The morning carried a quiet heaviness, as though the palace itself held its breath.
A shaft of pale sunlight angled through the tall windows of Metheea's chambers, falling across polished floors and the embroidered folds of her gown. She had risen early, earlier than usual, unable to linger in the comfort of sleep.
Today would bring Resme and Kalistra.
She had known this moment was coming since the court's decision, yet knowing had not lessened the tension. Her hands were steady as servants braided her hair and fastened silver clasps at her shoulders, but inside her stomach coiled tighter with each passing hour.
Of all the women in the empire, they give me her.
Memory stirred unbidden, sharp as glass. The academy's echoing halls, the sting of laughter half-hidden behind a hand, books "accidentally" dropped from her arms. Her embroidery torn down the middle with an innocent shrug. And worst of all, that whisper, delivered like venom where no one else could hear: "You'll never belong here."
Now that same girl would kneel as her servant.
Atleast Kalistra will come in today with her.
When the knock finally came at her door, Metheea rose with calm dignity. Whatever roiled inside, she would not let it be seen. She was no longer a girl to be mocked in corridors, she was a princess, and she would act as one.
The doors opened.
Resme entered first, her gown of silver and blue gliding across the stone as if she were stepping into a court dance. Her bow was flawless, her hands folded neatly, her voice smooth.
"Your Highness," she said, sweetly measured. "It is my honor to serve."
To the attendants standing along the wall, it must have sounded respectful, even warm. To Metheea, the note was hollow. She heard the performance in every syllable, but her face betrayed nothing.
"Rise," Metheea said. Her tone was level, cool as still water.
Resme did. Their eyes met briefly, a moment stretched tight as a bowstring. There was no smirk, no glint of cruelty but only composure. But Metheea remembered too well to take it at face value.
Another figure entered behind her. Plainer, quieter, almost hesitant in the way she crossed the chamber. Kalistra. Her bow was deep, her words unpolished but true.
"My lady," she said softly, and then, unable to help herself, added, "my gosh… it's been weeks since I last saw you. You look well."
Something inside Metheea eased. The formality of the morning cracked just enough for warmth to touch her lips. "It is good to see you too, Kalistra."
A court official stepped forward, parchment in hand, his voice ringing with ritual. "By decree, Resme of House Resca shall serve as Chief Lady-in-Waiting to Her Highness. Kalistra of Ravines, maid-attendant, approved by the Crown."
The words landed like a seal pressed into wax, final and binding.
Resme curtsied once more, her expression calm. "I will do my duty faithfully."
Metheea held her gaze. In her mind, the old wounds still flickered, the academy's sharp laughter, the sneers she had once endured.
Yet she could not deny what everyone in the empire already knew: Resme moved through court circles like a dancer, sharp-tongued but always sure-footed, her wit cutting yet admired. For all the bitterness of the past, such skill would be a weapon worth having at her side.
Metheea inclined her head, her tone measured but carrying quiet command. "Then we begin here. Loyalty and steadiness are all I require. Prove yourself in that, and you will have my trust."
For the first time, Resme's mask shifted. Not a smirk, not defiance but the ghost of one flickered in her eyes, quickly buried beneath practiced politeness. She swallowed the words she had meant to speak, knowing some battles were better held for another day.
As you say, Your Highness," she said smoothly, masking the sharp edge behind her tone, every syllable measured to avoid a misstep
Kalistra smiled, relief softening her features. "Then that makes everything easier."
The silence that followed was different now, no longer sharp but cautious. The old academy years lingered between them, yes, but Metheea had set the line. She was princess. They were her attendants. The roles had been drawn.
The days that followed shaped the pattern of their service.
Kalistra's warmth filled the chambers like sunlight through an open window. She fussed over fabrics, pressed flowers into vases, and hummed when she thought no one listened. She spoke easily, as if nothing had changed between them, as if Metheea were still the girl she had known at the academy.
Resme, by contrast, was measured in everything.
She spoke only when necessary, and when she did, her tone was perfectly even. She arranged schedules, checked invitations, and handled correspondence with an efficiency that brooked no flaw. She never mocked, never sneered.
It was Kalistra who broke the quiet as they sat over tea that afternoon.
A tray of steaming cups lay forgotten on the table, surrounded by open boxes of silk and velvet. She lifted a length of gold fabric and draped it over Metheea's shoulder, her eyes bright.
"This would be perfect for tonight," she said eagerly. "The color makes your eyes look alive. Or the blue, perhaps — softer, but still striking. And pearls in your hair, can you imagine? They'd glow under the lanterns."
Metheea let out a small breath of laughter, caught by Kalistra's enthusiasm.
"You think I should shine like a jewel on display?"
"You already do," Kalistra said, grinning as though it were the simplest truth in the world.
Across the table, Resme set her teacup down. Her voice was calm, even, yet it carried the weight of instruction. "Gold will catch eyes, yes, but it also signals triumph. Some might see it as arrogance, especially so soon after your reintroduction. Blue is safer. It speaks of dignity, of restraint."
Her lips pressed into a line, just for a fraction of a second—an almost imperceptible flicker of irritation, as if she bristled at Kalistra's unguarded cheer.
Metheea noticed it, the brief sharpness hidden behind Resme's flawless mask.
"The court will notice the choice as much as the fabric itself," Resme continued smoothly, letting the edge melt into neutral authority.
Kalistra blinked, then smiled stubbornly. "And what is wrong with being noticed? She's a princess, she should dazzle them."
"Nothing, if one wishes to be whispered about instead of respected," she said smoothly, letting the edge fade into even authority.
Metheea listened to both, her lips curving faintly as she reached for her tea.
Kalistra's warmth reminded her of laughter in the academy gardens, simple and unguarded.
Resme's neutrality reminded her of the court — sharp, precise, impossible to ignore. Two voices, one urging her to shine, the other warning her how to survive.
In the end, she would need both.
The trays of jewelry was then laid open across the table, each piece catching the afternoon light in its own way. Pearls glowed softly, sapphires burned dark and sure, rubies smoldered in their gold settings.
Kalistra's eyes lingered on the pearls.
"These would be perfect. They're simple, but they carry a story. Everyone knows Baron Calles's wife gifted them after her family's ships defended the coast. Wearing them would honor sacrifice, it would remind the court that loyalty isn't only born, it can also be earned."
Resme reached for the sapphire pendant instead, holding it carefully in her palm.
"And yet the Dukes of Arden will be watching her every step tonight. Their allies are many, their pride sharper than their jewels. The court will read her choice as allegiance. A sapphire speaks to old blood, to continuity. It's safer."
Their voices, though calm, cut in opposite directions. One speaking of merit, the other of power. The silence that followed pressed like a weight.
Metheea's hand hovered between the pearls and the sapphire. She felt the tension between her attendants as clearly as if it were fire licking across the room. She opened her mouth to speak but before she could, Kalistra let out a quiet breath.
"Perhaps… both," Kalistra said softly. "Pearls threaded into her hair, sapphires at her throat. It would show respect for the old houses, but also a nod to those who have proven their loyalty."
Resme studied her, expression unreadable for a moment. Then she inclined her head. "A compromise. Yes. That would make her appear balanced above division."
The tension loosened. For the first time since the morning, Metheea saw the two women not as rivals from different worlds, but as two threads woven into the same fabric.
She let her fingers brush both jewels before drawing back with a faint smile. "Then it's decided. Pearls and sapphire, together."
Resme replaced the pendant neatly in its box, while Kalistra carefully lifted the pearls with a look of quiet triumph.
"There is one matter left," Resme said. "Dythrid will be present tonight."
The name landed heavily. Metheea's fingers stilled on the rim of her teacup, though her face betrayed nothing.
"They will be watching," Resme continued, her voice level. "Every move you make, every word you speak. Some will come forward only to provoke, to test your composure. If you falter, it will echo through the court before dawn."
Kalistra's warmth dimmed, but her agreement came quickly. "She's right, my lady. Even a smile could be twisted into weakness, and silence into disdain. You must weigh every gesture. Meet them, yes but with care. Never too much, never too little."
Resme inclined her head, acknowledging Kalistra's words without hesitation. "Exactly. They must leave uncertain, unable to claim either favor or insult. That is your strongest ground."
She rose slowly, letting the silks and jewels fall back into their cases. "Then I will be cautious," she said at last. "They will find neither weakness nor scorn."
Her attendants bowed in silent agreement.
For tonight, another war is yet to come.