The Great Hall was packed with courtiers and guards as Myrril stood in front of the empty throne, a sigil on his grey tunic that signified him as the voice of the King. His head was lowered as he tried not to allow others to see frustration creating lines on his forehead. Yet, amidst the noise around him, he singled out a pair of footsteps coming from a specific pair of feet.

  "How are you faring, Young Jeralia?" Myrril spoke as the princess strolled to his side, her usual dress on her body, a long veil that reached her ankles, and white gloves but with one notable accessory: a diadem, marking her a member of Royal Family. "Well, I hope? It appears that you do have the best interests of the Kingdom in mind today."

  "I've had better afternoons," Jeralia admitted, her tone not exactly friendly toward her uncle-figure. "I've decided that it would be better that the Duke get to meet a real representative of my family."

  Myrril sensed the antagonism in Jeralia's tone and language, but that was to be expected. He had held her as essentially a prisoner the past few days, leaving her to wallow in solitude.

  "You made a good decision," Myrril smiled faintly. "Thank you for making that choice. You'll do well."

  Jeralia barely acknowledged the statement of praise with a curt nod.

  Trumpets rang as Grisvald opened its gates to receive the Mizanian entourage. Banners were raised, streets swept clean, and curious onlookers gathered to glimpse the tall, gold-plated guards of Mizan marching through the wide stone avenues. At Ballandon, flower garlands had been laid across the marble steps. Servants in ceremonial saehses bowed low as the visiting delegation passed. Yet, despite outward signs of welcome, tension hung in the air like an overdrawn bowstring. While the welcoming rites continued in the outer courts, Jeralia stood behind the throne dais briefly, stealing a moment alone to gather herself. She traced her gloved fingers along the edge of the marble rail. This throne had seated her ancestors for generations--some wise, others weak. Today, it stood empty, and she had to make its weight her own.

  Within the palace walls, nobles whispered behind gloved hands. Questions were left unanswered: why had Mizan waited until now to press their demands? What exactly did they want? And why had the King--so steady in diplomacy--withdrawn from view entirely? Myrril's face gave no answers, only shadows. Jeralia's presence at court was its own message, and many eyes waited for her to stumble.

  The doors of the Great Hall thundered open. The guards straightened their stances, hands on spear shafts, as Duke Pallius of Mizan entered with the subtlety of a siege engine. His black-and-gold formal armor shimmered under the sunlight that poured through the stained glass windows, his steps echoing with the arrogance of a man who considered diplomacy an inconvenience.

  Pallius did not bow.

  "Three days of waiting," he began, voice dripping with disdain. "Now I find a girl and a conjurer in place of a king."

  "And we in turn find a guest who speaks like a conqueror before offering his name." Myrril offered the faintest of smiles.

  A dangerous silence hung. Pallius's hand tightened slightly at his side, then a cold smile curved his lips.

  "Very well," Pallius said, his voice as cold as ice. "Let's begin with the matter for which we came--the border disturbances."

  The Princess of Osharis nodded.

  "The patrol skirmishes have already been addressed by our top brass. We've withdrawn our advanced scouts to the agreed perimeter, and we await confirmation that Mizan has done the same."

  "A handful of scouts won't calm the unrest," Pallius gave a dismissive wave. "Mizanian traders still report harassment. Your farmers encroach too freely and your commanders act with... troubling independence."

  "Yet it was Mizan who fortified a bridge along the Drenald Crossing that lies clearly within our lands," Jeralia replied with a level tone. "One may argue the unrest was mutual."

  "You can move bridges," Pallius mocked with flippancy. "Borders, too, in time."

  "And kingdom's can vanish when bridges collapse beneath them." Myrril's voice slid into the space like a knife.

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  The court tensed. Pallius met Myrril's stare and smiled wolfishly.

  "Your clever tongue is noted, Regent. But I didn't come just to bicker over boundary stones,"

  "No, a voice from the galley muttered, too soft for the dais but not unheard. "He came for blood or coin. Or a crown."

  "Let's speak plainly, Princess," Pallius turned back to Jeralia. "You waste breath defending scouts when much worse acts have passed unpunished.

  "You speak of something else." Jeralia frowned, hidden below her veil.

  "I do," the Duke's voice sharpened. "One of our finest warships lies beneath the sea, torn apart with no survivors. The only ships in the vicinity belonged to Osharis. Your silence speaks louder than any confession."

  "We mourn your losses, Duke Pallius," Jeralia's throat tightened, but she held composure. "Our sea fleet found no indication of foul play, but we're prepared to conduct a joint investigation if--

  "You speak as though this is a mystery to solve," Pallius cut her off with a wave. "It isn't. This... is a crime to punish."

  "Then punish wisely, lest you find yourself swinging the blade at shadows." Myrril's voice smoothly drifted forward.

  "You question the judgement of a nation?" Pallius turned to him.

  "No," Myrril's tone was placid. "Only the eagerness of a man who seems prepared for battle before truth is even sought."

  The tension in the hall wrapped tighter, but Jeralia interjected with calm authority.

  "What is it you seek, Duke?"

  Pallius's eyes gleamed.

  "Mizan is prepared to be merciful," he said. "Admit your guilt, make it formal. We will spare you our blades. A full trade blockade will suffice."

  Gasps from courtiers were quickly muffled. Jeralia's expression, already unreadable, did not change.

  "And if we refuse to confess to something we did not commit?"

  Pallius stepped forward, his boots clacking sharply against the marble floor.

  "Then you have sixty days to accept my hand in marriage. Do so and this this matter is closed. Decline, well... you know how it goes."

  A courtier dropped his quill. Another nobleman shifted uncomfortably, fingers tight around the edge of his cloak. Whispers surged like a tide against the wall. This was not a proposal. It was a siege in silk.

  Myrril's eyes flickered across the chamber, measuring reactions. Lords of trade, military officials, highborns from distant provinces all calculated losses, allegiances, and survival. He could almost hear the war forming in their heads. Some looked to him as if he were already the King.

  Silence fell over the court like a sudden snowfall, even though summer was approaching its end. Jeralia's throat was dry. Myrril said nothing now, merely watching her, his eyes unreadable. Then, he slowly stepped forward.

  "The King is too ill to lead. Armies are scattered and untested. Our defenses weren't built for sudden siege," he turned to her. "War will raze the capital. Maybe not today, but eventually."

  "They won't wait long," he added, voice lowered just enough for her ears. "And the moment Grisvald falls, everything your father built burns with it."

  Her jaw tightened, her fists clenched beneath her sleeves. Pallius smiled faintly, sensing the shift.

  "You have a choice, Princess."

  "I accept." Jeralia's voice rang out, steady.

  The hall erupted into hushed chaos. Some gasped, others stared, stunned. Myrril gave the smallest of nods. Pallius turned and bowed, not deeply.

  --

  The sun had sunk lower when Jeralia found herself on the garden balcony overlooking the inner courtyard. The palace loomed behind her, but here, the air was cool and private. She gripped the carved stone railing, her knuckles pale.

  She heard his steps before she saw him.

  "You accepted with such pose," Pallius said behind her. "Almost thought you were pleased."

  "Duty isn't the same as desire, Duke." Jeralia didn't turn.

  "Desire can come later. I've had more reluctant brides," he approached, boots crunching lightly on the gravel. "They tend to adjust."

  "You think I'm soft, don't you?" Jeralia faced him now, staring daggers into him through her veil. "I am not. If you think this arrangement grants you power over me, you're sorely mistaken."

  "Oh, I know what I've won," he smirked. "A princess, a kingdom's silence. Perhaps your loyalty, too, if not your love. You know, I think I sense a sassy smirk behind that veil of yours. I can't wait to see it once I bring you home."

  "You'll never have my love," she said. "And you sure as hell won't be seeing behind this veil soon. And if you threaten this land--my home, again, just remember... I may be your future wife, but I will always be Osharis first."

  Pallius leaned in closer.

  "Then pray that loyalty of yours ensures that crown on your head, Princess. Sixty days. I suggest you start preparing for Mizan's expectations."

  Later, in the quiet of a candlelit hall, a noblewoman approached Jeralia as she walked alone.

  "Your Highness," the woman whispered. "Why? Why did you agree so easily?"

  Jeralia paused, her voice quiet but unwavering.

  "Peace bought with bitterness is still peace. My father lies ill and cannot fight for this nation. War would not take me, but rather, the children in the streets. Farmers in their fields. Mothers who have no say..."

  She met the women's eyes, her own heavy with sorrow behind the cover of her veil.

  "...simply put, because I serve Osharis first. And I'm okay with breaking for it to stand."

  Her voice wavered, but never cracked. When the noblewoman departed in stunned silence, Jeralia stood alone in the corridor, staring at the flickering torches that lined the walls. Her fists were clenched behind her back, her shoulders trembling. Not from fear, but restraint.

  She didn't cry, nor did she scream. But for the first time in days, she allowed herself to hope that the fire inside her would survive whatever Mizan tried to smother it with.

  High above in the tower where Myrril kept his quarters, the Regent watched the moon rise, fingers folded in front of him. He said nothing, but in his eyes, there was no sorrow.

  Only calculation, and the sparkle of opportunity.