowed with interest. “Why?”
“I should like to see how long it takes him to notice.”
Your brother grinned. The chancellor did not. “That could be interpreted as deception.”
“Them's the breaks kid. You wrote it.” You scoffed at the Chancellor.
“This is not a game!” Your mother practically begged.
“No,” you agreed. “It is a marriage negotiation with a murderer old enough to remember the invention of buttons. I am finding what entertainment I can.”
Your father passed the revised treaty to the chancellor.
“Send the terms. Everyone except my family is dismissed.”
The council could not leave quickly enough.
The chancellor departed with the documents beneath his arm and the expression of a man who had survived a private disaster in public. The military advisers carried away the maps. The master of coin promised updated estimates by morning.
Your family remained.
Your sister crossed the room first and wrapped both arms around you. The force of it pushed you back into your chair.
“You cannot go.”
“We've just spent an hour deciding I can.”
“I have changed my mind.”
“You were not asked.”
She tightened her grip. You rested your cheek against her hair. Your brother came closer, though he stopped at the edge of the table.
“I still think he might be immortal.”
“Thank you for the reminder.”
“It could be useful. Old courts have excellent libraries. And I bet no one will notice if you spend all night in a room full of dead people's records.”
Your sister lifted her head. “That is your comfort?”
“I like books.”
“I didn't even know you could read.” You mumbled, “Be honest, you've never finished a novel in your life.”
“I like useful books.” He replied, his eyebrow twitching.
Your father rose. The humor had gone from his face. “The answer may still be no.”
You looked at him.
“Sukuna may refuse the counter terms.”
“Then we will know he wanted surrender rather than alliance.” You shrugged.
“And if he accepts?”
“Then I will marry him.” You paused. “And you will all visit, and pretend the east wing or whatever doesn't smell of sulfur, and I will pretend I don't notice you noticing.”
Your sister made a sound that was almost a laugh.
Your father's hand settled on the back of your chair. "I'm sorry."
“Don't be. I'm hypothetically getting a library and a four-armed husband who probably sleeps eighteen hours a day and complains about his joints." You went straight to the liquor cabinet. No glass. The bottle was already open. "To political sacrifice. May he have excellent hearing aids and absolutely no curiosity.”
No one laughed. No one stopped you from drinking straight from the bottle either.
Your mother was already at the door. Your sister followed her, but at the threshold she looked back.
Your brother gave you a small wave. Your father was still standing by the table, his hand on the wood of the chair where you'd been sitting.
You turned, lifted the tapestry hiding the servants' door, and walked through. That was what you always did, before anyone could see your hands shaking.