A dry wind swept through the cracked walls of Elareth, rattling the shutters of the palace like a ghost begging to be let in. Once, this kingdom had sung with harvest—its rivers humming, children laughing, markets brimming. Now, the rivers were mere scars in the land, and the laughter was long gone.
The villagers gathered outside the palace gates again, faces hollowed by hunger, lips cracked, prayers falling dry from their tongues.
Inside the court chamber, two advisors who are more close to the royal family stood before the throne, speaking in hushed desperation.
"Your Majesty," Lord Brivan said, voice shaking, "the western fields have turned to dust. We lost half the remaining cattle this morning. If relief is not sent—"
From the side, Prince Magnus let out a sharp bark of laughter.
"Oh please," he said, reclining lazily in his father's old war chair. "You lot act like this is the end of the world. Maybe it is—for peasants."
The lord turned, affronted. "Your Highness, our people—"
"They will survive," Magnus interrupted with a smirk. "Or they will not. Their fate will unfold regardless. Lamenting it changes nothing, and hunger does not heed complaints."
"Have some dignity, Magnus," said Iridessa gently from the far end of the room.
Her voice was quiet, yet it carried through the chamber like a bell struck once.
Magnus turned his head toward her, his jaw tightening by the breath.
"Tread lightly, wife," he warned. "You are beginning to echo the common folk."
Queen Isadora, lounging beside him in her crimson robes, chuckled and raised a goblet.
"She has always been delicate," she drawled. "Too delicate to wear a crown."
"The princess only speaks the truth," Lord Hale muttered.
Isadora's eyes narrowed, but she did not answer. Instead, she waved her hand dismissively and turned to the king. "Your Majesty? Are you alive in there?"
King Rael, once a man of thunderous command, sat slumped on his throne like a ghost in a cage. His hands trembled over the lion-carved armrests. His eyes, sunken and tired, stared blankly into the space between people and power.
He said nothing.
"Exactly," Isadora muttered under her breath. "He breathes, but he does not rule."
Evelyn entered then, her gown glimmering despite the fading gold in the treasury. She brushed past a servant carrying wine and hissed, "Watch it, rat."
The young boy stumbled, nearly dropping the tray. Evelyn scowled and backhanded him. The silver cup fell, clanging against the stone floor.
"Pick it up," she snapped. "With your mouth if you must."
The boy hurriedly knelt to retrieve the cup, but Evelyn stepped on his fingers, twisting them with her foot. He cried out in pain.
"Evelyn, that is enough," Iridessa said, her voice ringing through the chamber. All eyes turned to her. Evelyn pivoted slowly, a flash of surprise crossing her face.
"Enough?" she whispered, stepping closer to her sister-in-law. "You grow bolder, Iridessa. You dare tell me it is enough? You are nothing but a foreign ornament—pretty, dull, and replaceable. Your kingdom could not even aid us in this time of crisis. Remember your place, Iridessa."
Iridessa met Evelyn's eyes calmly, her voice steady despite the tension tightening in her chest.
"And yet… despite being dull and replaceable, you seem so troubled by me. That says more about your own insecurity than my place."
She paused, her voice dropping low, meant only for Evelyn.
"I may be foreign, but cruelty does not run in my blood. And in times of crisis, that is the rarest kind of strength."
"Ugh." Evelyn curled her lip. "That mouth of yours will get Miri punished next time."
Iridessa's voice cut through the growing tension.
"Leave her out of this."
Her tone was calm but firm, and every syllable carried the weight of royal breeding — not the fire of rebellion, but the poise of someone who knew power and simply refused to misuse it.
Evelyn halted, just few steps away from the doorway and turned around, slowly. Her smile was no longer playful. It was cold.
"You are getting bold, Iridessa." She walked towards her, eyes raking her sister-in-law. "You dare raise your voice at me?" She scoffed. "You were a princess once, true. But here, you are nothing but a borrowed jewel."
Iridessa's jaw clenched slightly. She did not answer. But her gaze did not lower.
That silence—measured, deliberate—seemed to infuriate Magnus more than any spoken retort.
"You are being disrespectful," he snapped. "You do not get to correct my sister like that. Watch your tone."
Iridessa turned to him, her expression unreadable. But before she could say a word, Queen Isadora's voice floated in, cool and sharp.
"How quickly she forgets where she is." Isadora leaned back into her velvet chair, twirling the stem of her wineglass. "You may have worn a crown once, Iridessa, but this is not your kingdom. And I will not have my daughter spoken to as if we are equals gathered at a village feast."
Still, Iridessa said nothing. She did not bow. She did not fold.
Her silence spoke volumes — not of weakness, but of control. There was dignity in it. And it made the others look smaller.
Evelyn watched her a moment longer, then gave a sharp, amused chuckle and swept out of the chamber.
The tension dissolved with her departure — but only slightly.
Lord Hale and Lord Brivan, who had stood quietly through it all, exchanged glances as they, too, turned to leave.
"There is rot in the crown," Hale murmured beneath his breath. "And the princess is the only one here who still smells of royalty."
Brivan glanced back once at Iridessa, still standing composed by the hearth.
"If they do not break her," he said, "they will come to fear her."
King Rael remained silent, simply staring.
-
The corridor was dimly lit, the golden sconces casting long, wavering shadows across the marbled floor. Iridessa walked swiftly, her soft leather shoes nearly silent, her shawl clutched tighter around her as the cold in her chest grew.
She had nearly reached her chamber when his voice came—sharp, low, like a lash cracking the air.
"You think you can talk to Evelyn like that and walk away?"
Iridessa stopped. Slowly, she turned. Magnus was standing behind her, still in his ceremonial coat from the earlier gathering, his jaw clenched and shoulders squared.
"I did not say anything disrespectful," Iridessa replied evenly. "I only asked her to stop—"
"That is disrespect, Iridessa!" Magnus barked, stalking closer. "She is my sister. You do not correct her. Not in public. Not in private. Not ever."
Iridessa met his gaze, calm but unyielding. "She insulted me. She insulted my home. And she brought Miri into it. That is not a correction, Magnus—that is self-respect."
His face twitched. "You think you are better than this family?"
"No," she said, voice quiet but firm. "But I am a princess. And I will not allow myself—or a servant under my care—to be treated like dung in the road."
Magnus scoffed, pacing like a restless lion. "You came here for peace and comfort. Do not forget that. Were it not for this marriage, Elareth would have crushed your kingdom."
She flinched. Just a fraction.
"So now I am to be grateful for being tolerated?"
Magnus did not answer. His jaw locked again.
She stepped closer, eyes unblinking. "You chose me, Magnus. I was told it was to strengthen bonds between kingdoms. I held my tongue out of duty. I bore the sneers, the silence, and the slaps disguised as smiles. But do not think my silence is weakness."
He opened his mouth, but again, she spoke before he could.
"And do not think Evelyn's cruelty has no cost. One day it will. And this kingdom is already paying the price in blood and dust."
Magnus stared at her. Then he leaned in, voice lower, more dangerous. "I would be careful, Iridessa. You are far from home. And the wolves here have sharper teeth than you think."
She did not flinch.
"And I know how to walk among wolves," she said.
There was a long silence between them.
Then she turned and walked away, her back straight, her steps steady.
From a shadowed alcove nearby, Lord Hale and Lord Brivan exchanged a silent glance.
As they turned to leave the hall, Lord Hale whispered, "She is braver than most men I know."
Lord Brivan muttered, "I just hope she lives long enough to matter."
-
Iridessa closed her chamber door gently, as though loudness might shatter the thin thread of composure she was still holding onto.
Only when the latch clicked did her back meet the wood, and she let out a long, shaking breath. Her hands trembled. She had not realized how tightly she'd been clutching her shawl.
She had stood her ground. She had met their eyes. But her heart had been thudding like war drums ever since Evelyn's voice had curled like poison in her ear… and Magnus's fury had followed like a storm.
Her knees weakened beneath her, and she sank onto the cushioned bench near the fireplace.
A moment later, the door opened quietly—just enough for a familiar face to slip in.
"My lady?" Miri whispered.
Iridessa looked up. Her voice failed her, so she nodded.
Miri hurried to her side, kneeling beside the bench. "You should not have done that—not in front of everyone. Now the whole palace is talking about it."
"I had to," Iridessa murmured. "She spoke of you… I could not stay silent."
Miri blinked quickly, swallowing emotion.
Iridessa reached for her hand. "I was afraid, Miri. Truly. My legs wanted to run. My voice wanted to tremble. But I thought—if I give them that, they will take more than just my dignity. They will take my soul."
Miri squeezed her hand. "You were brave Your Highness."
Iridessa offered a faint smile. "Bravery does not always mean you are not afraid. Sometimes it just means you speak before your fear does."
The fire crackled quietly beside them.
After a long silence, Miri asked, "Do you think they will try to punish you?"
Iridessa's gaze drifted to the shuttered window. The wind outside had picked up, sweeping dry leaves across the stone balcony.
"Maybe," she said softly. "But I will not let them break me."
She stood, slowly, and walked toward the fire, her shadow tall against the wall.
"Let Evelyn sneer. Let Magnus fume. Let the Queen sharpen her silver tongue. I will still stand. Because someone in this palace must."
And behind her, Miri whispered—almost a prayer—
"Let it be you."