The Royal Carriage rattled over the cobblestones, moving too fast for the narrow streets of the capital.
Revas sat in the driver's seat, holding the reins loosely in one hand. He didn't use the whip. He didn't need to. Before they left, he leaned forward and whispered to the horses. Now, the animals galloped with frothing mouths and wild eyes, desperate to escape the one holding the reins.
Inside the carriage, Mirabelle sat in the velvet darkness, smoothing the tattered remains of her wedding gown. She found a discarded cloak belonging to the dead Captain and draped it over her shoulders to cover the worst of the grime.
She felt the carriage lurch as they took a corner on two wheels.
"Slow down!" she hissed through the communication window.
"But we are making excellent time!" Revas called back, his voice bright and cheerful over the clatter of hooves. "And the horses are so motivated. It would be rude to discourage them."
The carriage drifted, skidded, then straightened out and thundered toward the Palace District.
Through the window, Mirabelle saw banners: 'Honor to the Sacrifice.' 'Peace for Sanctum.' People danced in the squares, drank wine, and celebrated that she was gone.
She touched the iron bracelet on her wrist. It was cold. It grounded her.
'They're dancing on my grave,' she thought. 'I'll dance on theirs.'
The Palace of Sanctum was a huge building of white marble and gold leaf. The Grand Hall glowed with light, and music spilled into the courtyard where dozens of carriages waited.
Revas brought the stolen carriage to a screeching stop at the foot of the red carpet, cutting off a gilded coach owned by a fat Duke.
The horses collapsed, wheezing, their legs finally giving out after the unnatural sprint.
Revas hopped down from the driver's seat, landing lightly and dusting off his long coat. He ignored the shocked gasps from the valets and the angry shouts from the Duke's driver.
He opened the carriage door with a theatrical bow.
"We have arrived, my Lady. The horses have given up, but we made it."
Mirabelle stepped out.
A hush fell over the area. The valets froze. The guards at the doors stiffened. They saw a woman in a torn, dirt-stained wedding dress, covered by a soldier's cloak, looking like a ghost from a tomb.
Beside her stood a tall, striking stranger with violet eyes, smiling like a wolf eyeing its prey.
"Halt!" A Palace Guard stepped forward, his hand on his sword hilt. "This is a private Royal Gala. No beggars allowed."
Revas stepped in front of Mirabelle. He didn't touch the guard, but leaned in so close their noses nearly touched.
"Beggars?" Revas repeated, sounding truly offended. He adjusted his silk cuffs. "My good man, do you not recognize the guest of honor? We have come a very long way. Straight up from the bottom, in fact."
The guard blinked, intimidated by the sheer aura of dominance radiating from this stranger. "I... I need to see an invitation."
Revas let out a long, dramatic sigh.
"So bureaucratic," he muttered.
He put a hand on the guard's shoulder. To others, it looked friendly. To the guard, it felt like five steel spikes pressing into his collarbone.
"You will let us in," Revas whispered, his voice laced with a subtle, hypnotic magic. "Because if you don't, I will become very... impolite."
The guard's eyes glazed over. His survival instinct kicked in, overriding his orders. "Right. Of course. Go right in, my Lord."
Revas patted the man's cheek, a gesture that was both affectionate and deeply condescending. "Good boy."
He offered his arm to Mirabelle. "Shall we?"
Mirabelle took his arm. Her heart pounded, not from fear but from adrenaline. She walked up the red carpet, the invisible chain pulling tight between them.
They reached the huge double doors of the Grand Ballroom. Inside, an orchestra played a waltz and hundreds of voices filled the air.
Two heralds stood by the doors, ready to announce guests. They stared at Mirabelle's ruined appearance, mouths open.
"Announce me," Mirabelle said. Her voice was quiet but carried real weight.
The herald stammered. "Y-Your Highness? But... you are..."
"Dead?" Mirabelle finished. She looked at the herald with flat, empty eyes. "Not yet."
She nodded to the doors.
The terrified heralds banged their staffs on the floor. The heavy doors opened with a groan.
The music didn't stop immediately. The laughter continued for a few seconds.
"The Seventh Princess!" the herald's voice cracked, then boomed across the hall. "Mirabelle of Sanctum!"
Silence followed instantly, spreading through the room like a shockwave.
The orchestra stopped suddenly. Dancers froze mid-step. Hundreds of heads turned toward the entrance.
King Theodoric stood on the dais at the far end of the room, holding up a goblet of wine in a toast. Fiona stood beside him, radiant in gold.
The goblet slipped from the King's hand. It hit the marble floor with a sharp clang, spilling red wine that looked like blood.
Mirabelle stood in the doorway. She didn't look like a princess. She looked like a survivor. Her hair was windblown, her dress shredded at the hem, her skin pale.
And beside her stood Revas.
He looked around the room with wide, violet eyes, noticing the silks, jewels, food, and the shocked nobles. He looked like a man just seated at the best restaurant in the world.
He leaned toward Mirabelle, his voice clear in the silence.
"Oh, Mistress," he said with a wicked grin. "They look delicious."
Mirabelle stepped forward, her heels echoing loudly on the floor.
"Hello, Father," she said, her voice ringing through the hall.