Ever since Iridessa and Miri release from the East Tower, a quiet revolution began to stir beneath the marble floors of Elareth's palace.
At first, it was only glances—soft and lingering, exchanged in the halls. Then it was nods from stable boys, averted eyes from frightened servants suddenly lifting to meet Iridessa's with faint sparks of something dangerously close to hope.
The whispers grew like vines behind the walls.
"She fed them when no one else would…"
"She defied the prince and lived…"
"Princess Iridessa is not like the others…"
Iridessa noticed it most when she walked the narrow stone corridors with Miri at her side. The palace workers—maids, cooks, scribes, even guards—would stiffen, then soften as she passed. It was not much. A smile here, a bow held a second longer there. But it was enough. Enough to shift something.
And nothing infuriated Evelyn more.
"She walks like she is some savior," Evelyn hissed one afternoon in Queen Isadora's chambers, pacing restlessly. "They look at her as if she is the light in a thunderstorm. I hate it."
Queen Isadora sipped her wine and frowned. "His Majesty has shielded her, for now. We cannot touch her openly."
"But we can still wound her," Evelyn said with a sly tilt of her head. "What if we strip her comforts, one by one? Leave her with only that little maid of hers. That should stretch her to breaking."
Isadora raised a brow. "A clever kind of cruelty. I like it."
The very next day, Iridessa was summoned. When she entered the queen's court, she noticed instantly—something was off. The other maids were missing. Only Miri stood by the door, her hands nervously wringing her apron.
Isadora did not even look up as she spoke.
"From now on, your other handmaids will be reassigned. I believe you have grown too dependent on unnecessary help. That maid of yours will suffice."
Iridessa bowed her head. "Yes, Your Grace."
She felt Evelyn's eyes digging into her from the corner. Waiting, as always, for a flinch. A protest. A slip.
But Iridessa gave them none. They thought taking her handmaids would break her? No. It only helped her more. She had always been uneasy with many around. Now, with Miri alone at her side, she needed nothing more. It was enough.
She returned to her chambers and helped Miri carry the water in herself. Together they stripped the bedding, tended the fire, and cleaned the floors. The work doubled, but so did their strength. And in their silence, they found something deeper—unbreakable.
Still unsatisfied, the queen devised a second blow.
Iridessa was given long royal scrolls to copy, or sometimes told to rewrite official edicts—dozens of lines, names, seals, titles—all by hand, in cramped royal script. Her fingers often trembled from fatigue, and her back screamed from the hours of stillness.
One afternoon, as she delivered a finished scroll, Queen Isadora glanced at it once, then waved a hand with disinterest. "This one will not be used. Copy it again. And next time, write neater."
Iridessa bowed. "Of course, Your Grace."
As she turned to leave, Evelyn leaned forward from her cushioned seat, a smile tugging cruelly at her lips.
"Does your back not ache, dear sister?" she said sweetly. "Or are you too proud to admit it?"
Iridessa paused at the door.
"It does ache," she said quietly. "But pride is the only cushion I have left."
Then she walked out.
Evelyn's face twisted. "She thinks herself clever."
"She is testing us," Isadora murmured. "But the kingdom will soon teach her obedience."
Worse still, Iridessa found herself excluded from the inner court—those tight-circled gatherings where matters of the kingdom were discussed behind silken curtains and shut doors. She'd pass the doors of the court chamber, hear their muffled voices—Magnus, Evelyn, Isadora, and the king when he managed to speak—and know the affairs of the realm were being laid out like a feast she was no longer allowed to taste.
But again—she said nothing.
One evening, Miri brought her a tray of warm broth and whispered, "Should I help you undress, my lady? You have been sitting all day…"
Iridessa smiled weakly. "Let me do it, Miri. You have carried enough for one day."
Miri hesitated. "You should not be treated this way."
"They want me to break," Iridessa whispered. "But they do not understand. I was a princess long before I was a wife."
Miri blinked, tears caught in her lashes. "I wish they all knew what you carry inside."
"They will," Iridessa said, placing the tray aside and rubbing her sore wrist. "One day. But for now, let them play their games. We will just keep walking."
And so they did.
Each day, Iridessa walked with a straight spine, even as pain bit into her shoulders. Each night, she sat under candlelight, writing, copying, bearing, enduring. And Miri never left her side—not once.
-
The golden sun filtered dimly through the arched windows of the council chamber, casting long shadows across the stone floor. The air was thick with heat and tension. Though the drought continued to choke Elareth's soil, the royal court moved forward, desperate for answers.
The inner court gathered early. The lords and advisors filed in with tired eyes and parched voices, murmuring about the dying crops and fading coin. Queen Isadora sat tall at the head of the chamber, her thin lips pressed in a line of command. Beside her, Princess Evelyn was coiled in her usual elegance, tapping her fingers against the polished table in irritation. Magnus stood, arms crossed, jaw tight.
Iridessa entered quietly, summoned at the last moment. She walked with calm grace, Miri trailing behind her.
Heads turned. Whispers brushed through the chamber like wind in dry leaves. Some of the lords inclined their heads slightly in respect—subtle, but noticed.
Isadora's eyes narrowed.
"Ah," she said coldly. "The princess of mercy joins us."
Iridessa bowed her head slightly. "You summoned me, Your Majesty."
"You were not summoned to speak," Evelyn cut in with a sneer. "You may sit at the far end and listen. This is a matter of kingdom survival, not sentiment."
Iridessa moved without reaction, taking the last seat at the long council table. Miri remained by the wall, hands folded in silence.
Lord Hale cleared his throat, speaking over the frost. "We cannot pretend the people are not suffering. The royal treasury is nearly bare. Soon, we will not even have enough to pay the palace guards."
Another lord nodded. "If food does not come from beyond the borders, we risk uprising. Already, there are whispers in the lower quarters."
"Then perhaps," Evelyn said with false sweetness, "we should ask Iridessa. She seems to have a miraculous way of making food appear for peasants."
The chamber went still.
Iridessa did not flinch.
"I helped where I could," she said evenly. "What little I offered was from my homeland. Not for rebellion. For survival."
Isadora raised a hand sharply. "No one accused you of rebellion, child—yet."
Lord Fenn, a quiet observer until now, spoke up. "If I may, the people speak her name with reverence, not revolt. What the royal family failed to provide, she did. That is... worth considering."
Magnus's voice broke in, hard and sharp. "We are here to govern, not to romanticize disobedience."
"Yet the people are fed," Lord Hale replied. "And the royal coffers did not pay for it. That is more than we can say for any of us here."
A beat of silence.
Then—King Rael spoke.
His voice was weak but clear, his body thin as a shadow in his throne. But his words cut through the bickering like a blade.
"Iridessa."
She looked up.
The king leaned forward slowly. "You are a daughter of another land. But you have shown a kind of loyalty we do not see in our own. I want you in this discussion."
Gasps stirred. Evelyn's mouth parted in disbelief.
"With respect, Father—" Magnus began.
"You will hold your tongue," Rael said.
The chamber fell into stunned silence.
Iridessa hesitated. Then stood. She walked toward the center of the table.
"I will speak, not as a princess, nor as your son's wife. But as a daughter of a kingdom that has seen drought, war, and healing. We will not survive by silencing those who act. We must call on our allies—mine, if need be. Elareth cannot continue on this path."
Isadora's face was stone.
Rael nodded slowly. "Then we will open correspondence with Iridessa's homeland. You will help draft the letters."
Evelyn slammed her palm against the table. "So we reward her now?"
"No," Rael said tiredly. "We survive."
Magnus looked like he had swallowed fire. But he said nothing.
And as Iridessa returned to her seat, the lords looked at her differently—not as a foreign wife, but as a necessary voice in a crumbling kingdom.
Even Miri allowed herself a flicker of a smile.
-
The heavy oak door closed with a dull thud behind Iridessa. She barely had time to blink before Queen Isadora's voice lashed through the chamber.
"So this is what you have been aiming for all along."
Iridessa stood in the center of the queen's private parlor—a chamber lined with velvet drapes and portraits of long-dead kings. The air smelled of aged perfume and smoke. Evelyn stood by the fireplace, arms folded tight across her chest, her pale eyes simmering with rage.
"I was summoned by His Majesty," Iridessa replied quietly.
"You spoke like you have ruled this kingdom since birth," Evelyn snapped. "Do not pretend you were caught off guard. You planned every word. The shaking hand, the humble tone. You played them like fools."
Iridessa met her glare. "If they were fools, I would not have had to step in at all."
"Watch your tone," Isadora hissed. "You forget who you are speaking to."
Iridessa's jaw clenched. She had entered the chamber with the intention of keeping peace—but peace had never lived here. "I forget nothing, Your Majesty. Least of all how I have been treated in this palace."
Isadora stood from her chair, elegant and towering despite her age. "You overstepped your station in the court. And today you humiliated my son—your husband—in front of the entire inner circle."
Iridessa's voice was low, steady. "He humiliated himself. The kingdom is dying, and your court spends more time plotting against me than solving it."
Evelyn's laugh was short and venomous. "You think because you handed out sacks of grain in the night, that makes you a queen?"
"I think," Iridessa said, stepping forward now, "that if I had not done it, half the outer villages would be dead by now. And the name Elareth would be cursed across the borders."
Silence.
Queen Isadora's eyes narrowed into daggers. "You forget this is not your homeland, girl. Here, loyalty is not proven by disobedience."
"And here," Iridessa replied, "loyalty is not earned—it is forced. Perhaps that is why this kingdom crumbles."
Evelyn stepped toward her. "You speak like someone untouchable. But remember—your crown was gifted, not born. And we can take it back."
Iridessa did not move. "Then try."
The chamber vibrated with quiet fury.
A knock interrupted the standoff.
Miri's small voice came through. "My lady? His Majesty has summoned you."
Isadora waved her hand without looking. "Let her go. Let her bask in the illusion of power while it lasts."
Iridessa gave a shallow bow. "If the kingdom survives, it will not be an illusion."
And with that, she turned, her gown sweeping the floor as she exited, leaving behind two women who had long ruled unchallenged—and were now learning what it meant to be threatened.
She did not say a word until the hallway. Only when they were well away from the queen's chambers did she turn to Miri. "Did His Majesty really summon me?"
Miri looked around to make sure they were alone. Then she whispered, "No. I lied."
Iridessa froze. "What?"
"I could not leave you in there," Miri whispered, her voice trembling. "They were circling like wolves, and I thought—if they cornered you long enough, they'd try something. So I said His Majesty called."
Iridessa exhaled, her face softening. "You brave, clever girl."
"I do not care if they punish me," Miri said. "I just had to get you out."
Iridessa touched her arm, gentle. "They will not. I will not let them. Thank you, Miri. Again."
They kept walking, their steps echoing down the marble corridor—two quiet rebels, still standing.