The dining hall glowed with soft candlelight, its walls lined with ancient tapestries that whispered of old glories and forgotten wars. At the long wooden table, Xanthe sat beside her mother and sister, their plates piled with roasted meats, spiced roots, and fresh bread still steaming from the oven.
Servants moved quietly between them, pouring mulled wine into silver goblets and setting down platters of buttered greens. The aroma of the evening feast mingled with the smoke from the hearth, warm and comforting—if not for the coldness that hung in the air.
Ourania, in a sleek gown of midnight blue, reclined in her chair like a queen in miniature. Her golden bracelets jingled as she waved away a servant too slowly filling her glass.
"You call that a pour?" she snapped. "Are you blind—or just stupid?"
The servant, a young girl no older than thirteen, flinched and bowed deeply, her cheeks reddening.
"Answer her," Ourania pressed, lifting her chin, eyes sharp with amusement. "Do they not teach basic skills to your kind anymore?"
"Enough, Ourania," Xanthe said, her voice low but firm as her fork paused midway to her mouth.
Ourania smirked. "Oh dear sister, I forgot you like to play the guardian of the lowly. How noble of you. Are you going to cry now too?"
"I said enough," Xanthe repeated, her eyes narrowing.
"Don't speak to your sister in that tone," Lysandra interrupted sharply, before turning her glare on the trembling servant. "Out. All of you. Leave us."
The servants quickly bowed and slipped out of the room, the doors closing behind them with a muted thud.
A tense silence followed. Only the soft clink of cutlery remained as Lysandra reached for her wine with a sigh.
"I won't have bickering at the dinner table," she snapped, her voice sharper than the blade in the roast. "You shame yourselves."
Xanthe pushed her plate back, her appetite now gone.
"If I may, Mother," she said, standing, her tone cool and carefully controlled, "I'll be heading to the village square. There's dancing, music. The harvest festival has begun."
Lysandra raised an eyebrow. "I don't recall granting you permission."
"I wasn't asking." Xanthe met her mother's gaze with equal force. "I won't be late."
Lysandra stared for a long moment but said nothing. Xanthe turned and swept from the room before anyone could stop her.
She never once mentioned Tyche.
Not her name.
Not her plan.
Not her partner.
---
Tyche sat cross-legged on the edge of the straw-stuffed mattress, her back resting against the cool stone wall of her narrow room. A chipped plate balanced on her lap, smeared with the last streaks of golden honey and crumbs from three thin slices of bread. The sweetness still lingered on her tongue—a small comfort, made from the jam she'd prepared in secret weeks ago using wildflowers and clover she'd gathered at dusk.
The room around her was simple, sparse. A single wooden trunk sat at the foot of her bed, worn smooth with age, and a tiny window near the ceiling let in the faint glow of the early evening sky. Shadows danced along the walls from the stub of a candle flickering beside her. There were no silks here, no velvet or embroidery—only linen, rough wool, and the scent of herbs hung to dry in bunches above the bed.
Tyche pulled her knees to her chest, wrapping her arms around them. Her copper-shimmer hair, loosely tied, fell in soft waves over her shoulders, catching the candlelight with each subtle shift of her head. She had changed into a fresh but plain dress, pale grey with a frayed hem and sleeves that no longer reached her wrists. Her skin still held the warmth of the bathwater she'd drawn earlier, and her face—though scrubbed clean—bore a quiet exhaustion beneath her green eyes.
But tonight, those eyes were restless.
The dream still lingered like smoke in her mind—unsettling, vivid, unreal. She could still feel the weight of a crown, the way silk clung to her skin, the golden gaze of a man she did not know but somehow… already feared.
She let out a soft sigh, brushing a curl behind her ear, when—
Tap tap.
The soft knock was barely audible before the door creaked open, revealing Xanthe's familiar silhouette, a bundle of fabric tucked under her arm and a mischievous glint already in her eye.
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