The fire in my hearth had long since faded to embers, but I didn't move to rekindle it. I sat curled in the chair by the window, knees to my chest, the moonlight stretching pale fingers across the cold stone floor. My mother's words lingered like a bruise I couldn't quite reach.
"Too much of you."
What did that even mean?
A soft knock at the door made me flinch.
"Ria?" came my father's voice—low, familiar, warm in a way I hadn't realized I needed until I heard it.
I hesitated. But I couldn't make myself lie.
"It's open," I said, barely above a whisper.
He stepped in, the door creaking softly behind him. There was no crown on his brow tonight, no cloak of command. Just my father—Kaerin. A man worn down by the weight of the kingdom, yes, but still the only person who ever really saw me.
He looked at me for a long moment before moving closer. "You left the council quickly," he said gently. "I thought I'd check on you."
I looked away, out the window again. "You don't have to. I'm fine."
He didn't answer. Instead, he crossed the room, pulled the smaller chair beside mine, and sat—close, but not imposing.
"Your mother," he said quietly.
I nodded. I didn't have to say anything.
"She doesn't mean to hurt you, Ria."
I laughed, sharp and bitter. "Then she's awfully good at it by accident."
He didn't correct me. He didn't rush to defend her. Instead, he reached for my hand and held it like he used to when I was small and scared of thunderstorms.
"She doesn't understand you. That's not the same as not loving you."
"Isn't it?" My voice cracked, and I hated how raw it sounded. I hadn't meant to say it aloud. But once I started, I couldn't stop. "She doesn't see me. She sees what I'm not. Not quiet enough, not graceful enough, not soft enough. Not what a daughter's supposed to be."
"Ria..."
"I heard what she said. About me being too much like you. Like it's a curse." I looked at him now, really looked at him—at the familiar angles of his face, the brown hair that curled at the ends like mine, the same pale blue eyes I saw in my own reflection. "Do you know what it's like to look at her and wonder if she wishes she'd had someone else?"
His expression changed. A flicker of pain passed behind his eyes.
"Every time I speak in court, every time I open my mouth, it's like I can feel her bracing for it. Like she's waiting for me to embarrass her. To disappoint her again." My throat tightened. "I've tried, Father. I've tried so hard. I've worn the dresses, I've played the part. I've swallowed my opinions, even when it made me feel like I was choking. But it's never enough."
A tear slipped down my cheek. Then another.
"I'm never enough."
Before I could blink it away, he moved. Without a word, he stood and reached down, lifting me as if I weighed nothing, just like he used to when I scraped my knees as a child. He sat in the larger armchair by the hearth, and I curled into him instinctively, resting my cheek against his chest as he cradled me in his arms.
And then I broke.
The tears came in gasping sobs I didn't even know I had in me. His hand moved slowly over my hair, smoothing it down as I cried.
"You are more than enough, Ria," he said, voice thick with emotion. "You shine too brightly for her to understand. That's not your failure. It's her fear."
I clung to his tunic, knuckles white.
"She talks about what people will think, about how I ruin her image of a proper daughter. But I don't care what the court thinks. I just—" My voice cracked again. "I just wanted her to want me."
He held me tighter, like he could keep the hurt away if he just held me close enough.
"She loves you," he said. "But she doesn't know how to show it in the way you need. She was raised to be quiet. Obedient. Unseen. You were never meant to live in a shadow like that."
"But it would be easier," I whispered. "If I could just... be what she wants."
"No," he said, more firmly now, tilting my chin up so I had to look at him. "Do not shrink yourself to make her more comfortable. Do not break your spirit to fit into a mold that was never meant for you. That fire in you? It's not a flaw. It's your gift. And one day, it will change this kingdom."
He brushed a tear from my cheek with his thumb.
"She sees too much of me in you," he said with a sad smile. "And maybe she's right. Maybe that's exactly who you are. Stubborn. Brave. Loud when it counts. I won't apologize for that. And neither should you."
I looked at him—at the mirror of myself—and saw something I hadn't before. Not just my features in his, but a kind of defiance. A shared resilience.
"I love you, Ria," he said softly. "And I'm proud of you. Not in spite of who you are. Because of it."
A long, quiet breath left my chest.
It didn't erase the sting of my mother's words. But in that moment, wrapped in my father's arms, I felt something steadier than all the court's expectations. Something solid, unshakable.
I felt loved.
And for the first time in a long time... that felt like enough.
He didn't rush me.
My breathing slowed, the sobs fading into quiet sniffles, my face still buried in the warmth of his tunic. The steady thrum of his heartbeat grounded me, rhythmic and real—like the world hadn't completely shattered under my mother's words.
After a long silence, I spoke again, this time softer. "Do you ever regret it?"
"Regret what?" he asked gently.
"Choosing her. This life. The way everything's... shaped around expectations. Around silence. Around pretending."
His fingers paused in my hair for just a moment. Then resumed their gentle movement.
"Sometimes," he said, voice low and honest. "Not because of her, but because of what this life demands. The masks we wear. The parts of ourselves we have to set aside, day after day. I've made peace with it, for the kingdom's sake. But I never wanted that for you."
I tilted my head, resting my temple against his shoulder. "Then why does she want it so badly for me?"
"Because she thinks it's the only way you'll survive," he said quietly. "She believes the world will eat you alive if you meet it with too much fire. She wants to protect you—but she's forgotten how to do that without trying to smother you."
I thought about that. About all the times my mother had told me to smile smaller, to speak less, to walk slower. All the ways she'd tried to press me into a shape I didn't fit.
"It doesn't feel like protection," I whispered.
"I know," he said. "And it's not the kind you need."
I shifted a little in his arms so I could look up at him again. Our eyes met—his the same bright, clear blue as mine. It always startled me a little, how much of myself I saw in him, even though the world only ever seemed to see him in me.
"When you were younger," he said, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear, "you used to climb the old tree in the garden. You'd get halfway up, look down, and start to panic. But you always climbed higher. Even when you were scared. Even when you were crying. You never stopped."
I smiled faintly. "You always stood at the bottom. Said you wouldn't catch me if I fell."
"Because I knew you wouldn't," he said. "You had to learn to trust yourself. And you did."
The silence stretched again, but it was different now. Not empty. Just full of things understood without needing to be said.
"Can I stay like this a little longer?" I asked quietly.
He smiled, that soft, rare smile that belonged only to me. "As long as you need."
And so I stayed. Curled into the arms of the one person who didn't need me to shrink or silence or disappear. The one who had always seen my fire and never tried to put it out.
The fire didn't feel like a burden here. It just felt like me.
Eventually, my eyes began to grow heavy. My father's warmth, the rise and fall of his chest, the stillness of the room—all of it wove around me like a lullaby. I didn't even realize I'd started to drift until I felt him shift slightly beneath me.
"I should let you sleep," he murmured.
"No," I mumbled, eyes barely open. "Just... a few more minutes."
He chuckled softly, tucking the blanket from the foot of the chair around my shoulders.
"You know," he said, brushing his hand gently over my hair, "one day, they're going to sing songs about you. Not because you were silent or obedient—but because you weren't."
I didn't answer. I couldn't. I was already sinking into sleep, the ache in my chest soothed, if not gone.
And for the first time in what felt like years, I didn't dream of being someone else.
-
The morning light crept in through the tall windows, soft and golden, painting the stone walls in hues of amber and rose. For a moment, I didn't move. I lay curled under the blanket in the chair by the hearth, warm and still, listening to the quiet hush of the castle as it slowly woke.
The chair beside me was empty.
My father had gone sometime in the early hours, but not without leaving something behind. A small, folded note sat on the table near the hearth, my name scrawled across the front in his strong, familiar hand.
I picked it up with fingers still tingling from sleep.
Ria,
Speak loudly. Walk boldly. Love yourself fiercely, even when others don't understand how.
The world does not need another quiet woman—it needs you. As you are. Exactly as you are.
—Father
I let out a shaky breath, holding the letter to my chest for a long, still moment. The tight ache that had wrapped itself around my ribs the night before had loosened. It was still there, yes—but it no longer owned me.
I rose slowly, limbs a little stiff, but my heart strangely light.
As I stretched, I noticed it—placed with careful intention at the foot of my bed.
A bundle wrapped in deep navy cloth. Clean, simple, but elegant. Tied with leather cord.
Curious, I crossed the room and knelt to open it.
Inside was a full set of new training gear—fitted dark breeches, a reinforced leather jerkin, fingerless gloves, and boots far sturdier than anything I currently owned. All of it designed for movement, durability, and speed. There was even a small wooden case containing a pair of practice blades, polished and balanced.
My breath caught.
This wasn't armor meant to make me look like I belonged. It was armor meant for someone who was already becoming.
No note this time. No message. But it didn't need one.
My father knew.
Not just who I was—but who I wanted to be.
And he had given me the tools to become her.
--
By late morning, the courtyard was alive with the clash of steel and barked commands. I made my way down, boots echoing against the cobblestone, the weight of the practice blades slung over my back. The breeze carried the familiar scent of sweat, metal, and dust.
A few knights were already sparring near the southern edge of the yard, but my attention locked on one figure near the center, standing alone, calmly wrapping his hands.
Alexander.
His tunic was loose at the collar, sleeves rolled to the elbow, hair tied back. He looked more like a shadow carved from stone than a man—focused, still, waiting.
As if he knew I would come.
Our eyes met across the space.
He gave a single, slow nod.
I walked toward him without hesitation.
"I see the rumors are true," he said, glancing at the training clothes with a flicker of amusement. "A princess who trades her silks for steel."
"I prefer steel," I replied, unslinging the practice swords and handing one to him. "Silk tears too easily."
That made him smile. Just barely. But it was there.
Without another word, he moved to the center of the sparring circle. I followed, fingers tightening around the hilt of the wooden blade. My heart was steady now—not racing with fear or doubt, but with anticipation.
"Show me what you've got," he said.
"You want me to go easy?" I asked, raising my blade.
"If you do," he said, stepping forward into a ready stance, "you'll regret it."
Our swords clashed, and the world fell away.
The first strike was fast—his blade snapping against mine with a sharp crack that reverberated up my arms. I staggered slightly, caught off guard by his speed.
He didn't press the advantage. He simply stepped back, letting me find my footing again.
"Not bad," he said, lips curling into the faintest smirk. "But you're holding back."
I narrowed my eyes. "Am I?"
He just raised a brow, clearly unconvinced.
I shifted into a stronger stance, adjusting my grip. But even as I prepared to strike again, my attention snagged—not on his blade, but on him.
There was something infuriatingly effortless about the way he moved—each step precise, each breath controlled. His tunic clung just enough to show the broad shape of his shoulders, the subtle lines of muscle that moved beneath his skin.
And his hair—long, thick curls the color of dark chestnut, tied back into a loose man-bun that looked like it shouldn't be elegant and yet somehow was. A few tendrils had come loose, brushing against the sharp line of his jaw.
When I looked up, his hazel eyes were already locked on mine.
Not cold. Not unreadable.
Focused.
And worse—curious.
There was a softness to the gold in his gaze, but also something fierce, like a flame that hadn't yet decided if it would warm you or burn you alive.
I tried to swallow, but my throat had gone dry.
He tilted his head slightly, catching my hesitation. "You sure you're ready for this?"
"You don't think I am?"
"I think you're distracted."
My cheeks flushed, and I hated how easily he'd read me. I tightened my grip on the sword and launched forward, this time with real force. Our blades met in a blur of movement—swipe, parry, turn, step. He was fast, but so was I.
He deflected my blow and leaned in close, his voice low. "Better."
"Still holding back," I growled.
"Then stop."
His challenge lit something in me—some mixture of pride, defiance, and... something far more dangerous. I pushed harder, testing him with every swing, letting the movement clear the storm inside my chest. He responded in kind—fluid, precise, deadly calm.
But still that look in his eyes.
That fire.
After a particularly hard clash, our blades locked. He stepped in close—too close—until the hilts of our weapons were nearly pressed between us. His face was only inches from mine, breath even, the faintest sheen of sweat on his brow.
I could feel the heat rolling off him.
"Tell me something," he said, voice like velvet drawn across steel. "What are you really fighting for?"
The question hit harder than any blow he'd landed so far.
My pulse quickened.
I didn't look away.
"I'm fighting," I said, voice low and firm, "to prove I don't need permission to exist as I am."
He studied me for a moment, that look in his eyes deepening—like I'd said something that shifted something in him, too.
Then he stepped back, disengaging with a twist of his blade.
He didn't say anything for a long moment.
But when he finally spoke, his voice was softer.
"Good answer."
I moved first this time.
My blade cut low, aiming for his side, but he twisted with almost frustrating grace, our weapons clashing again in a flurry of motion. Every movement brought us closer—circling, pressing, stepping into each other's space like it was a dance neither of us had agreed to but neither of us could stop.
I wasn't just fighting him.
I was feeling him.
The way his body moved near mine. The quiet power in every step. The deep, even sound of his breathing as we traded blows. He didn't just meet my intensity—he pulled it out of me, coaxing something fiercer, bolder, freer.
And I hated how aware I was of him.
The way the loose strands of his hair clung to the side of his face. The curve of his lips when he smirked, just slightly, like he knew exactly what he was doing. The flicker of warmth in his hazel eyes, like sunlight through amber glass.
Our swords locked again.
This time, I didn't pull back.
We stood frozen in the tension of it, blades crossed between us, our bodies only inches apart. His breath fanned across my cheek, and for a moment—just a moment—the air between us felt different. Thicker. Tighter.
"I thought you were trying to win," he murmured, voice low and rough.
"I am."
"Then stop watching my mouth when you're supposed to be watching my sword."
My breath hitched.
Cocky. Infuriating. Beautiful.
"You're not as charming as you think you are," I said, trying to keep my voice steady.
"Maybe not," he said, his gaze falling briefly to my lips. "But you haven't hit me yet."
I growled softly and pushed back, breaking the lock. We circled again, slower now, like we were both trying to recover from something neither of us wanted to admit.
Another clash. Another breath stolen.
Finally, after a particularly hard parry, I lost my footing on the gravel beneath us. I stumbled, and before I could even react, his hand was at my waist, steadying me.
We froze.
One hand still held his blade. The other... was on me.
His fingers rested firmly against the small of my back, the pressure strong, grounding. His eyes met mine again, and something in both of us stilled.
Neither of us moved.
Neither of us spoke.
The air between us buzzed, alive with all the things we weren't saying.
"I think that's enough for today," he said finally, voice softer now, almost careful.
He let go slowly, the touch lingering even after his hand dropped.
I sheathed my sword, breath coming quicker than it should've.
"You alright?" he asked, studying me—not just my posture, but something deeper, like he was trying to read the pieces of me I didn't let most people see.
"Yeah," I said, my voice catching a little. "Just winded."
He gave a small nod. "You held your own."
"Only because you didn't go full force."
"I didn't need to," he said. "You've got something most don't."
"What's that?"
"Fight. Real fight. You're not just swinging a blade—you're proving something."
I glanced away, heart still pounding. "Maybe I am."
He stepped a little closer—not close enough to startle, but close enough to feel.
"You don't have to prove it to me," he said, voice quieter now. "I see you, Ria. I see exactly who you are."
I looked up sharply, meeting his gaze again. That same warmth. That same fire. But now, it felt like it wasn't just about the sparring. It was me—all of me—that he was staring into.
And it made something shift in my chest.
Something dangerous.
Something hopeful.
"I should... clean up," I said, breaking the eye contact.
He nodded once. "I'll be here tomorrow. Same time."
I hesitated, then smiled just barely. "I know."
He turned and walked away, the tension still crackling in the space he left behind.
And for a long moment, I just stood there, fingers still tingling where he'd touched me, pulse still dancing wildly beneath my skin.
It wasn't just about training anymore.
Something had started between us.
And I wasn't sure I could stop it—even if I wanted to.
-
By the time I made it back to my wing of the castle, I was still catching my breath—and not from the sparring.
My fingers still burned from gripping the sword. My ribs ached from tension. And yet, none of that compared to the riot happening in my chest.
I could still feel the heat of Alexander's hand at my back. Still see the flicker of warmth in his hazel eyes, the way they had lingered on my mouth just a moment too long. He had looked at me like I wasn't just a sparring partner. Like I was a secret. A discovery.
A woman.
I pressed a hand to my face as I hurried down the corridor, heart thundering against my palm. I needed to say something to someone or I was going to explode. There was only one person who wouldn't laugh—or would, but in a way that felt safe.
I burst into my chambers without knocking.
"Talia!"
The maid—my oldest friend and perhaps the only person in the world who saw every version of me—looked up from where she was folding linens near the foot of the bed. She blinked at my flushed face, windswept hair, and wildly wide eyes.
"Gods, what happened?" she asked, straightening.
I shut the door and leaned back against it, breathless. "I think I'm in trouble."
Talia's expression instantly sharpened. "Trouble... the kind that can be cleaned up with a mop, or the kind that ends in a scandal?"
I groaned. "Neither. Both. I don't know."
I crossed the room, practically tripping over my own boots, and flopped onto the bed.
"I sparred with Alexander," I said, muffled into the pillow. "And it wasn't just sparring. There was... a moment. Maybe more than one."
Talia paused mid-step, eyes narrowing slightly. "What kind of moment?"
I rolled onto my back and stared at the ceiling. "The kind where our blades locked, and I looked at his mouth instead of his sword. The kind where he touched my waist and didn't pull away right away. The kind where... gods, Talia, he looked at me. And I felt it everywhere."
She sat beside me slowly, quiet for a moment.
"I knew you found him interesting," she said softly. "But I didn't think it had gone this far."
"It hasn't," I said quickly, sitting up. "Not really. But it could. I think it wants to."
Talia sighed, brushing a bit of lint off her apron. "And what would happen then?"
I blinked. "I don't know. He's... a knight. I'm not forbidden from speaking to him."
"No," she said carefully. "But you know how it is, Ria. A princess entangled with a knight? That's not a match. That's gossip. Scandal. It's—" she looked me in the eyes "—it's dangerous. For both of you."
The air in the room cooled.
"I'm not saying this to hurt you," Talia added gently. "But this world... it eats women like you alive the moment you want something that doesn't fit inside the rules."
My throat tightened. "But what if I don't care about the rules?"
"Then break them," she said simply. "Just be sure you understand the cost."
Silence stretched for a moment.
Then she reached out and tucked a piece of hair behind my ear like she used to when we were children.
"You deserve to be wanted," she said softly. "Truly. And if it's him... I won't stop you. I'll even help you hide it, if it comes to that."
"But?"
"But you're not just any girl in the castle, Ria. You're the king's daughter. That means your mistakes weigh more. And your heart..." She gave me a small, sad smile. "Your heart might not be the only thing that bleeds if this ends badly."
I looked down at my hands.
"I didn't mean for this to happen."
"You never do," Talia said, standing and brushing off her skirts. "That's how the best and worst things start."
I nodded, chewing my lip. "Thanks. I needed that. Even if I don't want to hear it."
Talia smiled, the teasing glint returning to her eyes. "You're welcome. Now, tell me, do you think Alexander looked at you like that on purpose? Or was he just practicing his swordplay skills on a distracted princess?"
I laughed despite myself, feeling the tension in my chest loosen a bit. "I honestly don't know. But if he's playing some sort of game, I'll be ready for it."
"Mm." Talia grinned. "I do love it when you get all 'warrior princess' on me. But really, just don't get caught up in it. You're better than that."
"Thanks, Talia," I said, giving her a small smile. "You're the best."
"You owe me," she teased. "Now, come on. Enough about knights and swords. Tell me the latest gossip about Lady Caelara. I heard she was seen without her veil during last night's banquet—gods help us all."
I groaned. "Talia, don't start."
"I have to start! She's the kingdom's walking scandal. But seriously, I think she's trying to make some sort of move on Lord Terris." Talia leaned in closer, her green eyes dancing with mischief. "Can you imagine?"
Talia's green eyes sparkled as she leaned even closer, completely ignoring the careful way I fumbled with the hem of my sleeve. Her smile had grown wider, and I couldn't help but roll my eyes as she practically bounced in place, eager to spill the next bit of gossip.
"Oh, I know you're dying to hear it," she teased, her voice light, but with a definite edge of mischief. "Lady Caelara may have embarrassed herself, but do you want to hear what Lord Terris did last night?"
"Tell me, before I lose my patience," I replied, throwing a playful glare in her direction. She had the kind of energy that could make anyone feel like they were in on the greatest secret of the kingdom.
"Oh, don't act like you're above it all." Talia smirked. "You're just as invested as I am in the drama that surrounds this place."
"True," I admitted with a soft laugh. "But I do prefer to stay out of it most of the time."
"You're a terrible liar," Talia said, narrowing her eyes. She flopped back onto the bed beside me. "Now, listen up. Lady Caelara wasn't just seen without her veil during the banquet, no. That wasn't the worst of it."
"What could possibly be worse than that?" I asked, half-amused, half-curious.
Talia leaned in closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. "She was flirting with Lord Terris. And not just in the usual way—oh no. She was practically sitting in his lap."
I couldn't help it. I gasped, pressing my hand to my mouth. "No way. I thought she'd given up on him after all those years."
"I know, right? But apparently, something's changed. Or maybe it was all an act. Still, it was bold." Talia grinned, clearly delighted by the scandal. "Can you imagine? He had no idea what to do. He's so stiff, and she's... well, she's Lady Caelara."
I snorted, shaking my head. "I'd pay a fortune to have seen his face."
"Don't pretend you're above it. We both know you'd love to be there, witnessing it all." Talia chuckled, clearly enjoying how I was almost as invested as she was in the drama.
I smirked. "Okay, maybe I would. But you know I'm not really one for all the court games. I mean, look at me."
She rolled her eyes and waved a hand dismissively. "Don't act like you're some humble princess. You love the attention as much as anyone."
"I do not," I protested, laughing. But it was hard to deny. Sometimes I did crave the attention—though mostly for the right reasons. To be seen for who I was, beyond the title and the expectations. A part of me longed to be more than just a symbol of the kingdom. To be something real. To be seen by someone who didn't care about who I was, but what I was to them.
Talia caught my gaze and tilted her head, catching my mood shift. "What's wrong? You're suddenly quiet. I thought we were gossiping."
I smiled weakly. "Yeah, I guess... I was just thinking."
"About what?" Her voice softened, her eyes narrowing with that sharp sense of hers that could always detect when something was off.
I shrugged, pushing a lock of hair behind my ear. "I just... don't know if all of this is worth it anymore. The gossip. The expectations. It all feels so... shallow sometimes. I want to be more. I want to make a difference."
Talia gave me a long look, her expression softening with understanding. "I get it. I know you're not content being a court ornament. You want more than that." She hesitated before adding, "And I support you. Whatever you choose. Even if it means you make a fool of yourself for a knight."
My heart clenched at her words. "It's not like that," I said quickly, though the words felt too hollow even as I said them. "I'm not in love with him. I just..."
"You feel something." Talia finished the sentence for me.
"Maybe." My voice was quieter now, and I looked away from her, unable to meet her gaze. "But it's more than that, Talia. It's not just him. It's everything. The way the world expects me to be, the way they see me, the way I'm supposed to be a perfect princess for the kingdom. I don't fit into that mold. I never have."
Talia was silent for a long time, letting the words hang in the air. When she spoke again, her voice was unusually soft, almost a whisper.
"You don't have to fit in, Ria. You're never going to. And that's what makes you special."
I swallowed hard, not expecting her to say that. "But I don't know what I'm supposed to do with that," I said, my voice cracking slightly. "I'm supposed to carry the weight of the crown one day. The people expect me to be their queen, but I don't even know how to be that."
Talia shifted next to me, wrapping her arm around my shoulders in a rare gesture of tenderness. "Then you don't have to be perfect. You just have to be you. And that's enough."
The warmth of her comfort was enough to quiet the storm in my chest for the moment. I closed my eyes and let out a slow breath. "Maybe. But sometimes I feel like that's not enough. That's not enough for them."
"Who cares what they think?" Talia said, giving me a little squeeze. "You've got me. And if anyone ever needs a reminder that you're more than enough, I'm happy to be the first to tell them."
I leaned my head on her shoulder, grateful for her unwavering support. "Thanks, Talia. I really don't know what I'd do without you."
"Probably lose your mind," she said, her usual playful tone returning. "But let's not test that theory. Alright, now, let's really talk about the gossip. Did you hear what Lady Linnea said to Lord Ivar last week? I swear, the woman's got no filter."
I laughed, the tension in my chest lightening as the conversation veered back to lighter matters.
-
The next day arrived with the sharp bite of morning air, a stark contrast to the warm, comforting memories of last night's conversation with Talia. Despite her words, despite her encouragement, something still gnawed at me. The weight of the expectations, the pressure to be something I wasn't—something I wasn't sure I wanted to be—still hung heavy around my neck like a too-tight collar.
But there was little time for contemplation that morning. The usual bustle of the castle had a different edge to it today, as I walked through the halls, exchanging pleasantries with passing courtiers and servants. Whispers hung in the air, more urgent than usual, and I felt it the moment I stepped into the great hall. It was the news that traveled quicker than anything else—an announcement that shook the atmosphere.
The door to my father's council room swung open, and one of the guards, his face tense, approached quickly. "Princess Ria," he said, his voice low but firm. "The lords of the House of Wolves, along with King Marduk, are arriving today. They've requested a private audience with your father."
I froze in place, the news hitting me harder than I expected. The House of Wolves? King Marduk himself, so soon?
And now, of all days, they were coming here to talk of peace and alliance?
I caught a glimpse of my father's serious expression as he passed by on his way to prepare for the meeting, his armor glinting under the stone archways. His brow furrowed, the lines around his eyes deeper than usual. I couldn't remember the last time I'd seen him so on edge. It felt as though the entire weight of the kingdom was coming down on us in a single moment, a moment that would decide not just the future of our house, but possibly of the kingdom itself.
I swallowed hard, gathering myself. The news was enormous, and I knew it wouldn't be the last shock of the day.
Turning on my heel, making my way to my chambers.
I couldn't help but feel a strange twinge in my chest. The idea of peace was something I had always longed for, something I had fought for in my mind, but the reality of it—the politics, the alliances, the sacrifices that came with it—was something else entirely. I glanced toward the training grounds. Alexander would be there today. I could feel the familiar stir of unease in my chest.
The thought of sparring with him again, of the tension that had charged the air between us, felt oddly comforting now, in the midst of all the chaos. But there was no time for that. Not today.
As I reached my chambers, Talia was already inside, brushing through my gowns, preparing my dress for the day's events. I raised an eyebrow as she looked up, her gaze calculating.
"They're coming, aren't they?" she asked, as though she had read the storm in my eyes.
I nodded, biting my lip. "Yes. The House of Wolves... They're sending their lords and King Marduk himself to meet with Father. This is gonna be big. Really big."
Talia, ever perceptive, set down the gown she had been holding and crossed the room to stand beside me. "This could change everything. A peace treaty with the Wolves? That could unite the kingdom for good, if it works."
Talia gave me a smile before grabbing a deep red dress that would make a statement without saying a word. "You know, this is your chance to show them who you really are, Ria. You're not just a princess, a pretty face. You have a mind, a voice—and it's high time everyone knows it."
I sighed, glancing at the dress in her hands. "I just hope my voice is enough."
-
Later, when I walked into the council room, I found my father already standing at the head of the table, his posture firm, his face set in that familiar, resolute expression that I knew all too well. King Marduk stood with him, his presence commanding the room in a way only a man like him could. His silver hair gleamed under the lights of the council room, his sharp blue eyes scanning the room with a level of authority that made even the most seasoned lords stiffen.
But it was the other presence in the room that caught my attention—Alexander.
I hadn't expected to see him here. But there he stood, not in his usual armor, but in a simple, dark tunic that made his presence all the more striking. His long brown hair was pulled back in a man bun, and his hazel eyes locked onto mine across the room. For a brief moment, everything else seemed to fade. The weight of the negotiations, the looming discussions about the future of our kingdom—they all blurred, and all I could see were those eyes. The way he looked at me, like there was something unsaid between us, something we couldn't yet name.
I quickly looked away, feeling a strange flutter in my chest. This wasn't the time to think about him, not now. Not with so much on the line.
My father's voice cut through the air, deep and steady. "We welcome you, King Marduk, and your lords. We have long discussed the possibility of an alliance, but it seems the time has come to move forward."
I swallowed hard, trying to steady myself. This wasn't just another council meeting. This was the beginning of something new—something that could change everything.
And I had no idea where it would lead.
The room settled into a tense silence as my father and King Marduk exchanged formal pleasantries. I could feel the weight of the moment in the air, thick and heavy with the gravity of what was unfolding. This was the meeting I had hoped for—the one I had dreamed of in quiet moments, the one where we could finally put aside the decades of animosity between the kingdoms.
I had always believed that peace between the Wolves, Ravens, Dragons, and Serpents wasn't just a possibility—it was a necessity. And it wasn't just a dream. It was something I had vowed to see come to fruition, something my father's council had spent countless hours strategizing, planning, and debating over. It was the very thing that had led me to speak out in council meetings and urge my father to pursue the unity we so desperately needed. Today felt like the first step toward that vision becoming reality.
But as much as I wanted to believe that all of the old kingdoms would come together, I knew the road ahead wouldn't be easy. The Dragons and Serpents were particularly wary—fiercely independent, proud, and each with their own unique history of conflict with the others. The idea of a unified kingdom, all four houses working together, was a noble one. But convincing the Serpents, whose cunning and secrecy made them difficult to sway, and the Dragons, whose pride was as massive as their wings, would not be a simple task.
Still, the possibility of unity lingered in my thoughts like a sweet but fleeting dream. There was something stirring in the air—something that told me we might be closer than ever before to seeing it realized.
I looked around the room at the faces of the other lords. Some were uncertain, others guarded and skeptical, but a few looked hopeful. For once, it felt like we might be on the brink of something truly transformative.
My gaze drifted to Alexander, who stood just a few paces behind the lords of the Wolves. He was as stoic as ever, but today, there was an added sharpness in his gaze, as if he understood the significance of the moment as much as I did.
King Marduk's voice broke through my thoughts, low and commanding as always. "The House of Wolves has always valued its independence. But we are willing to consider an alliance, under the right conditions. Peace between the kingdoms, if it is to be lasting, must be built on shared strength, on mutual benefit. We will not join a union that threatens the integrity of our people."
My heart quickened at the thought. This was the moment I had hoped for—the first step in the right direction.
Father spoke, his voice calm but firm, like the steady tide that never faltered. "We understand, King Marduk. Our proposal is not one that seeks to diminish any of the great houses. Rather, it seeks to bring us together, to unite us in purpose once more. The Dragons, Ravens, Wolves, and Serpents have been divided for far too long. The kingdom has splintered in a way that only makes us weaker, more vulnerable. I believe it is time for us to stand together again. Our people deserve that unity."
I found my own voice before I could stop myself. "It's time," I said, stepping forward slightly. My voice rang out more confidently than I expected. "We cannot afford to let the old rivalries continue. The people of the kingdoms are tired. The lands are fractured, and while we fight amongst ourselves, our enemies grow stronger."
There was a soft murmur of agreement around the room, and for the first time in my life, I felt like my words truly carried weight. My father's eyes met mine, pride and concern blending together in his gaze, but he said nothing. He knew my heart was in this as much as his own.
Lord Virius, the sharp-eyed strategist of the Ravens, spoke up, his voice cutting through the conversation. "What of the Dragons and Serpents?" His tone was cautious, almost skeptical. "The Ravens and Wolves are the more immediate allies. But the Dragons... their pride runs deep. And the Serpents—" He paused, a shiver passing through him as though the mere thought of the Serpent House was enough to make him uneasy. "Their allegiances are always shifting. Can we truly convince them to join us?"
King Marduk's eyes darkened at the mention of the Dragons. "The Dragons are proud creatures. Their leaders are difficult to sway. We know this. The Serpents, as well, have always preferred to remain neutral or work in the shadows. They are not known for their alliances."
A silence settled over the room as the weight of the challenge became clear. It wasn't just about words anymore—it was about action. It was about overcoming centuries of mistrust and misunderstanding.
"How do you propose we move forward, then?" Lord Terris asked, his tone sharp. "If we cannot bring the Dragons and Serpents to the table, we risk fracturing whatever unity we might build."
My father glanced at me, a subtle nod of approval as he silently gave me the floor. I stepped forward, my heart pounding in my chest.
"We start with the people," I said, feeling my confidence grow with each word. "We show them that this isn't just about the leaders or the politics—it's about us. We need to reach out, to understand their concerns. The people of the Serpents and Dragons may not trust us, but they trust their own more than they trust anyone else. If we want their leaders to come to the table, we need to make the case to the people first."
There was a murmur of agreement, though the tension was still thick in the room. We all knew the road would be long, and the challenges ahead would be immense.
King Marduk gave me a thoughtful look. "I see. If we can win the hearts of the people, the rest may follow. But the Dragons and Serpents will not be so easily persuaded. We will need more than promises—we will need tangible proof that this union benefits them."
"Yes," I said, my voice steady. "But we can start small. One step at a time. We'll show them the benefits of peace and the power of unity, and perhaps, over time, they will come to see that this is the only way forward."
Father's approving gaze warmed me, but there was still a flicker of concern in his eyes. He knew this path wasn't easy, but I also saw something else—a spark of hope. Perhaps, for the first time in a long time, he was beginning to believe in the possibility of peace as much as I did.
I stood there for a moment, feeling the heat of the room press down on me. My words hung in the air, the silence thick and expectant. I could feel every set of eyes on me—some curious, others skeptical, and a few, I noted, downright judgmental. My pulse quickened under their stares, but I stood my ground, not willing to let the moment pass without showing my resolve.
It was then that I noticed the subtle shift in the atmosphere. A few lords exchanged glances, murmuring quietly among themselves. I caught snippets of their conversations—some agreeing with my vision, others less certain. But one voice, loud and brash, cut through the low murmur.
"Why is the princess speaking on matters of men?" the voice rang out, unmistakably arrogant. I turned my gaze toward the source, immediately recognizing the lord's son from the House of Wolves. His name was Darius, a young man who had always seemed eager to prove his strength and superiority over others, particularly the women in the room.
He stood from his seat, his eyes fixed firmly on me, an unmistakable sneer curling at the corner of his lips. "Is it not enough that our lords and kings make decisions for the kingdom?" His voice was dripping with condescension. "What does a princess know of alliances, war, or strategy? Perhaps it's best you leave such matters to those who are more qualified."
The room seemed to hold its breath, and I felt my heart skip a beat. The insult was blatant, a direct challenge to my position, my voice, my role in this council. It was the sort of thing I had expected, but that didn't make it sting any less.
My father's gaze flickered in Darius's direction, a warning lingering in his eyes. But before he could speak, I found my own voice.
"I may not have been born a lord or a warrior," I said, meeting Darius's gaze with a steady calm that belied the storm brewing inside me, "but my mind is no less capable than yours. I've spent my life studying, observing, and understanding the intricacies of our kingdom. If my thoughts have weight, it is because I have earned them, not because of my title."
There was a sharp intake of breath from the room, the tension palpable. I could feel the eyes of the council shift from Darius to me, then to my father, who had remained silent for a beat too long.
Darius scoffed, his arms crossed over his chest. "You may have earned your place as a princess, but it doesn't mean you can stand before us as an equal." His eyes gleamed with a challenge, daring me to respond.
For a moment, my chest tightened, my thoughts clouded with the impulse to retort—to tell him just how wrong he was, to remind him that I was as much a part of this kingdom as anyone else, regardless of my gender. But I held my ground, my thoughts organizing in a way that could shift this conversation in a different direction.
"If you are so eager to judge me based on my title alone," I said, my voice rising ever so slightly, "then perhaps you are the one who fails to understand what it means to lead. Leadership does not come from a crown or a sword. It comes from understanding the people, knowing what they need, and seeing beyond the walls of our own pride."
Darius opened his mouth to retort, but I saw a flicker of hesitation cross his face. I could feel the heat of my words linger in the air, and for a brief moment, he seemed to falter, unsure of how to respond.
But before the tension could fully escalate, my father's voice rang out, calm but firm. "Enough, Darius."
His tone was laced with authority, and the room quieted instantly. "The princess is not only my daughter but also a key voice in the future of this kingdom. You will show respect."
The sharpness in my father's tone silenced any further objections from Darius. He muttered a begrudging apology, but his glare never left me. He had been put in his place, but the disdain in his eyes was unmistakable.
I took a slow breath, trying to calm the racing of my heart. The confrontation had left me shaken, but also more resolute. I wasn't going to let anyone belittle my place in these discussions, especially not someone like Darius.
As I glanced around the room, I could see the faint traces of approval on some of the faces, while others remained impassive, perhaps not yet fully convinced of my place in these matters.
But I had spoken my truth, and for now, that was enough.