Iridessa and Miri walked through the palace halls with quiet purpose.
Their steps were steady. Their movements composed. Never rushed. Never bold. It was not fear. It was caution. Precision.
Queen Isadora watched too long. Princess Evelyn smirked too soon. Prince Magnus stayed too quiet, his silence sharp enough to cut.
Iridessa had learned this truth the hard way—they did not need truth to ruin her. They only needed suspicion.
So she gave them nothing. No reason. No weakness. No error.
It drove them mad. Each day she passed them unbroken, Miri at her back—smiling, nodding, loyal only to conscience. Their rage grew quieter. Sharper. Iridessa did not care.
The food from Velmora had arrived in time, and though the kingdom still bore its scars, the people were no longer starving. The palace, too, had been restored to a disturbing semblance of comfort—bread on every table, wines back in goblets, fruit returning to the royal platters.
And yet… the drought remained.
The sky held no mercy. The fields cracked like broken porcelain. The great stream that once carried life through the kingdom's belly was now no more than a ribbon of dust. The land was quiet, but not healed.
-
It was during a late royal breakfast, beneath banners of silver and fading gold, that Iridessa rose from her seat.
She had eaten little. Her thoughts were louder than her hunger.
"Your Majesty," she said gently, turning to King Rael.
He lifted his weary gaze. "Yes, Iridessa?"
"I would like permission to visit the village. To leave the palace grounds."
A heavy pause followed.
Evelyn froze, fork midway to her lips. Magnus looked up sharply, jaw twitching. Isadora stayed still, but the glint in her eyes sharpened.
"Leave the palace?" Evelyn echoed. "Is there a festival we do not know about?"
"Or another secret gathering?" Magnus added, disdain coating his voice. "Forgive us, if we are wary of sudden requests."
Rael said nothing. His gaze stayed on Iridessa.
"I only wish to go outside the palace," she said, voice calm. "Walls have held me too long."
Silence lingered again.
Then Rael spoke, clear, firm. "You have my permission."
Evelyn looked ready to choke on air. Isadora smile thinned to nothing. Magnus looked like he would bite the words from the king mouth.
Iridessa bowed. "Thank you, Your Majesty."
-
The sun rose higher by the time Iridessa and Miri passed the palace gates. They wore simple, earth-toned gowns, light veils wrapped loosely around their heads, blending easily into the life beyond the walls.
But the villagers recognized them.
Some bowed low, murmuring thanks. Others offered shy smiles, tears in their eyes. "You saved us," one woman whispered. "We would have died without the food. You saved our children."
Iridessa only pressed their hands, smiled back, humbled and aching all at once. She did not want their worship—she wanted their wellness.
"My lady," Miri said as they walked down the stony lane, "they adore you."
Iridessa shook her head. "They are grateful."
"No," Miri pressed, voice firmer, "they adore you. You gave them hope when the crown offered none."
Iridessa exhaled, gaze distant. "It was not only my doing. It was every kingdom that chose mercy. It was…"
She paused. Her gaze drifted upward, toward the brittle trees clawing at the sky.
"It still has not rained."
"No," Miri murmured, her voice falling. "Not even a drop."
They walked in silence for a while, weaving between mud-washed walls and faded market stalls.
And then..... the faint clink of glass. A quick flutter of fabric. And..crash.
Miri gasped, spinning around. A small, delicate bottle had fallen from the folds of her cloth bag. It had cracked open against a stone and now lay shattered in pieces, its shimmering contents sinking fast into the thirsty earth.
"No!" Miri cried, dropping to her knees. "Oh no—my lady—it broke, I tied it tight, I swear—"
Iridessa crouched beside her at once, laying a calming hand on her back.
"It is all right, Miri. It is just a bottle."
"No, not just—" Her voice broke. "It was hers... Aurora's. The one she brought back with the food. I have kept it close every day since. I tied it. I swear I tied it…"
Iridessa's eyes shifted to the ground. The shimmering liquid—clear, with a faint bluish glow—had disappeared into the dry cracks of the earth like water into a well.
The wind shifted. A breeze stirred, though the air had been still just moments before. It circled them once, brushing Iridessa's cheek, tugging gently at Miri's veil.
And within it, a voice. Soft. Distant. Clear.
"Let the drought end."
Both women froze.
Miri's lips parted. Her eyes widened with disbelief.
"My lady…" she whispered. "Did you…?"
Iridessa did not answer. She was staring at the ground, every inch of her trembling.
Miri stood abruptly, spinning in place, scanning the open road, the rooftops, the trees.
"Aurora?" she called breathlessly. "Are you here? Aurora—was that you?"
Only silence answered her.
"Miri," Iridessa said finally, standing as well. Her voice was quiet. "You heard the voice too."
Miri turned to her, tears forming in her eyes. "I did, my lady. I swear it. It was her voice. I'd know it anywhere. She said… she said let the drought end."
Iridessa nodded slowly, dazed. "In a whisper... like a prayer."
They stood frozen, staring down at the spot where the bottle had broken, as though the earth itself might speak again. Neither knew what to make of it.
That night, the wind did not howl as it usually did. It hummed. Softly. Almost like a lullaby.
Iridessa lay awake long after she and Miri had returned from the village. The broken bottle, the whispered voice, the look on Miri's face—none of it would leave her mind. She had barely touched her supper. Isadora and Evelyn had noticed, of course, and their silence at the table had been louder than any accusation.
Her thoughts were buried in the dust of that village road… and in the echo of Aurora's voice that still lived in her chest.
"Let the drought end."
It began just before dawn.
A low rumble stirred in the sky, faint and uncertain. Servants, already moving through the palace halls, paused and glanced upward. One young kitchen maid ran to the window with her apron still half-tied.
Iridessa had barely closed her eyes when she heard the soft sound—a patter against stone. She rose quickly and moved to the window.
And there it was. Rain.
Not a storm. Not a torrent. But real rain—gentle, light, like a blessing.
Miri came in moments later, eyes wide, her sleeves damp. "My lady," she breathed, "it is raining."
Iridessa looked out the window again, unable to speak.
The sky was grey, streaked with pale clouds. And for the first time in what felt like forever, water touched the soil. The villagers danced.
By midday, word spread like fire through the palace.
The main stream—the one that ran down from the hills into the heart of the capital—was trickling again. First a whisper. Then a certainty.
The great stone bed that had been bone-dry for months now shimmered with movement. Clear, cold water pushed its way through cracks and stones, slow but steady, like something returning from the dead.
Farmers wept at the sight.
Children gathered near the banks, laughing, tossing pebbles into the ripples.
Sorcerers declared it a miracle. The palace staff called it luck. Queen Isadora called for the advisors, demanding answers. Evelyn clenched her jaw until her temples ached. Magnus remained silent, but he watched Iridessa closely—too closely.
And Iridessa?
She stood on the eastern balcony with Miri beside her, staring out at the stream beyond the walls. She said nothing. She just watched.
And whispered under her breath, "Thank you, Aurora."
Miri, who had not left her side all morning, squeezed her hand.
"My lady," she said softly, "I do not know how she did it, but it is truly a thank you."
Iridessa whispered, "Definitely."
-
The courtroom was more crowded than it had been in months.
High-ranking lords, noblewomen, advisors, and even regional emissaries filled the long marble chamber—boots echoing, robes rustling, voices low with confusion and speculation. The hall that once echoed with dry reports and silent fear now trembled with restlessness.
At the front, seated on the faded gold throne, King Rael leaned slightly to one side, a velvet cushion tucked beneath his arm. His face was pale, but alert—his eyes sharper than they had been in weeks.
Beside him, Queen Isadora sat stiffly, her lips pressed so tightly they'd lost all color.
Evelyn sat below the dais, arms crossed, jaw clenched. Magnus stood near a pillar, his dark eyes scanning the chamber, mostly watching Iridessa.
Iridessa sat quietly near the far end of the table, dressed in soft grey, a single silver pin in her hair. She said nothing. She did not fidget. She only watched. And waited.
Miri stood behind her silently, hands folded, eyes down.
A tall, balding noble stepped forward, voice booming. "Your Majesty, all due respect—why was the court summoned so urgently? Is the stream not a blessing?"
Rael raised a hand slowly. "It is," he said. "But the land does not give blessings without reason. And I would know why it has done so now, after all these long, silent months."
Another voice from the side chimed in—Lady Denara, her rings clinking as she gestured. "The sky has been still. There was no great storm, no heavy rains. And yet—water flows again. The stream was dry as bone just days ago."
A ripple of murmurs spread through the hall.
Queen Isadora spoke next, voice smooth but taut. "I summoned our best advisors, Your Majesty. I have had them examine the land, the riverbeds, the rainfall. They have studied the maps. They have consulted the priests. And yet…"
She paused. Her jaw ticked. "…..None of them have an answer."
A silence followed.
Then one of the senior advisors, pale and sweating, stepped forward and bowed.
"We… believe it may have been a sudden shift in the underground reserves. Perhaps the pressure beneath the riverbed released. Or—perhaps something from the Velmoran soil reached our lands—something infused in the food sent... a mineral or an essence…"
"You are guessing," snapped Evelyn. "Even I can hear it."
"I am offering possible logic, Your Highness."
"There is no logic!" she said, standing abruptly. "Our lands have begged for water for so many months. Not a drop. And now it flows? This is not nature—it is interference."
The court stirred louder. Some nodded. Others frowned.
Lord Marthen, an older man with a silver beard, cleared his throat. "Your Majesty, if I may... why does it matter? Is it not enough that the stream has returned? Perhaps it is time to accept it as an answered prayer."
Isadora turned her gaze to him, sharp as glass. "And what god answers without request?"
Magnus finally spoke, low and cold. "What if it is not a blessing? What if it is a bait?"
Gasps rose, some nobles scoffing. A few glanced toward Iridessa. But she did not move.
"You have been very quiet, Princess Iridessa," Isadora said suddenly, her voice sharp. "Perhaps you have something to say. Did this not occur around the time you stepped beyond the palace walls?"
Dozens of eyes turned toward her.
Iridessa met the Queen's gaze calmly. "I have nothing to offer that would ease your confusion."
"You were seen walking through the village the very day the stream returned," Evelyn pressed. "And some villagers saw you and your maid making a fuss about a broken bottle."
Magnus leaned forward slightly. "What was in the bottle?"
Iridessa tilted her head. "You are welcome to search my chamber. You will not find anything that explains the will of the earth."
"You are dodging," Evelyn hissed.
"I am answering," Iridessa said softly.
The hall held its breath.
Then—just as Evelyn stepped forward, fire rising in her throat—Lord Hale stood.
"I believe," he said loudly, "that we are circling nonsense."
All turned to look.
"The stream returned. The sky rained. The fields have dampened. No sword was raised. No enemy attacked. And no priest or adviser can explain the mercy we have been given. So perhaps—just perhaps—we are not meant to."
He looked directly at King Rael.
"Your Majesty… perhaps we should do what this kingdom has forgotten how to do, be grateful. And stop seeking shadows where there are none."
A few nobles murmured in agreement. Others stayed silent, unsure.
Rael leaned forward slowly. "You believe it is a miracle, Lord Hale?"
"I do, Your Majesty."
The king nodded once. "Then that is how it shall be written."
Isadora stiffened. Evelyn looked as if she had swallowed fire. Their plan to implicate Iridessa had not gone as they intended.
Iridessa bowed slightly, a faint, unreadable smile on her lips.
Miri whispered from behind, "My lady… you said nothing, and yet you said everything."
Iridessa only whispered, "They will watch us closer now. We must tread even softer."
But in her heart, a strange sense of peace had bloomed. For the first time in a long time, the people of Elareth would drink. And that… was enough.
-
The grand gallery was dim, the curtains drawn against the golden afternoon. A half-eaten bowl of grapes sat untouched on the marble table. The silence between them was thick.
Queen Isadora sat rigid in her chair, her fingers absently tapping the armrest. Evelyn leaned against the wall, arms crossed, her lips drawn in a tight line. Magnus stood near the hearth, staring into the cold ash of the fire.
"A miracle," Isadora said at last, her voice low and brittle. "That is what they are calling it now."
Evelyn scoffed.
"They are fools. Hungry fools. Desperate people will praise anyone who hands them bread and tells them it is a blessing."
Magnus did not speak. He had barely spoken since the court dispersed.
"She did not even lift her voice," Evelyn went on, pushing off the wall. "Did not argue. Just sat there while the lords whispered like babies."
"She does not need to speak," Isadora muttered. "That is the danger."
There was bitterness in her voice — a helpless, aging kind of bitterness. She had ruled a court that bowed at her word, and now... they were slipping. One by one.
"And Father?" Evelyn asked suddenly, sharp. "Why does he look at her like that now?"
No one answered. They all knew.
Isadora rose slowly to her feet. She walked to the window and pulled back the curtain. Outside, in the far distance, the edge of the city could be seen — and beyond that, the faint shimmer of flowing water. She let the curtain fall back into place.
"She is becoming something to them," she said, quieter now. "A symbol, even if she does not want it."
"Then we shatter the symbol," Magnus said darkly, finally turning to them. "We break the illusion. Find something. Make something."
Isadora nodded slowly. "But not in the open. Not yet. But soon. We wait. And when she stumbles, even the smallest misstep—we strike."
Evelyn's smile returned, thin and sharp.
Outside, a warm wind blew across the dry palace walls. Inside, the silence returned — but this time, it was loaded with quiet, calculated wrath.
-
The moon was high when Evelyn slipped into the chamber at the far end of the west wing — the one no one asked about, the one the guards turned away from. Only her own handmaid trailed behind, silent as smoke.
Inside waited Lady Syra, a noblewoman fallen from grace, now hungry for favor — and gold.
Evelyn sat, her velvet gown whispering against the polished floor. A silver goblet was poured. She did not sip.
"She walks like the palace belongs to her," Evelyn began coldly. "Like her silence is holiness and her kindness a crown."
Syra swallowed. "You speak of the Dhalmar princess."
"Iridessa," Evelyn said. "The foreign girl who speaks little but gains much. She's got the lords listening. The servants praying. Even Father sits straighter when she enters."
She paused. Then added softly, "I want her halo cracked."
Syra leaned forward. "You want a rumor?"
"No." Evelyn's smile was soft, dangerous. "I want suspicion. The kind that seeps in quietly. Something that makes people wonder what else she is hiding."
She leaned back, voice sharper now.
"You were once one of Lady Iridessa's tutors, were you not?"
Syra nodded. "Before she married the prince, yes. She... she kept to herself. Polite. Strange at times."
"Perfect," Evelyn murmured. "We will start with a rumor. She knew spells from her homeland. Spoke to the wind. Grew food from nothing. You were there — you saw things."
Syra hesitated. "But none of it was true—"
Evelyn cut her a look sharp as glass.
"It does not have to be true. It only has to be believable."
She stood, brushing invisible dust from her sleeve.
"Say she is charming the villagers. Say she is enchanting the king. Whisper it to the right people and watch it bloom like a weed."
She turned at the door.
"Begin in the kitchens. Then the guards. Let it feel like gossip, not a campaign. And when the fire catches, I will give the court its smoke."
Syra bowed, her hands trembling slightly.
When Evelyn stepped back into the corridor, she was smiling. Not with joy — but with quiet, exquisite satisfaction.
"Let the little saint feel what it is to burn," she murmured.