The Kingdom of Elareth was dying.
What once was a land of rich green fields, full streams, and golden harvests now withered under an unforgiving sky. It hadn't rained in months. The great stream that once fed every river and well in the kingdom had thinned into a dry ribbon of cracked earth. Dust clung to the leaves like sickness, and even the wind blew hollow now, dry and full of whispers.
Inside the royal court, the mood was equally bleak.
Ever since Prince Magnus's marriage to Princess Iridessa, daughter of King Vernos of Dhalmar, things had only worsened. Though Vernos had sent caravans of food and water as support, they were a mere drop in an ocean of need. The people of Elareth—proud, bold, and once loyal—were beginning to murmur louder. Their patience was thinning as quickly as the grain.
And now, the lords were seated once again in a tight circle around King Real's throne, voices raised, parchments unfurled, and nothing but desperation in their eyes.
"We've summoned three sorcerers," one said. "Each left with their heads spinning—no cause for the drought. No magical explanation."
"Then perhaps," another lord said, "we must consider more practical measures. Concessions."
"Concessions?" King Real raised an eyebrow.
"Yes, Your Majesty," the lord replied swiftly. "Alliances. We must secure food by every means necessary. Perhaps… an exchange of persons. A marriage."
"Marriage again," Prince Magnus scoffed loudly from his seat. "Do any of you know another solution, or is marrying off my sister your favorite answer to every crisis?"
A thick silence followed. Princess Evelyn, seated beside her mother, kept her face still.
One of the older lords cleared his throat. "Forgive me, Your Majesty. But Princess Evelyn is yet unmarried. If she were wedded to a stronger kingdom—"
"To be given like a bag of wheat in exchange for more?" Magnus snapped.
Queen Isadora's voice rose, slicing through the chamber. "Perhaps one of you should send your daughters instead, since you have so many useless ones lounging in your manors."
A sharp murmur rippled through the chamber. Several lords flushed in their seats; others exchanged uneasy glances, yet none dared speak.
"Cat got your tongues?" she continued, her voice harsher now. "You sit there, discussing the marriage of a princess as though she were a common bargaining chip. Are you truly so daft? Is marriage the only remedy your minds can summon?" She scoffed, leaning back. "I think some lords would do well to vacate their seats for wiser men to advise the crown."
The murmur swelled, anger plain on several faces. One lord drew breath to speak—
"Enough," King Rael cut in.
Evelyn smirked from her seat, while Magnus's gaze remained fixed—cold and unyielding—on each of the lords in turn.
"I give you five days," King Rael continued. "Think. Scheme. Summon your mages, your advisers, whatever counsel you can summon, if you must. But return to me with a solution or keep your silence forever."
The court was dismissed. The lords departed in a simmer of restrained fury, their displeasure written plainly upon their faces.
That evening, the Royal Family gathered at the high dining table. Long tapestries hung from the ceiling, though the air was heavy and silent. Platters of roasted meat, bread, and wine covered the table, a cruel contrast to the cries from outside the palace walls.
The noise of the starving villagers filtered in. Cries, arguments, desperate pleas. They were louder today.
Still, the royal family ate in silence—except for Princess Iridessa, Magnus's new bride, who barely touched her food. Her gold circlet caught the light as she sat stiffly, but her eyes were dull and distant.
Every sound of forks scraping plates and goblets clinking reminded her of the starving people outside—the ones they had just ignored.
To her, this wasn't a royal feast. It was a quiet cruelty. And she felt like one of the prisoners being fed in a golden cage.
Then Evelyn broke the silence. "Why not send word to Velmora?" she said. "Request their aid. It is said their streams never run dry, their harvests ever strong."
Rael looked up, a grim smirk tugging at his mouth. "Ask Velmora for help?" he echoed. "That would be like asking a lion to spare a rabbit. To seek their aid now may well be an invitation to be preyed upon."
His gaze shifted to his wife, his voice edged with quiet mockery. "After all, we do not even know the fate of the one we sent there. Likely dead by now, isn't that what you always wished?"
He didn't say Aurora's name, but the whole table stiffened.
Isadora didn't blink. She sipped her wine. "And if I did? Do you have a problem with that now?"
Real only smirked again and went back to his meal.
Then, from below the palace stairs, came the sharp voice of a man. Loud enough to carry from the gates, past the guards, and into the high dining hall.
"You sit in your golden tower, fat and full, while we starve! Our children drink mud, and you drink wine!"
The room froze. Not even the knives cut anymore.
Then Magnus stood, jaw clenched, hands tight at his sides. He did not speak—he did not need to. Silently, he left the dining hall, descended the stairs, seized a thick cane leaning near the doorway, and stormed out.
Downstairs, the palace gates had barely held the villagers back. Guards lined up like statues, unmoving. But the crowd had grown restless—hungry men, weeping mothers, barefoot children.
Magnus walked straight through them.
Then chaos.
He began beating anyone in reach. Cane snapping on backs, shoulders, faces. Cries tore through the air as people scrambled to flee, but he kept swinging.
"Which one of you spoke? WHICH ONE?!"
Guards didn't intervene.
A child tripped—he stepped over her and kept swinging.
Eventually, someone pointed at a man, trying to hide behind the well.
"That one," he yelled.
Magnus reached him in seconds, raining the cane down mercilessly. He kicked the man with his boot, blood splattering the dirt. The man screamed—then fell silent, collapsing into unconsciousness.
"Prison," Magnus barked. "Let him rot."
He turned, his eyes glowing with fury. He raised the cane, bloodied and trembling.
"LEAVE!" he roared. "All of you!"
The villagers ran. Some limping. Some crying.
The guards hurried forward, lifting the unconscious man and carrying him straight to the dungeon.
Magnus returned to the dining hall, his knuckles smeared red—not his own blood, but another's. A dark stain marked the sleeve of his white shirt.
He took his seat and resumed his meal as though nothing had occurred.
Evelyn smirked. "If the people refuse to learn their place," she said coolly, "then we shall teach them."
Isadora chuckled in agreement, her gaze settling on Magnus with unmistakable pride. "Exactly."
But Iridessa, still seated, lowered her gaze to her plate. She hadn't moved once. The sounds of screams still echoed in her ears. Her hand rested on her lap, trembling slightly beneath the table.
This wasn't the life she had dreamt of. When her father, King Vernos, first announced the marriage, she had pleaded. Cried. Even tried to escape into the forest before she was caught and chained like a thief.
The wedding had been beautiful on the outside—petals, doves, wine—but her first night was a nightmare. Magnus had not asked. He had taken.
And now, every smile in this castle made her feel smaller. The walls taller. The windows narrower.
This palace was not a home. It was her cage. And every lock was forged in silence.
Life in the Palace of Elareth was gilded—cold, but gilded. And Princess Iridessa moved through it like a ghost in silk.
She learned to walk the halls quietly, like the wind through lattice screens. She learned not to speak unless spoken to. And when she did, her voice came out soft, like something still learning not to tremble.
In the mornings, she would rise before the maids came in, dress herself, and braid her own hair. It was not out of habit, but dignity—because there was too little of it left in her days.
The palace was always alive with sound, but none of it joyful. Evelyn's voice, sharp and spoiled, often rang through the corridors—berating servants, mocking kitchen hands, even slapping a servant once for not bowing deep enough.
Iridessa would pause when she saw it happen—eyes narrowed ever so slightly, hands clasped—but she never interfered. Not because she did not want to, but because she could not. She was still a guest here, a caged one at that.
And besides… Evelyn's smirk always found her in those moments. As if daring her to say something. As if knowing she would not.
Magnus was no gentler. Her husband, her warden.
His voice toward her was always firm, clipped, emotionless. Sometimes he would speak to her during feasts—ask about her kingdom, her family, her memories. But there was no affection in the questions.
Only control.
He did not strike her—he did not need to. His words were weapons enough, and the sheer weight of his presence forced her spine straight and her head to remain bowed.
And when he held her at night, it was like conquest, not closeness. His touch was cold, his breathing impatient. She stopped crying weeks ago.
And Isadora—she was a queen of sharp edges.
The woman ruled the palace with fear, not respect.
She once had two servants whipped in front of the palace court for forgetting to light her candles at the right hour. Another was thrown into the dungeon for accidentally stepping on her gown—though it was she who had ordered the woman to follow closely.
Iridessa watched her like one would a thundercloud—quiet, careful, and calculating every move.
She learned quickly that kindness in this court was weakness. And weakness had no place in Elareth.
Then there was King Real.
The only person in the palace who had the power to stop it all—and yet he did not. He watched from his elevated seat, eyes always half-lidded, mouth firm.
He saw Evelyn slap the servants. He saw Magnus mock the soldiers. He heard the people cry in the courtyard. And yet... he simply went on chewing his food.
To Iridessa, he was like a statue. Majestic, immovable, and useless.
-
Iridessa spent most of her days in the garden, tucked between white lilies and climbing roses, pretending they grew in her homeland.
She would run her fingers over the petals, remembering the sound of her father's laughter, the scent of tea in her mother's chamber, and the comfort of open skies and bustling markets.
Now her world was marbled floors and steel gates. And even the flowers here felt lonely.
She neither complained nor spoke.
But every time a servant was humiliated, every time a prisoner screamed in the dungeon, every time Evelyn sneered at her from across the table, a small piece of something in her soul hardened.
She was quiet. But not blind. And not forever.
The days in Elareth had grown harder, but so had Iridessa.
She moved through the halls with the same grace, the same silence—but inside her, something small and stubborn had begun to grow.
And it began with Miri.
The servant girl was about her age, quick-footed, and unusually quiet for a servant. She spoke only when spoken to, and always bowed a little deeper than the rest. Yet in Miri's eyes, Iridessa saw gentleness—a familiarity she hadn't felt in months.
She noticed how Miri lingered whenever she dropped things. How she fixed her veils with the same delicate care one would give to a sister. And how, when she thought no one was watching, she would leave folded napkins or fresh cloths near Iridessa's chamber door—small comforts no one had asked for.
It didn't take long before Iridessa began requesting Miri quietly for simple tasks. A brush here, a comb there. But even that was not without risk in Elareth.
Still… her fondness grew.
So one evening, as the sun melted behind the pillars of the palace, she found herself in Magnus chamber—standing before him—gathering the courage to speak.
"I would like to take Miri in," she said softly, her hands folded. "As one of my personal maids."
Magnus looked up from his scrolls, blinking. "Who?"
"Miri. The servant from the garden wing. She's quiet, and I… I trust her."
He scoffed. Then his face darkened.
"You trust no one in this palace," he snapped. "And I do not recall asking your preferences. You want a new maid? Take one from my mother's court."
"No," Iridessa replied, her voice steadier than she thought possible. "I want her. Your mother chose all my maids—must I not choose this one myself?"
There was a moment of silence. Magnus stepped forward, his eyes flashing with rage. His hand twitched—a breath away from striking her.
Iridessa froze… but didn't flinch.
Magnus stopped himself, nostrils flared. Not because he had calmed. But because a bruise on her face would be a message to her kingdom, and even he understood politics.
He gritted his teeth and turned away, sweeping the scrolls off the table in anger.
"Do what you want," he muttered. "But if it disrupts anything in this palace, you'll wish you had not."And with that, he stormed out.
Iridessa stood there alone, breath caught in her chest. Her eyes stung, but she refused to cry.
She turned and walked back to her chamber, summoned Miri, and simply said,
"From today on, you serve only me."
Miri's eyes widened, then curved into a bright smile as she bowed deeply. Being her personal maid meant she was no longer just a servant.
"I promised to serve you well, Your Majesty," she said earnestly.
Iridessa returned the smile, soft and warm. "Just be here with me—that is all I ever wanted."
Miri nodded, happiness shining in her eyes.
Iridessa smiled too, but beneath it, a small seed of unease took root. She had told Magnus, yes—but what of the others? How would they react to this? Her thoughts lingered there as the soft rustle of the palace carried on outside.
A quiet evening settled over the hall, and for a moment, Iridessa allowed herself to breathe. Tomorrow, the world might shift—but tonight, she had this small victory.