The tea pavilion shimmered under the late morning light.
Silver trays gleamed and porcelain cups chimed as Metheea welcomed the noble daughters of Katarthan into her palace garden.
The air smelled of sugared fruit and warm pastries. Conversation flitted like sparrows, delicate and bright, until it turned its eyes toward her.
Fiona was absent from the gathering.
Somewhere within the palace halls she bent under the strict eyes of a senior maid, forced into the old "tradition" of brushing each inch of Metheea's gowns as proof of service.
Metheea lifted her teacup with deliberate calm. One finger traced the porcelain rim while her eyes passed over the girls, steady and unreadable.
It did not take long for Lady Shandel to lean forward, her painted lips curling with suggestion.
"Your Highness, perhaps it is time you considered a partner. My brother is young, handsome, and deeply loyal to the throne. He would serve you well in your sleep."
Metheea raised a brow, amusement flickering across her face.
"Sleep?" she echoed softly, as if testing the word. The very idea amused her, for the subject of sleeping partners was nearly taboo. That this lady dared bring it so brazenly before her was almost shocking.
The others tittered, eyes bright with calculation.
"Indeed. With two dragon-born now in the royal line, Katarthan is unstoppable. Our kingdom shall rise again, like in the age of the ancients," Lady Trivel said with a toast.
The remark lingered in the air like smoke.
Resme's smile sharpened as she set her cup down with a click and let her gaze pierce the speaker.
"Careful," she said in velvet tones. "It almost sounds as if you hold grievance against our emperor. That would be unwise."
The girl paled, her hands trembling against her skirt. She stammered apologies, rose in haste, and excused herself, retreating from the pavilion as if chased by hounds.
Silence stretched until another young woman, trying to seize the chance, leaned forward with false sweetness.
"Then may I suggest someone more discreet, Your Highness? The whispers say you may awaken even faster than Prince Azrayel. Surely, we must prepare for such glory." Lady Ahiwe muttered with her eyes full of confidence.
Metheea's lashes lowered, her gaze turning cold. To suggest she might outshine Azrayel was dangerous.
"Dangerous words indeed," Resme murmured. "Do not stain the prince's name in your eagerness. Ambition unchecked is a weed. Best pluck it before it spreads."
The noble's face flushed crimson.
She stumbled into excuses, then fled, her dignity in tatters. The pavilion seemed emptier now, but tension clung to the silks and sweet cakes like a second skin.
Metheea set her cup down with quiet authority. She gave Resme a subtle glance, a silent command, before she spoke aloud.
"Resme, do not frighten every guest at my side. Let them chatter. Rumors die quicker when left to choke themselves."
Inwardly she knew how dangerous those words had been, and she had already marked the noble house that had dared speak them.
Yet she did not wish to ruin her first hosted tea party with open reprimand, so she chose calm restraint over severity.
Kalistra, seated close by, dipped her chin in agreement.
Resme inclined her head but her tone remained pointed.
"Even so, Highness, there are tongues that must be silenced before they become wildfire. We cannot let them spread unchecked. They may endanger you. They may endanger the prince."
Metheea lifted her cup again, the motion smooth though her mind was already deciding. "Do not invite Lady Ahiwe to any gathering in the palace. She is not welcome."
Exclusion from the palace meant exile from every social hall.
Soon, no one would dare invite her, for to defy the princess's precedent was to risk their own place. The lady would find doors closing one by one.
Prospects for marriage would wither, and her family would feel the weight of her recklessness.
Such was life at court. Words not handled with care could spell the slow demise of a reputation, and Metheea knew the blade of society often cut deeper than any sword.
Around her the noble daughters whispered softer now, wary of both Resme's sharpness and Metheea's poise. The garden pavilion glimmered, yet it felt like a hall of blades.
Later that day, a summons arrived.
The throne room waited in dim solemnity.
The emperor was too sick to sit upon the high seat. In his place, High Chancellor Malrick stood with scrolls in hand, his back rigid as the nobles gathered.
The air smelled of wax and stale incense. Shadows pooled beneath the tall pillars, and eyes turned toward Metheea as she entered.
Malrick's voice was steady, cold as steel. "Your Highness, the court requires you to fulfill a duty long delayed. For the stability of Katarthan. For the future of the bloodline."
Metheea's fist tightened at her side though her expression did not waver.
They were taking advantage of Azrayel's absence, still away visiting the outer lands, and of the emperor suddenly bedridden, to push their agenda.
With the chancellor standing in the emperor's stead she knew she would have a harder time resisting their demands. She realized then how clever this man was.
She did not yet know what he was planning, only that he had staged this moment with precision.
He unrolled a scroll and held it aloft.
"This is the list of partners deemed worthy. You will choose one, and tonight he shall serve."
The words struck like iron bands tightening. Murmurs rustled among the gathered men. Some nodded, others kept their eyes carefully lowered. Every gaze pressed against her shoulders.
Metheea stood still.
"I do not wish it," she said with calm precision.
Malrick's eyes hardened.
"Your wish is irrelevant. His Majesty weakens. The throne needs heirs, needs strength. The people look to you. You must not refuse."
He leaned forward.
"Remember the rule that only a dragon-born who has reached full maturity may hold regency. Until then, the throne trembles. We must find a way to hasten that moment."
His gaze fixed on her.
"As the princess, you too must wish for Katarthan's stability."
Metheea chose her words carefully. If she appeared indifferent, she would seem to care nothing for the kingdom's safety. Yet if she sounded too eager, it might be twisted as ambition for the throne itself.
The murmurs grew louder. One noble stepped forward, bowing. "If Your Highness delays further, rumors will rise that you lack the will to serve the empire." This made her stiffen.
Another added softly, "A single night is enough to silence such doubts. Let Katarthan see its princess embrace her duty."
The pressure was now not only from the Chancellor but from multiple voices circling her.
Malrick tilted his head, feigning patience.
"Your Highness, refusal will only feed suspicion. Already some whisper you are unfit, bound more to Dythrid than to Katarthan. Will you hand your enemies such a weapon?"
The words dug at her deepest wound, her fractured identity between two kingdoms. She drew a steady breath.
"I have no choice. Then I will answer, and I will do so as a princess should." Her tone carried composure that masked the storm inside.
The scroll was presented to her directly. Every eye was on her as she took it. She knew refusing outright would trigger chaos.
She scanned the list, name after name of noble houses vying for her body. Rage and helplessness twisted together inside her.
With cold detachment, she raised her chin. "The last name. He shall attend me. At the end of the month." Murmurs rose, some surprised, some frustrated.
"The court urged tonight—" but Metheea cut across him, her voice sharp. "You asked for a choice. I have made it."
A deadly silence followed. No one dared push harder. Her tone made it final.
She returned the scroll, her hand steady though her heart was burning. As she turned to leave, she heard the whispers rising behind her like knives.
"She delays."
"She chose at random."
Metheea walked out tall, but every step felt like fire against her skin, each echo a promise the court would not forget.
That night, silence wrapped her chamber until heavy steps broke it.
Azrayel marched in without warning, dust from travel still clinging to his cloak, his face shadowed by fatigue yet set in hard lines.
She was in her nightgown, hair loose over her shoulders, and looked up startled.
"It is late," she said, her tone clipped, masking unease. "It is hardly appropriate for you to come inside at such an hour."
He ignored her protest. His eyes burned as he asked,
"Is it true you took a sleeping partner?"
Her jaw tightened.
"I had no choice."
She turned away, reaching for her robe to cover herself, but his hand shot out and seized her arm. He pulled her close until she could feel the heat of his breath.
"Must you make me angry?" he said, voice low and dangerous.
The chamber froze in that moment, and the night held its breath.