Chapter 3: The Welcome
The carriage passed beneath the great iron gates of Rosenheim Palace just as the last sliver of daylight bled from the sky. The gates bore the silver wolf of Veylmar on either side—massive heads cast in relief, eyes glinting with polished quartz, mouths open in silent howl. They swung inward without a sound, pulled by unseen chains, and the wheels crunched over fresh gravel swept clean of snow.
Lena straightened in her seat. Through the window she saw the palace rise: gray stone towers slender as spears, narrow arched windows glowing with lamplight, roofs pitched steeply to shed the weight of northern winters. Courtyards flanked the approach, each lit by tall iron braziers that spat sparks into the dusk. The air smelled of pine smoke and frost.
The carriage halted at the foot of a wide stone staircase. Footmen in charcoal livery appeared instantly, lowering the steps, offering gloved hands. Lena descended with deliberate grace, cloak swirling, chin high despite the ache in her legs from eight days of travel. The cold bit at her cheeks like tiny needles.
At the top of the stairs stood Duchess Elara Voss.
She was taller than Lena had expected—nearly six feet, silver hair pinned in an elegant coronet, dressed in midnight-blue velvet trimmed with wolf-fur at the collar and cuffs. Her face was pale and angular, eyes the color of winter sea ice. She did not smile, but her expression held perfect courtesy, the kind that could cut glass.
"Your Highness," Elara said, voice low and measured. "Welcome to Rosenheim Palace. We are honored by your presence."
Lena curtsied—deep, flawless, the way she had been taught since she could walk. "The honor is mine, Duchess. My father speaks highly of your academy."
Elara inclined her head a fraction. "We shall endeavor to justify his confidence. Come. The hall is warmer."
Behind the duchess waited a small reception line: six senior academy girls in navy wool gowns edged with silver braid, three prefects in severe black, and two maids holding warming bricks wrapped in cloth. The girls curtsied in perfect unison as Lena passed; their eyes flicked up, curious but guarded. One—a tall brunette with a silver pin at her collar—held Lena's gaze a heartbeat longer than the others before dropping it again.
Inside, the great hall swallowed sound. Vaulted ceiling lost in shadow, walls hung with tapestries depicting silver wolves running through birch groves, snow falling like lace. A massive fireplace roared at the far end, heat rolling across the flagstones in waves. Lena felt the chill begin to loosen its grip on her bones.
Elara gestured with one gloved hand. "A brief tour before you retire. The palace is not large, but it is… orderly."
They moved through arched doorways. The library first: shelves of vellum and leather rising to the rafters, the air thick with old paper and pine resin. A long table held open volumes—treatises on diplomacy, ledgers of trade routes, grammars in half a dozen languages. Lena noted the care with which the books were arranged; not a single spine out of place.
Next, the music room: harpsichord polished to a mirror shine, rows of lutes and viols on stands, a pianoforte of dark rosewood. A girl no older than fifteen sat at a small spinet, practicing scales with mechanical precision. When Elara entered she rose instantly, curtsied, and resumed only when dismissed with a nod.
The dining hall followed—long oak table set for forty, silver candelabra already lit for supper. High windows overlooked a snow-covered garden where statues of wolves stood sentinel under white shrouds.
Everywhere Lena noticed the small, unsettling details.
Velvet-upholstered benches in shadowed alcoves, too low and sturdy for casual seating. Wall brackets holding slim rattan canes and leather straps, displayed like ornamental sconces. Girls passing in the corridors walked with careful, measured steps; one senior student—perhaps eighteen—moved with a faint stiffness, as though sitting had become an effort. When their eyes met hers, they offered polite smiles that never quite reached their eyes.
Finally, the Rose Wing. Elara led her down a corridor paneled in pale birch, stopped before a carved door bearing a single rose in silver inlay.
"Your chambers," the duchess said. "You will find them comfortable."
Inside: opulence tempered by northern restraint. A four-poster bed draped in cream silk, a fire crackling in the hearth, thick rugs underfoot. A writing desk stood by the window, already supplied with quills, ink, and fine paper. A wardrobe held gowns in jewel tones—emerald, sapphire, garnet—cut in the northern style, high-necked but elegantly fitted.
A maid—young, freckled, eyes downcast—curtsied and began unpacking Lena's trunks.
Elara indicated a narrow door set into the wall beside the bed. It was of the same pale birch as the paneling, fitted with a heavy brass lock.
"The Chamber of Reproof," she said casually, as though pointing out a dressing room. "Fitted for Your Highness upon your fourteenth nameday, though of course you are well past that age now. It has been maintained in readiness."
Lena felt a small, cold jolt in her stomach. She laughed—light, dismissive. "A northern custom, I presume. Like the birch in the village square I glimpsed on the road."
Elara's expression did not change. "Customs vary by region. Here, they serve a purpose. Supper is at seven in the small dining room. We dine formally. I trust you will dress appropriately."
She departed without another word.
The maid finished unpacking and withdrew with another curtsy. Lena was alone.
She crossed to the locked door, traced the brass handle with one finger. It was cool to the touch. She pressed her ear to the wood—nothing. Only the crackle of the fire and the distant murmur of the palace settling for evening.
She turned away, opened the wardrobe, selected a gown of deep amethyst wool trimmed with silver thread. She changed quickly, letting the heavy fabric settle over her like armor. In the tall mirror she studied herself: cheeks still flushed from the cold, eyes stormy, hair pinned in a simple coronet. She looked every inch the princess.
But beneath the silk, that traitorous warmth from the carriage lingered. A low throb she refused to name.
Supper was in a smaller room off the great hall: round table for eight, candles in silver holders, firelight dancing on polished wood. Duchess Elara sat at the head. To her right, the tall brunette from the reception line—introduced as Lady Isolde von Thal, senior student and daughter of the Count of Nordmark. To her left, two other noble-born girls, both quiet and watchful. A prefect stood by the door.
Conversation was polite, measured. Elara asked after Eldoria's harvest, the health of King Harlan, the state of southern trade routes. Lena answered smoothly, drawing on years of court training. She complimented the venison, the spiced wine, the clarity of the northern skies.
Elara listened, nodded, offered nothing in return beyond courtesy.
At one point the duchess set down her fork. "Discipline is the foundation of grace, Your Highness. Without it, even the sharpest mind remains unpolished. We teach that here—not through cruelty, but through certainty. Correction is swift, fair, and final. It allows the girl to rise again, clearer-eyed."
Lena smiled. "A admirable philosophy. In Eldoria we prefer persuasion."
Elara's eyes met hers—level, unblinking. "Persuasion has its place. But some lessons require a firmer hand."
The words hung in the air. No one spoke for a long moment.
After dessert—poached pears in honey syrup—Elara rose. "You must be weary from the journey. Rest well. Lessons begin tomorrow at eight."
Lena curtsied and withdrew.
Back in her chambers the fire had been banked low. She dismissed the maid, bolted the outer door, and stood alone in the lamplight.
She crossed to the adjoining door again. This time she tried the handle. Locked.
From somewhere deeper in the palace came a faint sound—muffled, rhythmic. A single, distant crack, like a twig snapping. Then silence.
Lena's breath caught. She pressed her palm to the wood, feeling the faint vibration of the palace around her.
The warmth returned—slow, insistent, curling low in her belly. She hated it. Hated the way her thighs tightened, the way her pulse quickened at the memory of the village green, at the thought of that locked room behind her.
She stepped back, crossed to the mirror, stared at her reflection. Princess Lena of Eldoria—untouched, unbreakable.
She touched the silk of her nightgown where it clung to her skin, fingers trembling just slightly.
It was only the cold, she told herself.
Only the journey.
Only the strangeness of a new place.
She blew out the lamp and climbed into bed, pulling the covers to her chin.
But sleep came slowly, and when it did, her dreams were full of birch twigs and velvet benches, of her own voice saying "thank you" in a tone she did not recognize.