"I fear I do not possess the honour of recognising you, sir." I inclined my head slightly toward the tall gentleman whose imposing stature cast a long shadow beside mine.
He smiled with easy composure. "Your Highness flatters me. I am seldom granted occasion to attend the palace."
"Even so," I replied, straightening my posture with quiet resolve, "I should think myself acquainted with your name at the very least. Pray, enlighten me."
He bowed faintly. "Kaelum Whittemore, at Your Highness's service."
"Ah…" I murmured thoughtfully, though no recollection came to me. "Mr. Whittemore, I—"
"Your Highness! There you are!"
The balcony doors opened abruptly, admitting Lady Maya Sinclair, her voice edged with relief.
"Lady Sinclair," I said, turning toward her, "you must forgive my delay. I was detained in conversation with this gentleman."
Lady Maya's gaze swept the balcony with visible confusion.
"My lady," she said gently, "there is no one here."
I turned at once to my left.
The space beside me stood utterly vacant.
"What…?" The word escaped me before decorum could restrain it.
"Are you quite well, Your Highness?" Lady Maya asked anxiously. "Shall I summon your maid?"
"There is no necessity," I answered, exhaling softly, embarrassed by my own discomposure. "I believe fatigue has momentarily overtaken me. Pray tell, when shall this evening's festivities conclude?"
Lady Maya regarded me for a brief moment before her warm smile returned. She approached and took my hand with familiar affection.
"Do not distress yourself, Your Highness. The night's entertainments shall soon draw to their end."
"Lady Maya, I did not intend—"
"You are weary, are you not?" she said brightly, guiding me along the corridor. Leaning closer, she whispered, "Think not upon that which troubles your spirit. The finest jewel in existence could scarcely rival the grace of your smallest smile."
Her words stirred something tender and painful within me. Lady Maya Sinclair possessed a purity of heart seldom found within palace walls.
Yet—
I halted suddenly.
"Lady Maya…"
"Yes, Your Highness?" She paused but did not immediately turn to face me.
"I find myself unwilling to return just yet." I hesitated, searching vainly for suitable phrasing. To appear discourteous was unthinkable, yet neither did I wish her to mistake my fatigue for rejection of her company, which I cherished greatly.
"I confess… I am rather tired."
For a princess schooled in flawless composure, such inadequacy of expression felt almost scandalous.
Lady Maya turned then, her expression altered entirely. Tears gathered in her eyes.
"Your Highness… it is so terribly unjust!" she cried, her composure breaking as she began to weep. "How can His Majesty compel you to marry another when your heart belongs elsewhere? Does he not see? Does he not know of you and the Marquess—"
She stopped herself abruptly, covering her mouth as quiet sobs overtook her.
It was scarcely proper for a lady to display such emotion openly, yet I felt neither discomfort nor reproach toward her.
She wept the tears I had never permitted myself to shed.
"Lady… Maya," I said gently, shaking my head. "Pray do not grieve on my account. The gentleman chosen for me is kind, and though he is not the object of my deepest affection, I shall fulfil my duty. I shall become his wife and endeavour to love him as honour demands."
"But, Your Highness…" she whispered through tears. "To witness a love so precious fade away…"
"It was never a love story," I replied quietly. "Though I confess to harbouring feelings for the young Marquess, he does not return them. To struggle against such truth would be folly."
She wiped her eyes, clutching the handkerchief I had given her, the moonlight catching upon the remnants of tears.
"Will you truly marry him?" she asked, avoiding my gaze.
"Yes."
The word emerged with ease, though it settled heavily upon my heart.
For several moments we stood in silence while distant music drifted from the ballroom — laughter and violins mingling cruelly with the solemn stillness between us.
"It is my duty," I continued softly. "A princess does not wed for longing. She weds for peace, for alliance… for the kingdom."
"And your happiness, Your Highness?" Maya asked quietly.
I offered a faint, practiced smile. "Happiness, my dear Maya, is a privilege reserved for those who are free."
Even as I spoke, the words sounded rehearsed.
A sudden chill passed through the balcony doors behind us. Instinct compelled me to glance back.
Nothing.
Yet for one fleeting instant I felt again that peculiar sensation — as though unseen eyes lingered upon me.
Kaelum Whittemore.
His name echoed within my thoughts.
Who was he? No gentleman could enter the royal palace unannounced, nor vanish without notice. And yet his presence had felt undeniably real… warm… certain.
"My lady?" Maya prompted gently.
"Yes… forgive me." I turned away from the balcony. "We ought to return before my absence becomes tomorrow's scandal."
She nodded, though concern lingered plainly upon her face.
We had scarcely begun walking toward the grand hall when a voice — low, amused, and unmistakably familiar — brushed past my ear like a secret carried upon the wind.
The morrow came sooner than I had wished. Sleep had scarcely visited me before His Majesty summoned me at an early hour to attend the proceedings of the Privy Council. Unease settled within me at once; it was not customary for me to be admitted to such deliberations. What matter of urgency had compelled him to grant me entry today?
"Her Highness, the Royal Princess, is announced."
The chamberlain's voice echoed through the hall, and I was admitted. The chamber fell into a measured silence, broken only by the soft cadence of my footsteps upon polished marble. As I approached the throne, I became aware of a woman standing before His Majesty.
I came to a halt beside her and cast her a brief glance from the corner of my eye. Contempt, determination, and disdain were all unmistakably present in her expression, though she made no attempt to conceal them.
Her hair, pale as winter sunlight, fell in straight, disciplined lines just past her shoulders, each strand sleek and orderly. It ended in sharp, deliberate edges, untouched by fashionable curls or sentimental ornament. She was clad in attire more commonly reserved for kings and generals: a tailored coat of deep ivory, cut with military precision and fastened in ordered rows of silver buttons. Beneath it lay a high-collared waistcoat and crisp shirt, the linen immaculate, her cravat tied with effortless severity.
Fitted trousers replaced skirts, granting her a freedom of movement denied to court ladies. They traced the long strength of her legs before disappearing into polished riding boots.
When she turned her gaze upon me, I met eyes of grey-blue — stern, assessing, and disconcertingly perceptive.
"Greetings, Your Majesty," I said, curtsying in due form.
"Princess…" my father began, before pausing and turning toward the woman beside me. "I have called you here to introduce a noble attending the forthcoming Autumn State Visit."
My head turned sharply. The Autumn State Visit? That was still a fortnight away.
He cleared his throat. "Her Majesty has expressed a desire to offer her services in ensuring that the reception reflects the dignity of both our nations."
What manner of explanation was that?
"How could I not wish to assist?" the woman said from beside me. Her voice was calm, cold, and richly composed. "Especially given the fact that certain individuals have begun questioning my standing within your nation."
"It is an honour to receive you," I said, turning to face her fully.
"Princess Adelaide…" She stepped forward and took my hand, pressing a brief kiss upon it. "You are as beautiful as the stories suggest."
"Thank you," I replied, a faint warmth rising unbidden to my cheeks.
"No wonder he is so obsessed with you," she murmured, scarcely above a whisper.
"Your Majesty, given the unexpected nature of your visit, my daughter shall conduct you on a tour of the palace whilst the maids prepare suitable quarters for your accommodation," my father interjected, his voice weary and faintly unsteady.
I faltered.
Had he just addressed her as Your Majesty?
By all reason… was that a tremor I perceived in his voice?
My father's composure, so often that of an unyielding sovereign, now seemed diminished in her presence. It was unlike the authority he so carefully presented to the world.
I found myself wondering—who was this woman?
"I should be delighted to be escorted by such a beauty," she replied with an easy grin.
"Then, if it pleases Your Majesty, you may begin at once," my father said rather hastily.
The unknown lady offered no objection. Without delay, she turned and departed the council chamber, and I followed in silence.
"Princess Adelaide."
Her voice, cold and precise, reached me the moment we entered the long corridor. I paused at once.
"You do not know who I am, do you?"
"I beg your forgiveness," I replied, bowing slightly before raising my gaze to meet her faint, knowing smile.
"I am the present ruler of Thalmyra," she said, her eyes fixed upon mine with unsettling clarity. "I am Drusilla Thalmyra, by the grace of the crown, King of Thalmyra."
King?
I had heard that Thalmyra had recently acquired a new sovereign, though from the rumours I had imagined a battle-hardened warlord — a man of towering frame, scarred by conflict, forged in the fires of a recent and brutal war.
Never had I imagined a woman.
And still less one who chose to style herself King rather than Queen.
How… intriguing.
"Your Majesty, forgive my ignorance," I said at once, bowing again.
"There is no need for apology, Princess," she replied dismissively, with a slight wave of her hand. "Few beyond my own dominions have yet laid eyes upon me since I ascended the throne a year past."
A year past. The blood that had been spilt within her nation during that time was scarcely imaginable. Her liege father and uncles had perished; ministers were executed without trial, and nobles were hanged in public view. I had heard only fragments of those events, yet one truth remained undeniable—this woman was said to bear more blood upon her hands than any general within my father's army.
"Now, shall we continue with the tour, Your Highness?" she remarked, drawing me from my thoughts as we resumed our walk.
"This corridor leads to the Imperial Garden, where flora from across the continent is cultivated," I said lightly as we proceeded.
"It is commonly said to have been created by your father in memory of a lady he once held in deep affection," Drusilla observed, her hand resting beneath her chin as though in thoughtful appraisal.
The remark was not unfamiliar. I had endured it before.
"Yes," I replied evenly.
"I believe it was in honour of your mother, was it not?" She turned to me with the coldest smile I had yet seen. "Being of Santelune, she must have possessed a great appreciation for such beauty."
A quiet scoff escaped me as we reached the garden gates. "I very much doubt that."
"I have also heard," she continued, "that you resemble her."
Was she attempting to provoke me? To unsettle me? All knew well enough that I detested such comparisons. It was nothing more than a careless cruelty dressed as observation.
"I wonder from whom you have acquired such notions," I began.
She broke into sudden laughter.
"Forgive me, my lady," she said, a tear at the corner of her eye as she recovered herself with evident amusement. "It is only that you resemble a rather fierce kitten when provoked."
I stared at her in silent astonishment.
Here stood a monarch—one spoken of in whispers as a sovereign of blood and iron—laughing openly within a foreign palace, untroubled by decorum or consequence.
What manner of authority allowed such freedom?
What power did she possess that my own sovereign father did not?
A power not of obligation…
but of unrestrained will.
The laughter faded as quickly as it had come, leaving behind a stillness that felt almost deliberate. Drusilla's expression settled once more into its usual composure—calm, unreadable, and faintly distant, as though amusement had never disturbed her features at all.
The garden gates were opened before us.
Beyond them stretched the Imperial Garden in full splendour, each path carefully arranged, each bloom placed with calculated artistry rather than mere sentiment. Roses from the southern provinces climbed in disciplined arches, while pale lilies from Santelune's colder reaches stood in quiet contrast along the marble walkways. The air itself seemed curated—perfumed, but never overwhelming.
Drusilla stepped forward without hesitation.
"It is more orderly than I expected," she said at length.
"That is meant as praise, I presume," I replied cautiously.
"A statement of observation," she corrected. "Praise implies emotion."
We walked together along the central path. Her pace was unhurried, yet certain, as though the garden had already been measured and mentally catalogued.
"You do not approve of sentiment in design?" I asked.
"I do not disapprove of it," she answered after a brief pause. "I simply find it unreliable. Emotion shifts. Structure endures."
A faint breeze passed through the hedges, stirring the blossoms. For a moment, she did not speak, her gaze lingering upon the flowers as though considering something beyond them.
Then, without turning to me, she said quietly, "Your father built this for her, did he not?"
"Yes," I replied.
"And yet she is absent from it."
I did not answer.
Drusilla stopped walking.