Chapter 4 — A Powerless Princess Makes a Bet.
Dawn crept slowly over Orimvess.
The sky lingered in a pale, uncertain gray—caught between night and morning, as though unwilling to commit to either. Light spilled hesitantly across the city, brushing over cobblestones and spires, gilded rooftops and silent streets. Even the air seemed to pause, holding its breath.
Sunlight slipped through the tall windows of the First Princess's villa, tracing thin lines across silk curtains. Shadows retreated inch by inch, surrendering to warmth. The room awakened quietly, with the discipline of a place accustomed to order.
Princess Sylvaris lay still beneath heavy sheets.
She did not rise immediately. She listened.
Footsteps echoed through marble corridors. Orders were murmured—precise, efficient. Servants moved below with practiced rhythm, the palace resuming its daily breath beneath her unseen command. Only then did her eyes open, catching the first sliver of gold at the window.
Something tightened in her chest.
Not sound. Not instinct.
A wrongness.
She had seen bodies in this palace before.
Servants. Courtiers. Once, even a distant cousin.
This one should not have mattered.
And yet—
Sylvaris turned her gaze downward.
The garden path below was empty—yet not empty.
A body lay sprawled on the dew-soaked grass. Black hair fanned outward, stark against the pale stone, unmoving.
"…Rynvaris," Sylvaris said quietly.
Irritation threaded her voice, but beneath it lay disbelief.
The Eleventh Princess.
The child the palace had already learned to overlook. The girl who should have disappeared long ago—and yet had not.
The palace had taught itself that forgetting her was mercy.
Sylvaris had never believed that lie.
Footsteps approached behind her.
Head Maid Layra entered, a tray of steaming tea balanced in steady hands. Her composure faltered the moment her eyes followed Sylvaris's gaze to the garden below. Worry crept into her features—quickly buried beneath discipline.
"Your Highness," Layra said softly, "the Eleventh Princess… she remained there through the night. At dawn… she collapsed."
Her voice trembled despite herself.
Sylvaris's fingers curled against the windowsill.
"And yet," she said, her tone sharpening, "she was left outside."
Layra froze. The tray rattled faintly.
"That was not… your instruction, Your Highness."
Slowly, Sylvaris turned.
Her gaze was calm.
Focused.
Dangerous.
"I told you not to let her die," she said. "No matter what."
She paused.
"I did not say to protect her," Sylvaris continued.
"I said to keep her alive."
The silence that followed pressed heavily against the room.
"…She is still my sister."
Layra's knees struck the marble floor hard. "I beg your forgiveness, Your Highness—this palace does not forgive assumptions."
"Enough," Sylvaris snapped. The word cracked through the air like a blade. "Bring her inside. Call the royal physician."
She turned back toward the window, her gaze never leaving the motionless figure below.
"If anything happens to her," she added, her voice low and deliberate, "you will answer for it."
She paused only once more.
"And sisters," Sylvaris said, "are liabilities I choose myself."
Layra bowed deeply. "At once, Your Highness."
As servants rushed to obey, Sylvaris remained by the window.
The palace had already noticed.
And once something was noticed in Orimvess—
—it was never left alone again.
Pain pulled me back before sound did.
Hands closed around my shoulders, grounding me against the cold.
"…Your Highness," Layra whispered, relief trembling beneath her restraint. "Please… wake up."
A sound slipped from my throat—barely a groan.
My body felt wrong. Heavy. Unresponsive. Cold stone pressed into my back, draining warmth from muscle and bone alike.
"…Who…?" The word fractured before it finished.
"Layra, Your Highness."
I tried to move.
Pain answered immediately—not sharp, but deep, spreading, absolute. Every limb protested as if reminding me what it cost to remain conscious.
So this is the limit of this body.
Memory returned in fragments. Night air. Wet grass. The looming presence of the First Princess's residence.
"…I passed out," I murmured.
Body failure. Predictable.
I tested my fingers.
Nothing responded.
Layra spoke quickly, words overlapping—orders given, punishment narrowly avoided, the royal physician already summoned. Most of it blurred past me.
One detail didn't.
"…Did she agree?" I asked.
Layra hesitated.
"…No."
The word settled heavily in my chest.
"Then I'm not going inside."
Layra inhaled sharply. "P-Please—if you refuse, Her Highness will—"
"That's not my concern," I said quietly.
I let my head rest back against the stone, allowing the cold to sink deeper.
Three days. Maybe less.
If I give in now, nothing changes.
Footsteps approached some minutes later. The royal physician's irritation announced him before his voice did.
"This is a waste of—"
"Do your job," I said.
My voice held. My body did not.
He examined me with brisk efficiency—pulse, breath, eyes—then pressed a small vial into my hand.
I swallowed.
Fire tore down my throat, detonating through my veins. Pain and warmth collided, burning, stitching, forcing sensation back into limbs that had begun to fail. I gasped as the world snapped into sharper focus.
The physician muttered a chant. Light gathered at his palms and poured into me—controlled, practiced, impersonal.
Magic.
Heat surged through muscle and bone, restoring what had nearly broken.
So this is power.
Even illness kneels before it.
When the light faded, I lay there breathing hard.
Alive.
That was all.
The palace did not whisper.
It observed.
Servants moved through the corridors with trays and folded linens, their steps light, their voices lower than necessary. News traveled faster than feet ever could.
"The Eleventh Princess collapsed again."
"I heard she spent the entire night outside."
"Alive, though. Somehow."
A pair of maids paused near a column, careful to keep their eyes lowered as a noblewoman passed.
"Her Highness allowed that?" one murmured.
The other let out a quiet scoff. "Allowed? Please. If she were meant to die, she'd already be gone."
In the upper halls, laughter carried more freely.
"She really stood outside the First Princess's villa?" a young noble said, incredulous. "What did she expect—pity?"
"Ambition, perhaps," another replied, swirling wine in his glass. "Or desperation. They look similar on the weak."
A lady covered her smile with a fan. "Still alive after all that. How persistent."
"Or how inconvenient," someone corrected.
No one spoke her name with respect.
She was not feared.
She was not pitied.
She was discussed the way one discussed weather that refused to pass.
In servant quarters, the tone was sharper.
"She'll bring trouble," a man muttered. "They always do, the ones who won't stay quiet."
Another shrugged. "Doesn't matter. The palace grinds them down eventually."
Across marble floors and shadowed alcoves, the same conclusion formed again and again—
The Eleventh Princess had overstepped.
And the world was already adjusting to correct it.
They did not approach me while I was weak.
They waited until I could stand.
Guards lingered at the edge of the courtyard, watching as if I were something unfinished. Their eyes held no concern—only appraisal.
"Give it up," one of them said at last, his voice low with practiced contempt. "The First Princess will never train trash like you."
I stayed where I was.
Did not rise.
Did not react.
"Why?" I asked, keeping my voice level. "Even the Fourth Prince failed."
That stopped them.
Not outrage. Not anger.
Calculation.
The silence stretched—long enough for the words to settle, short enough to avoid challenge.
I reached for the locket at my neck. The chain was cold against my skin as I unclasped it. The gemstone caught the morning light, reflecting it without warmth.
"Let's be clear," I said. "Five gold."
Their attention sharpened.
"If Princess Sylvaris accepts me as her student," I continued, "I take it."
Greed surfaced, quick and unguarded.
"And if she refuses," I added, placing the locket in my open palm, "this is yours."
A pouch struck the stone at my feet with a dull, final sound.
Silence spread through the courtyard.
I did not feel hope.
Hope was a luxury for people who could afford to lose.
Loss, on the other hand, was familiar.
And survival demanded risk.
This was not belief.
It was a wager made with nothing left to spare.