Elareth had learned the new king's rhythm—harsh, exacting, without forgiveness.
Edicts went out like hammer blows. Festivals were cut to bones and shadows: no drums, no dancing after sundown, no bonfires unless the palace sanctioned the spark. Villagers sought permission for everything—repairing a roof, hunting a stray boar, even marrying off a daughter. Taxes were raised. No one dares complained.
The lords moved with careful steps, voices lowered, eyes always measuring the mood of the throne before they spoke.
The first true lesson came in the village square.
A slave—hardly more than a youth—stumbled while carrying a vat of oil meant for the palace kitchens. It shattered, oil snaking over cobbles. He fell to his knees, babbling apologies.
Magnus did not ask for names or histories. He rode in at a measured pace, cloak dark as stormwater, gaze cold. The square fell to silence. The boy's forehead touched stone.
"It was an accident, Your Majesty," an old woman dared to whisper from the edge of the crowd.
Magnus did not look at her. "Accidents," he said evenly, "are the gateways to rot."
He gave the order. The sword flashed, and the boy fell screaming, blood staining the dust where his arm had been.
By sunset, Elareth understood the kind of peace their king intended—the kind born of fear.
Isadora watched from the palace balcony, face carved and still. Later, behind closed doors, she poured her son wine and spoke softly of order, of appearances, of the way kingdoms were kept. He listened. He always listened.
Evelyn bloomed in that chill. Power sat on her shoulders like a new shawl—she tugged it tight. Servants flinched when she passed. She corrected a lord in open court for speaking before her, then laughed when he flushed. When another lord—braver than wise—asked that she be reprimanded for overreach, Magnus stripped him of his post before the man finished the sentence. The hall learned to keep its head bowed.
Iridessa lived inside iron lines. Guards took their places at her door at dawn and did not move until dusk. If she wished to walk the inner gardens, a hand was already at her elbow; if she paused to speak with a seamstress, a cough reminded her of the hour. She thanked the quiet heavens daily that Miri had not been taken from her. It was a small mercy, and she clung to it.
When she did go out, Evelyn found her like a needle finds a vein.
"Nice walk?" the princess would purr, stepping from a corridor with a smile too sharp. "I do hope the roses helped you forget how out of place you are here."
Iridessa learned to fold her hands and let the words pass over her like wind over stone.
But the suffering she saw on those rare walks—hollow cheeks, hurried steps, the way men hid their callused hands when soldiers drew near—gnawed at her. She dreamed of letters to Velmora, of petitions and pleas, and always she woke with Miri's sleeping breath steady beside her and thought: If I misstep, they will break her to reach me. And so she always pushed the thought aside.
-
The royal dining hall glowed with lamplight, gold catching on carved beams, long table laid with copper platters and steam-rich bowls. Maids stood in a neat line along the wall, eyes lowered, waiting for the small bell that would start the service.
Isadora's hand lifted before the bell rang. "Be still," she said without looking at them. Her gaze slid to Iridessa. "You. Serve."
Miri stiffened, Iridessa felt her heart thud once, hard, and then settle. She stepped forward, head inclined.
"As you wish."
Evelyn's smirk was a curved blade. Magnus's knuckles rested on the table, easy, approving.
Iridessa lifted the first bowl. It was heavier than it looked; steam curled against her wrist, hot enough to sting. She moved clockwise—first the king, who did not thank her; then his mother, who did not meet her eye; then Evelyn, who tipped her chin as if receiving tribute.
Iridessa did not spill. She did not falter. When the ladle grazed her fingers, she did not flinch. Miri watched from the wall, lips pressed tight, fingers dug crescents into her own palms.
"Careful," Evelyn murmured sweetly as Iridessa leaned to set a plate, "we would hate for you to accidentally spoil His Majesty's supper."
Isadora took her wine and, at last, looked at Iridessa. "A queen who cannot serve cannot rule," she said mildly, as though sharing a proverb. "Remember that."
"I will," Iridessa answered, voice steady. She finished the circuit and set the ladle down with quiet hands. Only when she stepped back to her place did she let herself breathe.
That night, the king came to her. He always came when it suited him, never earlier, never later.
When it was over, when his breath had steadied and the weight of him was gone, Iridessa lay staring at the ceiling until her pulse cooled. She sat up, drew the robe tight, and found her voice.
"I… would like to visit Dhalmar," she said carefully. "To see my father, my mother and my handmaidens. To bring offerings to the temple. Only for a few days."
Magnus paused at the threshold, half-turned in shadow. "No."
"I would go with a small escort. Discreetly. I will be back before—"
"I said No," he said again, the word softer this time, but heavier. He turned fully now, eyes flat, unreadable. "Elareth is your home."
"It is where I live," she answered, meeting his gaze, "but I have duties in Dhalmar that—"
"Your duties," he cut in, "are what I tell you they are."
Silence stretched, thin and sharp.
She tried once more. "If not now, perhaps—"
He stepped closer, and the air seemed to tighten. "Listen well. You do not leave these walls without my word. You do not petition behind my back. You do not test the leash I have set." He tipped his head, almost curious. "Do you understand?"
Her hands found each other, fingers locking. "I do."
"Good." He glanced toward the inner door where Miri slept on a pallet beyond the screen. "I would hate to see your loyalty… questioned. It tends to splash."
The meaning landed. Cold slid through her. "There is no need for threats."
"I am not threatening," he said, voice even. "I am ruling."
He left without another look. The latch settled.
Iridessa sat very still, the silence of the chamber ringing in her ears. Then she sank to the edge of the bed and pressed her palms to her eyes until the prick of tears dulled. In the outer chamber, Miri stirred, half-waking, whispering a soft, worried, "My lady?"
"I am here," Iridessa answered, finding calm for the girl if not for herself. "Sleep."
When the quiet returned, she rose and went to the window. Elareth's night lay below—streets like black threads, torches at the gate burning small and hard. Somewhere in that darkness, a square still remembered a boy and a blade.
"I cannot do nothing," she told the night. "But I must move so carefully that no shadow sees me move at all."
Behind her, the door guards shifted once more. The leash held. For now.
-
The council chamber was unusually full that morning. Word had spread that a messenger from the western kingdom of Deyvra had arrived, bearing a proposal of marriage for Princess Evelyn.
The young man stood in the center of the hall, dusty from travel but holding himself with dignity, his satchel pressed tightly to his side.
Queen Isadora leaned back in her chair, eyes glinting with quiet amusement as her daughter rose to her feet.
Evelyn plucked the scroll from the messenger's hand, broke the seal, and skimmed through the fine, gilded script. Slowly, a sharp smile curved her lips.
"How amusing," she said, tossing the parchment carelessly onto the table before the lords. "Another royalty who thinks himself worthy."
The lords shifted uncomfortably, uncertain whether to speak. The messenger bowed low, hands pressed together.
"Your Highness, I was commanded by my king to deliver this request with all honor—"
"Honor?" Evelyn cut him off, her voice rising like a whip. "Does your king take me for some market girl to be traded on parchment? I am the daughter of Elareth, sister to its king. I will not be offered to anyone as though I were desperate for a husband!"
Isadora's lips twitched, pride and cruelty mingling in her gaze.
The messenger swallowed hard, lifting his head slightly. "Forgive me, Princess. I meant no insult. I was only fulfilling my duty—"
"Duty?" Evelyn's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Then perhaps you should learn that failing in your duty carries a price."
She turned to her mother with a sharp laugh. "Mother, should we not teach him? Let him remember Elareth not for its kindness, but for its strength."
The queen tilted her head, her silken veil catching the torchlight. "What do you suggest?"
Evelyn smirked. "He will be flogged. Twenty lashes in the square. Let every messenger who comes after him remember that Elareth bows to no kingdom's request."
The hall went deathly silent. A few lords dared to exchange uneasy glances, but none spoke.
Magnus sat upon the throne, silent, watching his sister with a faint trace of approval. He did not countermand her.
The messenger's face drained of color. He fell to his knees. "Mercy, Your Highness! I only brought words! I am not the one who asked for your hand—"
"Yet you carried the insult on your back and placed it at my feet," Evelyn replied coldly. "For that, you will bleed."
Iridessa, seated quietly at the far end, felt her stomach twist. She pressed her hands together in her lap, biting her tongue as the guards dragged the messenger away. She wanted to speak, to beg for restraint, but Magnus' sharp glance held her still.
And so, as the man's cries echoed faintly through the stone corridors, Evelyn sat back in her chair, satisfied, her cruelty fed once more.
-
The palace was quiet save for the faint echo of laughter spilling from the banquet hall where Evelyn and Isadora still celebrated their "victory." The torches along the corridors burned low, casting long, wavering shadows against the walls.
In Iridessa's chamber, a single candle flickered on the table. She sat by the window, her chin resting against her palm, gazing out into the dark courtyard. The faint sound of the messenger's cries from earlier still lingered in her ears.
Miri entered softly, setting a small tray of tea between them. Her hands trembled slightly.
"They whipped him until he fainted," Miri whispered, voice heavy. "I heard the guards speaking. He was carried out like a sack."
Iridessa closed her eyes, her chest tightening. "And for what crime? Delivering words written by another man."
Miri sat beside her, lowering her voice even more. "The villagers saw it too. They are afraid. Everyone whispers that the king and his sister rule with no mercy. Some said the heavens will not look kindly on such cruelty."
Iridessa let out a bitter sigh. "The heavens may not, but fear… fear is what Isadora feeds them. Fear is what Magnus wears like a crown. And Evelyn—" her voice shook with restrained anger, "Evelyn is becoming a viper more poisonous than them both."
For a moment, only the crackle of the candle filled the silence. Miri reached across and touched her mistress's hand gently.
"You wanted to speak today, did you not?"
Iridessa gave a small, rueful smile. "Yes. But Magnus' eyes were on me. If I had said even a word of protest, he would have silenced me—and perhaps punished you in my place. I cannot risk that, Miri. Not with them watching."
Miri lowered her gaze, ashamed of the relief she felt. "I know… but it hurts to watch and do nothing."
Iridessa turned her face toward the window again, her expression hardening. "It does. But I am not blind. Every lash Evelyn ordered today cut into more than just the messenger's skin—it cut into the faith of the people. They will not forget. Neither will I."
She pressed her hand against the cool stone of the windowsill. "I must find a way, Miri. A way to act without placing you in danger. They may have stripped me of power, but I am still a daughter of Dhalmar. I will not remain silent forever."
Miri's eyes welled as she nodded, her voice trembling. "If you stand, I will stand with you."
Iridessa turned to her, her usually gentle gaze fierce with a quiet fire. "Then let us wait. Watch. Listen. The day will come when even Evelyn's cruelty cannot shield her. And when it does…" she drew a slow breath, "…Elareth will see who truly holds strength."
Miri nodded.
-
The council chamber smelled faintly of old parchment and candle wax. Heavy drapes kept out the morning light, casting the chamber in a dim half-gloom where only the golden sigils of Elareth's crest gleamed on the wall.
Magnus had dismissed the lords after a long, tedious discussion about taxes, leaving only murmurs in the corridor beyond. But one man lingered.
Lord Hale.
He waited until the footsteps of his peers faded, then turned deliberately toward Iridessa's chambers, where she sat quietly by the window. A queen in title—little more than an ornament in reality.
"Your Majesty," he murmured, bowing low. His voice was steady, but his eyes darted to the shadows as though even the stones had ears.
Iridessa studied him, her hands folded neatly in her lap. "Lord Hale. You linger when others flee."
He gave a wry smile. "I linger because I still wish to see Elareth live. Others… choose silence." He stepped closer, lowering his voice further. "The kingdom bleeds, Your Grace. And no one dares bind the wound. Taxes rise, crops rot in the drought, villagers starve, yet your husband sharpens his sword on fear. The people grow restless."
Iridessa's expression remained calm, though her heart clenched. "And what would you have me do, my lord? You know the king's gaze follows me even into my sleep. My steps are measured, my words counted. My freedom is an illusion."
Hale's eyes hardened. "Still, you have a tongue sharper than silence. The people remember you brought them food when their children wasted away. They whisper your name with hope, while they curse the king and his sister." He paused, glancing at the door. "If His Majesty continues down this path, Elareth will burn. And when it does… the lords may not hold him up much longer."
Iridessa inhaled slowly, her voice little more than a breath. "Are you saying the lords will rise against their king?"
Hale's jaw tightened. "I am saying… the kingdom needs a hand that does not strike in cruelty. A hand the people will follow willingly. Whether that hand comes from heaven, or…" He hesitated, then met her gaze firmly. "…from its queen."
Silence pressed thick between them.
Miri, who stood near the wall pouring water into goblets, froze at his words. She shot Iridessa a wide-eyed look, but said nothing.
Iridessa leaned back slightly, her face unreadable. "You speak treason, Lord Hale."
"And yet you do not deny the truth of it," he replied, bowing once more. "Think well on my words, my queen. For when the day comes—and it will—silence may no longer be a shield, but a weapon in your enemy's hand."
Before she could answer, he turned and left, his robes brushing against the stone floor.
The chamber felt suddenly colder.
Miri hurried to Iridessa's side, whispering, "My lady… he places fire in your hands. Fire that could consume us both."
Iridessa's eyes lingered on the door where Hale had vanished. Her voice was low, steady, but filled with something new—something sharper than despair.
"Or fire," she murmured, "that might burn a path out of this darkness."