Metheea sat beside Lady Tenes, the weight of her veil pressing like a constant reminder to guard every flicker of expression.
Around them, high-ranking noblewomen engaged in polite volleys of gossip: whose son had secured which engagement, which family's alliance was faltering, whose fortune rose or fell with each whispered deal.
Each exchange earned Tenes approving nods or a spark of curiosity from the women at the table.
All the while, Metheea's voice was calm and measured, her hands folded in her lap, the veil shielding her from revealing the strain in her eyes.
The veil had once been her shield, concealing her from anyone who might wish her harm — even a Katarthan spy would have no idea what she truly looked like.
She had once viewed it as a protection, a barrier that kept her safe while keeping others at a polite distance, their questions skirting her directly, their eyes flicking toward her with restrained intrigue.
Now, though, it felt suffocating, as though the very thing that once hid her had become a prison in itself.
Metheea, for her part, counted the moments until she could leave, nodding where appropriate, feigning polite interest. The ballroom's sweet scent of tea and honeyed cakes only deepened her fatigue.
After the first round of tea, Metheea returned to her designated seat, hoping to fade into the background. The Queen regarded her for a moment and said in a low, measured tone, "Well done aiding your brother's betrothed. I may not wholly approve of her, but I will grant she possesses a certain shrewdness."
Metheea inclined her head. "Smart, yes."
"A keen mind is not what we require in a queen," the Queen said with crisp finality. "Your brother's education serves that purpose. What we require is a queen who can bring far greater assets to the kingdom."
"And who might that be?" Metheea asked, her tone polite but edged with curiosity.
The Queen's gaze drifted toward another table where a visiting diplomat sat poised and regal. "Lady Asphari of the Eastern Isles," she said. "Her lands are wealthy, her dowry wealthier still. She stands among the foremost candidates for the crown."
The words were calm, but heavy with authority. Her gaze swept the surrounding tables. "Every person here serves a purpose, and yours is simple — to protect your people. That is why you must not forget why you were sent to the academy. You're to learn the conduct and grace required of a nobleman's wife. The Makuteya court can still find a more suitable bride for Count Verry if you fail to meet their expectations."
Metheea let her gaze sweep the room as the Queen's had, taking in the array of carefully posed faces. Though no one dared speak it aloud, she knew the truth: Dythridians had never considered her their princess.
In their eyes she belonged to a foreign crown, the blood of a land they warred against flowing in her veins. They greeted her with polite smiles and flawless bows, but behind their jeweled fans they murmured about her lineage.
"Katarthan is amassing troops near the border. Your marriage will secure more than trade — it will arm Dythrid."
Metheea's fingers tightened around the edge of her skirt.
"It is the least you can do for the people who have kept you safe," the Queen continued. "Katarthan assassins are still being sent to kill you."
Metheea's voice was low. "Then why did you run from Katarthan? Why break the peace treaty?"
The Queen's gaze lingered before she replied. "To protect you."
Rumors Metheea had overheard flickered in her mind — whispers of a different flame. She drew a slow breath.
"Do you simply expect me to become the wife of some odious old man?" she asked, the edge in her tone slipping past her control.
The Queen's eyes sharpened, the room's air cooling between them. "Enough."
With a flick of her hand, she summoned an older woman with a hard, unyielding expression, her presence as cold and impersonal as the marble floor beneath their feet.
"The princess has far too many questions," the Queen said coolly. "It seems she has yet to learn her lessons. Go, accompany her to her chambers."
Back in her chamber, the aide ordered, "Stand in the corner."
The command struck a chord of memory as she had stood in that same position countless times as a child, her small frame trembling while the cold stone wall became her only companion.
The posture, the waiting, the dread, all of it returned now, heavier with the knowledge of what was to come.
The woman retrieved a whip from a chest. Metheea gritted her teeth, knowing all too well how painful this would be. The sound of leather cutting through the air sliced the silence.
The first strike landed across Metheea's back, heat and sting blooming together. She bit her lip, standing firm for the second, the third until her knees gave way.
The door opened without ceremony. Frakir leaned against the frame, eyes sweeping over her.
Without asking, he crossed the room, took a small jar from the table, and began applying salve to the angry marks. His fingers paused briefly.
"You heal fast," he remarked. "Must be that rotten dragon blood," he added with a faint smirk.
She closed her eyes as tears welled up, knowing Frakir would only ever come to her aid after the blows had landed, never before.
"You should know better than to talk back to Mother," he said.
"Did you do your part?"
"Yes," he replied simply, the smugness in his tone saying more than the word. "I merely spoke of your education and mother decided herself what was necessary."
The next morning, a servant arrived with word: she was to return to Katarthan, under the guise of continuing her education.
Her back still ached as attendants dressed her for travel. Each movement pulled at the tender skin, a reminder of the previous night.
Lerima arrived not long after, clearly displeased, and rode in the next carriage.
Metheea held her breath, telling herself she would not exhale until she was back within the borders of Katarthan.