Lady Mehra's chambers were already awake when Miyo entered.
Handmaidens moved in practiced patterns—one arranging silks along a screen, another sorting jewelry, two more arguing softly over which cushions belonged where. The room smelled faintly of rose oil and warm linen. Lady Mehra stood near her bed, directing them with gentle authority, one hand resting often at her growing belly.
When she saw Miyo, her face brightened.
"Miyo, there you are."
"Yes," Miyo replied evenly. "You asked for me."
"I did." Mehra moved toward the bed, careful in her steps, then lifted two gowns from their hangers with a pleased smile.
"What do you think?" She held them out.
One was deep red, the color of old wine and hearth embers, heavy with layered silk and fine embroidery along the sleeves. Gold thread traced quiet patterns across its bodice, and the hem carried tiny stitched sigils of House Fey. It was bold and ceremonial.
The other was green—soft pine and river-moss, lighter in fabric, with flowing lines that fell like water. Pearls were sewn sparingly along the collar, and the waist was gathered with a thin braided sash. Where the red gown spoke of power, the green one spoke of grace.
Both were unmistakably royal.
"So," Mehra asked, smiling, "which would you pick?"
Miyo studied them with polite distance.
"Neither," she said. "I prefer mine in black."
Mehra's arms lowered. She released a small sigh.
"Well, dear, you will have to choose when we visit Storm's Reach."
Miyo looked up sharply.
"Storm's Reach?"
"Yes. Didn't your father tell you?"
"Tell me what?"
Mehra blinked. "Oh dear. Droha, you promised."
She eased herself down onto a nearby cushion, slow and careful, then looked back at Miyo, who was still standing, still processing.
"We will be visiting Storm's Reach days from now."
"Why?" Miyo asked, her voice lifting despite herself.
"Well, it has been a year since I was last there. I miss home, so I wished to celebrate the season's end with my people. Your father agreed we would go together. As a family."
"But the season's end celebrations are near."
"Yes. And your father also believes it will be good for you. You will get to know my people."
Miyo felt something tighten in her chest.
"So it is because of you?"
Mehra's voice remained calm. "My people are your people too."
"No, they are not."
"We are connected," Mehra said gently. "By marriage and alliance."
"But not by blood."
The words landed between them. No one spoke. Around them, the handmaidens continued their work, suddenly very interested in silks and trays and folded linens.
Miyo turned and walked out. She did not wait for permission. Outside, the corridor air felt colder. Her guard stood where he had been stationed, straight-backed and silent. When she passed, he fell in behind her without a word, his steps matching hers.
Lady Miyo entered her room, shortly, steps out weary a white robe covering her attire beneath. The corridor swallowed the soft sound of her steps, the white wool of her robe brushing against polished wood. Ikari kept a measured distance behind her, eyes forward, senses wide. Miyo walked quickly now, shoulders stiff. She turned suddenly.
"Do not follow me."
Ikari halted out of instinct, boots planting themselves where they stood. For a breath, he considered obeying. Then training answered for him. She resumed walking.
He exhaled once and moved after her, lengthening his stride.
"I am sorry, my lady," he said evenly, closing the distance. "But I cannot leave your side."
She spun on him again, green eyes sharp. "Leave me be. I order you not to follow me."
Ikari bowed his head slightly—not in submission, but in acknowledgment.
"Forgive me, my Lady, but I do not take orders from you," he replied, keeping his voice calm. "I take orders from Lord Droha. And Lord Droha commanded that I remain with you at all times."
That did it. He saw it in the tightening of her jaw, in the way her hands curled briefly into fists beneath the sleeves of her robe. Rage. She turned away without another word. Ikari followed.
They descended the outer stairway of the royal building, the air outside struck his face—clean, sharp, alive with voices and movement. The courtyard was already busy despite the hour. Nobles in layered silks. Soldiers changing shifts. Maids carrying baskets. Workers hauling supplies, then there was her.
She stepped into it all like a blade through fabric. Heads turned. Ikari felt it immediately—the shift in attention, the ripple of whispers that had not yet found their voices. She was never meant to be out here like this. Not dressed so simply. Not without escort. Certainly not with her temper simmering just beneath the surface.
People stared. Not rudely. Not openly, but they stared.
"My lady," Ikari said, lowering his voice as he moved closer to her side. "If I may ask—where are you going?"
No reply. Her pace quickened. He adjusted his own to match, positioning himself half a step behind and to her right, the way he'd been trained.
"Please, my lady," he continued, keeping his tone respectful. "I do not think you should be outside."
Still nothing. Ikari scanned the courtyard. Too many variables. Too many eyes. She was exposed, and worse—she was emotional. He caught fragments of murmurs as they passed. A noble paused mid-conversation. Two young soldiers straightened reflexively. A group of apprentices froze, unsure whether to bow or pretend they hadn't seen.