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Fantasy Til Death Do Us Part
- Thread starter GetThree
- Start date
Lenaara
Dreaming of honey cakes.
GetThree
The spacious room felt no more comfortable than a dungeon cell. Though soft cushions were invitingly piled on the floor atop lush rugs embroidered in warm colours of crimson, they remained undisturbed. Food and drink had been brought in but was left untouched, the plates of steaming meat grew cold in the salty sea breeze that carried a sweet scent of jasmine. Gossamer fabrics shifted softly in the wind, pressed against the decorative screens leading to a terrace that overlooked the gardens below. The screens had been swung open by servants earlier but once they left, the screens were promptly closed.
She couldn’t stand looking at the sea beyond the palace grounds.
Despite knowing better, Irene tried the doors again. They remained locked and she could hear the soft grunting of the guards stationed outside. Metal scraped against the wall as one of the guards stood straighter, perhaps worried the woman locked inside was going to try to force the doors open. She could understand their caution. The way she’d requested entry into the palace to see the Prince, out of breath and covered by desert sands, had not been subtle.
No one was quite sure what to do with the woman. Her arrival wasn’t announced and the letter she’d thrust at the first person who did not look like a guard bore the seal of the Jarl of Vellanmar, of all people. She did not look like a local and spoke with a slight accent and when asked for a name she hesitated, as if unsure if she even had one or couldn’t choose which one to use. Instead she said, “Irene,” and refused to speak with anyone but Prince Matthias himself. Had it not been for the authentic seal on the crumpled letter, she expected she would’ve been thrown into the streets.
They stripped her of her weapons first. The guard who so unceremoniously pressed his hands to her sides, looking for a dagger hidden in the folds of her purple robe, stared at the bloodied spear-tip with disbelief. Irene did not look like she could ever afford such a weapon, much less use it, but she held the spear with an iron grip that did not fit the broken weapon. The shaft had been shattered, the counterweight missing along with a good half of the spear.
Aside from the dagger that had been found tucked into her boot, Irene carried nothing else. The chariot pulled by two horses broke, the axel snapped, when she leapt off of it before it could completely slow down.
There was nowhere else to go. Vaela was her final destination, her last resort, and the Prince her only chance. If she failed to meet him, she’d have no need for coin or weapons. Material possessions are hardly valuable in death.
Irene turned from the doors and resumed pacing around the room. Panic had nearly clouded her senses when she was led through the palace towards the guest chambers. The chamberlain took away the Jarl’s letter, her only way to prove her claims of her heritage, and when asked to see the Prince, she was ignored. Had it not been for the contingent of guards, she’d have grabbed the chamberlain to shake him until he talked. Some small part of her, the sane part that told her again and again to be patient, stopped her before she could push away the nearest guard to pounce onto the chamberlain’s scrawny back.
They escorted Irene into this room and the doors slammed behind her. Though exhausted, she wouldn’t let herself take even a moment of rest, refusing to be found lounging on the cushions when she was allowed an audience.
Yet her pride was not enough to dull the pain that pulsed through her leg all the way from Izmar to Vaela. Swaying, Irene had almost lost consciousness when she leaned too much onto her left and caught herself from falling by pressing a hand against the nearby wall. Focusing on the cool stone, she blinked way the white circles that flashed before her vision before they could consume it and her mind completely. The sensation of weightlessness was almost welcoming, a better alternative to the agony that accompanied her during those two wretched days of standing on a chariot.
Eyes closed, Irene listened to the crashing waves of the sea in the distance and the calls of seagulls flying overhead. When the nearing sound of servants broke the tranquillity with a rushed staccato of footsteps Irene stepped away from the wall and composed her features into something that somewhat resembled indifference. Not one to pretend to be someone who she was not, she doubted she looked convincing. But there was no point to her act. The servants never raised their eyes to look her way when they set down the trays laden with food and drink and promptly left afterwards, backing away, backs bent, and heads lowered in a respectful bow.
No one knocked on the doors or opened them since. Irene did not eat, too exhausted to even consider the thought, but emptied the water pitcher with the haste of someone who had not left the desert in days.
The room she was given was beautiful and lavishly decorated. Rugs strewn across the stone floors were soft and embroidered in complicated patterns. Silk brocade of pillows glimmered in the sun, its rays entering the chamber through the latticework of the decorative screens. Branches of palm trees, their green leaves bright against the muted red and blue walls, were tastefully placed on either side of the main doors. A single bed stood in the middle, unmade and with legs like that of lion’s paw. To the side, surrounded by the pillows, was the low table, the food placed upon it still untouched.
Irene left a trail of sand behind her as she paced like a caged animal. Dust from the road coated her body, muted her purple robes and the ashen brown of her hair. Grey hair to match grey eyes. When she brought a hand to her brow, some sand fell into her eyes and she winced from its onslaught and for the first time in days wished for a basin of water to wash up. Left alone, no longer in a hurry to reach Vaela, she could do nothing else but wait and hope and pray to the Mountain that what she had planned was going to work, that her words were going to move the Prince and he’d agree to her absurd proposal.
To marry her and destroy Izmar, her homeland, a barren rock of a kingdom ruled by vipers.
Once more Irene thought of the letter the chamberlain took from her. Written by a steady hand of a man who had enough influence to vouch for a mercenary of small repute that she was who she claimed to be – the true heir to the Izmarian throne. It was Vladimir of Vellanmar who had discovered this piece of information and who put Irene on this path and planted all the right ideas in her head. Irene refused to accept it and his help, but driven into a corner, she had no choice but to throw her freedom away and follow the advice of someone who believed her to be his biggest investment. Foolish, both of them.
And though she entered here voluntarily, allowed herself to be stripped of weapons and the only insurance she had, Irene felt like she’d walked into a trap. A carefully laid trap, at that. The thought of living here, calling it her home and its master her husband, was nauseous. It was absurd. Wrong.
Slowly, Irene stepped towards the terrace doors and pushed them open. The garden below was empty of people, so no one could see her step towards the stone railing and knit her brows together in a frown. The air carried a faint scent of jasmine and lotus flowers. Below the terrace, framed by stone statues of lions, was a dark green pool of a pond. Lotus bloomed on its surface, swaying gently in the breeze.
Palm trees reached towards the terrace, their canopy whispering in the wind. On the horizon, the sea was a smooth deep blue dotted with sails of distant ships. A beautiful, tranquil scenery.
Everything was oddly simple, bereft of excessive decoration. As the rest of the residence, the architecture was elegant in its simplicity. Irene couldn’t see the whole of the palace grounds from her vantage points and could scarcely recall the hallways she passed on the way to the guest chambers. Too tired to care at the time and blinded by the sudden shadow of the indoors, she could only focus on the chamberlain and the building frustration at his silence and refusal to speak to a woman who so brazenly demanded a private audience with his master.
Not for the first time Irene brought up her hand to rub the bridge of her nose and wondered if what she was doing was worth it. The throbbing pain in her right leg served as a constant reminder that she didn’t have a choice in the matter.
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GetThree
Junior Member
It was nearly sunset. The sky was a mixture of oranges and pinks, a gorgeous scene and a welcome change from all the blinding white that had surrounded him in the palace. White walls, white curtains, white floor. White robes, worn by nearly everyone in Court today, as if it were some sort of uniform. White masks on every single person in that room, sparkly clean and practically shining, the images of purity. Even the bloody horses that had walked past him in the courtyard were white as snow. It was as if the universe conspired against him, throwing that color in his face everywhere he went just to make his headache worse.
Today had been a rough day for him. His proposition to extend their mining efforts toward the mountain ranges had met objections at every turn. He alone held the support of over a third of the Court but when the entirety of the remaining nobility was determined to make his life hard, it was impossible to get anything done. Even his father, the Emperor, who usually doted on him more than anyone else, had been taken aback and hesitant to pass his proposal. All of this could have been solved easily if he had a connection to the Kingdom of Izmar which lay in the Winrist Mountains. But despite the multitude of proposals from said country streaming into his office, the current situation of Izmar was such a mess that he had no way of telling who even had the advantage in their civil war. One could argue that the person whom he chooses to support would be the one with the advantage. Matthias, however, was not someone who took blind risks.
It was only when he neared his mansion that his pounding migraine started to subside. This was the main reason why he had practically begged for the residence closest to the sea. The ocean breeze, gentle and calming, was better than any medicine given by the healers. Others had assumed it was to develop his Navy, which was an advantage, sure, but that had come as a side bonus more than anything. Ultimately, after years of dealing with the best of the worst, even he needed some sort of stress relief. The sea was that for Matthias, a man whose heart was rarely moved even by the most soothing lullabies.
His entourage entered his residence, a compound that occupied a large area just beside Vaela’s busiest port, Gerith Port. In spite of his fatigue, Matthias as he dismounted from his horse and strode into his house was the picture of grace. He nodded at the guards and servants that he passed by as he headed to his room, a kind smile on his face and grateful words slipping out of his mouth like bees to honey. “Your Highness,” a hesitant voice called out, stopping him mid-way. “There is a woman here who seeks an audience with you,” one of his new attendants spoke, eyes darting around the hall and voice stuttering to a stop as if scared to continue. “And? Who is she?” Matthias prompted. “She was sent by Lord Vladimir.” Silence.
His interest was piqued, a surprising thing considering how lifeless he had been feeling the past few days. Even more surprising was the letter that was handed to him, sealed with what was undoubtedly Vladimir of Vellamar’s seal, looking like it had made its way to him through a thousand storms. “Send her to my room,” he ordered, seemingly calm despite the whirlwind of possibilities in his mind. For someone like Vladimir to have specially written a letter, who could this mystery woman be?
He entered his room and dismissed the attendants. The last person left the room, shutting the door behind him and almost like someone had pressed a button, the dashing prince facade crumbled. He stripped off his stifling jacket, settling down into a cushioned chair as he let out a small sigh and shut his eyes tightly. Taking in a deep breath, he stretched his body, rolling his shoulders back and forth in an attempt to relieve the pain in his tense muscles. It was almost amusing, a young warrior of merely twenty summers old yet he already had stiff shoulders and back pains from sitting too long. Completing his stretch by cracking his knuckles, he finally broke the seal on the letter and started to read it.
The more he read, the more his surprise grew, until his unfailingly impassive face had warped into one of undeniable shock. The neat script was imprinted in his mind. The last remaining royalty of Izmar, a queen hidden amongst commoners returning from a life of poverty to save her country in its most desperate times. It resembled a children’s tale. It was a story that he would never have believed if it had been from anyone else but the serious, honest Vladimir. This was the solution to all his problems. Finance, resources, manpower. Izmar was a land choked full of those things. If he controlled this woman, he would control Izmar. If he controlled Izmar, his future as the next Emperor was set as long as he played his cards right. And Matthias always played his cards right.
There was a knock on the door. Matthias straightened as he called for the visitor to enter. He had a polite smile, not too friendly but welcoming all the same. They were two strangers meeting and he would act accordingly, yet at the same time his expression seemed to be saying 'Trust me. We're comrades, friends, we're on the same side'. Only those adapt at reading others would notice that his eyes were dark and sharp, with a glint hidden deep in his gaze that resembled a predator stalking their prey. The woman that entered had tattered clothes and was covered in head to toe in dust. Not even close to looking like royalty. Matthias’s smile remained the same even as he noted this down internally, showing no signs of judgement toward her poor condition.
“My apologies for making you wait, I’d only just returned from the Palace,” he said, his deep voice as smooth as butter but his intense stare trained on her never wavered even as he cleared his desk. As she came closer, her features became clearer to see. Greyish hair, that might have once been brown but had fallen to such a state from the thick layer of dust, accompanied by startling grey eyes. A beautiful woman, but it was obvious she was past her prime. Perhaps nearing her third decade, most likely quite a few years older than himself. Something like dismal flickered in his mind but he ignored it, choosing instead to gesture at the chair across his ebony desk. “Please sit.” Those two words were cordial, even with a trace of gentleness, but they also contained a certain force behind it. It was an order, as anyone who cared to listen closely would understand. Their eyes met, crystal blue against silver, and, under the ray of crimson sunlight that streamed in from behind him, the smile on his lips suddenly seemed instead to be a monster baring its fangs.
Lenaara
Today had been a rough day for him. His proposition to extend their mining efforts toward the mountain ranges had met objections at every turn. He alone held the support of over a third of the Court but when the entirety of the remaining nobility was determined to make his life hard, it was impossible to get anything done. Even his father, the Emperor, who usually doted on him more than anyone else, had been taken aback and hesitant to pass his proposal. All of this could have been solved easily if he had a connection to the Kingdom of Izmar which lay in the Winrist Mountains. But despite the multitude of proposals from said country streaming into his office, the current situation of Izmar was such a mess that he had no way of telling who even had the advantage in their civil war. One could argue that the person whom he chooses to support would be the one with the advantage. Matthias, however, was not someone who took blind risks.
It was only when he neared his mansion that his pounding migraine started to subside. This was the main reason why he had practically begged for the residence closest to the sea. The ocean breeze, gentle and calming, was better than any medicine given by the healers. Others had assumed it was to develop his Navy, which was an advantage, sure, but that had come as a side bonus more than anything. Ultimately, after years of dealing with the best of the worst, even he needed some sort of stress relief. The sea was that for Matthias, a man whose heart was rarely moved even by the most soothing lullabies.
His entourage entered his residence, a compound that occupied a large area just beside Vaela’s busiest port, Gerith Port. In spite of his fatigue, Matthias as he dismounted from his horse and strode into his house was the picture of grace. He nodded at the guards and servants that he passed by as he headed to his room, a kind smile on his face and grateful words slipping out of his mouth like bees to honey. “Your Highness,” a hesitant voice called out, stopping him mid-way. “There is a woman here who seeks an audience with you,” one of his new attendants spoke, eyes darting around the hall and voice stuttering to a stop as if scared to continue. “And? Who is she?” Matthias prompted. “She was sent by Lord Vladimir.” Silence.
His interest was piqued, a surprising thing considering how lifeless he had been feeling the past few days. Even more surprising was the letter that was handed to him, sealed with what was undoubtedly Vladimir of Vellamar’s seal, looking like it had made its way to him through a thousand storms. “Send her to my room,” he ordered, seemingly calm despite the whirlwind of possibilities in his mind. For someone like Vladimir to have specially written a letter, who could this mystery woman be?
He entered his room and dismissed the attendants. The last person left the room, shutting the door behind him and almost like someone had pressed a button, the dashing prince facade crumbled. He stripped off his stifling jacket, settling down into a cushioned chair as he let out a small sigh and shut his eyes tightly. Taking in a deep breath, he stretched his body, rolling his shoulders back and forth in an attempt to relieve the pain in his tense muscles. It was almost amusing, a young warrior of merely twenty summers old yet he already had stiff shoulders and back pains from sitting too long. Completing his stretch by cracking his knuckles, he finally broke the seal on the letter and started to read it.
The more he read, the more his surprise grew, until his unfailingly impassive face had warped into one of undeniable shock. The neat script was imprinted in his mind. The last remaining royalty of Izmar, a queen hidden amongst commoners returning from a life of poverty to save her country in its most desperate times. It resembled a children’s tale. It was a story that he would never have believed if it had been from anyone else but the serious, honest Vladimir. This was the solution to all his problems. Finance, resources, manpower. Izmar was a land choked full of those things. If he controlled this woman, he would control Izmar. If he controlled Izmar, his future as the next Emperor was set as long as he played his cards right. And Matthias always played his cards right.
There was a knock on the door. Matthias straightened as he called for the visitor to enter. He had a polite smile, not too friendly but welcoming all the same. They were two strangers meeting and he would act accordingly, yet at the same time his expression seemed to be saying 'Trust me. We're comrades, friends, we're on the same side'. Only those adapt at reading others would notice that his eyes were dark and sharp, with a glint hidden deep in his gaze that resembled a predator stalking their prey. The woman that entered had tattered clothes and was covered in head to toe in dust. Not even close to looking like royalty. Matthias’s smile remained the same even as he noted this down internally, showing no signs of judgement toward her poor condition.
“My apologies for making you wait, I’d only just returned from the Palace,” he said, his deep voice as smooth as butter but his intense stare trained on her never wavered even as he cleared his desk. As she came closer, her features became clearer to see. Greyish hair, that might have once been brown but had fallen to such a state from the thick layer of dust, accompanied by startling grey eyes. A beautiful woman, but it was obvious she was past her prime. Perhaps nearing her third decade, most likely quite a few years older than himself. Something like dismal flickered in his mind but he ignored it, choosing instead to gesture at the chair across his ebony desk. “Please sit.” Those two words were cordial, even with a trace of gentleness, but they also contained a certain force behind it. It was an order, as anyone who cared to listen closely would understand. Their eyes met, crystal blue against silver, and, under the ray of crimson sunlight that streamed in from behind him, the smile on his lips suddenly seemed instead to be a monster baring its fangs.
Lenaara
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Lenaara
Dreaming of honey cakes.
GetThree
It was easier not to think. Constant movement emptied Irene’s mind of worry and fear and paranoia. Considering all the what ifs and possibilities of a decision often led to inability to make a choice and Irene refused to be the indecisive one. Sometimes there was no choice to be made at all. To do what must be done and deal with the consequences later, caution be damned, was an easier way to live.
Similarly, it was easier to commit to an absurd idea without so much as taking a day or two to consider the consequences. Pursued, chased out of Izmar, Vaela was the only other place Irene could go where her future was certain to a degree. A day’s ride on horses driven nearly to death, with only a few hours off the chariot to rest, and not a moment spent on thinking. Irene hoped Prince Matthias would see her quickly but instead, she was given the opportunity to rest and then some, and in the confines of a room she couldn’t stop the treacherous thoughts from finally flooding her mind with uncertainty.
Irene leaned against the stone railing, forehead bent so low it touched her intertwined hands. What a fool she was to think her proposal was going to sway anyone, let alone the Prince. An even bigger fool to involve herself in politics where she didn’t belong.
For one fleeting moment she considered escaping the palace grounds. The terrace was above the gardens and though she was not the stealthiest of warriors, she believed herself capable in avoiding the guard and sneaking out before anyone noticed her absence. Had she the humour for it, Irene would have laughed at the silliness of this idea.
A fool and a coward.
A servant arrived just as the skies started to darken. In the time it took them to arrive to the Prince’s chambers, Irene started to doubt the reality of it all. The knock and the voice that followed sent her heart into a fit of panic. Terrified and anxious in equal measure, Irene watched the attendant as he opened the door and gestured for her to enter.
Best get on with it, then.
The unease she felt was instantly replaced by caution. Without meaning to, Irene stopped just a step away from the threshold. Alarm bells rang in her mind and a sick feeling twisted her gut, her body turned tense, wound up like a spring. Slim brows twitched in a fleeting frown. The room was as elegant as the rest of the residence, as the Prince himself, and despite its simple luxury, Irene couldn’t help but compare it to a beast’s den.
The sound of the door closing behind her woke Irene from her stupor and, giving the door a one final glance, neared the desk behind which the Prince was staring at her intently, smiling a pleasant smile that she thought was wrong.
A trap, her mind offered without hesitation.
Once she stood a respectful distance from the Prince, Irene lowered herself into a bow. One arm pressed to her abdomen, the other to her side, Irene tilted her chin to her chest in respect she did not feel. Prince Matthias was not her monarch; she owed him nothing. But bowing before him was much easier than looking him in the eye. She couldn’t shake off the shock of alarm that rang through her like lightning when their eyes met.
“Your Imperial Highness,” Irene began, praying her voice remained steady. “I thank you for seeing me so swiftly. My name is –“ pausing to gather the courage to say what she refused to say out loud for months – “Irene Ur’Udam Mongke Luu Azdahaag. I am the sole and only heir to the Izmarian throne.”
It was surreal to say this name. No matter the evidence that she was given as proof of her true heritage, she refused to accept the heavy and foreign and insultingly long name the royalty of Izmar was so proud of. Vaela was by far the wealthiest kingdom in the orient, its borders vast and its economy flourishing. In comparison, Izmar was a small land of no importance, a barren thing with only one redeeming quality. Irene supposed she shared much with her homeland.
Raising her head just a fraction, Irene glanced at the chair. To sit down was a welcome notion as her leg still ached, but just as she refused to relax in the guest chambers, she couldn’t even comprehend the thought of dropping her guard down now. Closing her eyes, Irene breathed in and dispelled the worry from her mind. The Prince was but one man.
Slowly, Irene sat down. Rigid and uncomfortable, the way she felt about the situation was more than obvious. “Thank you, Your Highness. I have come here to make a proposition. It concerns both our nations.”
It occurred to Irene that she knew very little of Vaela and its royal family. At Vladimir’s behest she came to Prince Matthias first, knowing only his name and status. Not knowing what he looked like or even how old he was, Irene was surprised to see that he was young. It mattered little, of course. Had he been an old man with three dozen concubines, her proposal would have remained the same. It was intended for his father before, anyway.
Yet Prince Matthias was neither old nor unattractive. Dressed as any other member of the royalty, in finery of the highest quality, he radiated confidence befit of a future Emperor. And though he gave her no reason to despise him, Irene couldn’t supress the anger that flashed in her silver eyes. Before the Prince could notice it, Irene began to speak.
“Under the assumption that no legitimate heir is alive, Izmar has been thrown into chaos. Nobility of my homeland has laid claim to the throne. One such family has proof of blood ties to the monarchy. They possess little influence, however. Most likely they will be eliminated from the candidacy soon. I bore witness to the assassination of most its members. The rest remain in hiding. Meanwhile, other noble families wage war against each other. Their supporters clash and the people are caught in the middle. Innocents die because of the nobles’ whims and desires to sit on a throne no grander than a chair. Petty politics are tearing my homeland apart.”
Anger soaked her words and brought forth unpleasant memories. Irene did not care. No speech was prepared for the Prince, only ideas influenced by Vladimir’s honeyed words. It was up to fate to decide if her simple proposal was enough to persuade him. If he was as any other royal, he cared not for the common folk of a nation he probably never stepped foot on.
“I have no desire to rule,” Irene continued. “What I propose is a marriage between our kingdoms. Izmar will be united with your land and cease to be. It will be ruled solely by you and your heirs. The nobility of Izmar will protest, however. So long as I am alive their actions against me will be treason. What I wish is for them to end, their land and titles revoked. It will guarantee the succession of your heirs to the throne in the future.”
Though well-travelled, Irene knew little of Vaelan culture and traditions. Succession to the throne of Vaela was as unknown to her as was its Court etiquette. She couldn’t begin to understand the complications of arranging a marriage between two kingdoms that were so different from one another. Even as she voiced the proposal to Prince Matthias, asking him to take her homeland off her hands as if it was some burden, an unwanted broken child, Irene did not want to understand the complexity of the situation. Everything was not as simple as she painted it to be.
“Though I am not young, I am childless. The people of Izmar will not protest a foreigner’s rule with me at your side. I will not interfere with the political affairs of this kingdom. All I ask is an escort of armed guard and your support to bring with me to Izmar to prove my heritage before the nobility. Many believe me to be dead, others do not know of my existence. The throne cannot remain vacant for long.”
Strange how easy it was to throw away one’s freedom. Fate had a cruel sense of humour. Irene never thought herself to be fit for marriage. Starting a family was impossible in her condition and if that did not bother some, it bothered her. For someone of her trade and unpredictable lifestyle, marriage was too permanent of a concept. Now, she was asking to be made Empress of a land she barely knew, wife to a man she did not care about nor wanted to.
Voicing the proposal was not difficult. Indeed, once it was done and Irene looked away from Prince Matthias, she felt less burdened than before.
For a while she was quiet, eyes trained on the horizon behind the Prince. The dying sunlight played on the golden thread of her clothes. It shimmered bronze beneath the grime and dust. When she spoke again, it was in resignation. Proposing a marriage never seemed to dismal. “Do you accept, Your Highness?”
GetThree
Junior Member
The woman, Irene, held herself with grace as she greeted him. However, it was not the grace of nobility. She had none of the subtle elegance or careful perfection. Her actions were smooth but not beautiful, she made no useless gestures as she rose from her bow and sat down where he had instructed. The grace she possessed was instead the kind one expected to see in an experienced soldiers. A lone wolf walking the plains rather than a venomous snake hypnotizing its prey. Matthias disliked wolves; they made for the most annoying targets in a hunt.
These thoughts remained unknown to anyone other than himself as he leaned back in his chair, gaze still steady on Irene as she started to speak. The brunette refused to look him in the eyes after that brief moment when their gazes had interlocked. Smart, he thought, she has good instincts. The smile on his face hardened by a miniscule fraction. Good instincts were good in anyone except those against him. He hoped, for her own good, that after this talk she could be fully removed from the latter group.
When she spoke, there was a certain quality to her voice that made others listen. It was not something that had to do with charisma, it was a different trait entirely and one that he admired. He had spent years training that particular skill to perfection. With Irene, however, it appeared as if it came naturally to her, so much so that she didn't seem to even realize it herself. Once again, he found himself intrigued by this curious rogue.
The more he listened to her proposal, the more he found himself liking the idea of it. If it was truly as simple as she had implied, he would have done it in an instant. Matthias placed little importance on emotions such as love. His marriage was always intended to be a political one and the thought of taking the hand of someone whom he had only known for a matter of minutes did not disturb him nearly as much as it probably should have. Marriage wasn't as permanent a thing as people made it seem anyway. Was his father not living proof?
His hesitance was in her identity, which was dubious at best. Although he trusted Vladimir, or at least trusted him not to give out useless information, Matthias was a stickler for solid evidence. He could use the recently developed life magic to test it. All he needed was her blood and something of the late Izmarian king's. Although both talented life magic users and a dead king's possessions were tough things to find, it was nothing beyond his capabilities.
However, if she turned out to be the real thing, what then? He could not simply declare her the next Queen of Izmar and marry her without justification. Even if his father accepted this, his brothers, along with more than half the nobility in Vaela, would not. Matthias's eyes roamed over the woman sitting across him again, studying her down to the details. Rough skin, calloused hands, a fit, muscular body befitting a female warrior more than a lady of high society. No one would readily accept her as royalty, even of the Izmarians that they thought were savages. They would have to stage a play of sorts, something dramatic yet realistic enough for people to accept a rogue woman as a long lost princess.
Matthias did not reply even when she asked him directly for his answer, silently mulling over different ideas as they stormed through his mind. Finally, he let out a sigh, so soft that it seemed to be meant only for himself. "Lady Irene, I must admit that this is a...difficult decision for me to make," he started, tone gentle yet helpless. His icy stare seemed to have melted, a calming, deep lake taking its place. "I would like to discuss this with my advisors before I come to a conclusion. For the time being, I would like to invite you to stay in my residence." A person who had spent time in the Vaelan court would have recognized the oddities in his words. For starters, he had adressed her as Lady, not Princess, clearly meaning to say that he did not trust her. By the time he had finished his last line, the two guards behind her had suddenly become alert, as if ready to drag her away. With a warm voice and smiling face, Matthias had told her 'I don't trust you, and you will be a prisoner here until I decide I do.' One didn't need much imagination to think of what happens if he decides he doesn't.
His eyes met those of an attendant standing at the corner of the room and it was like a secret message had been passed. The young blond boy immediately ordered the others to escort Irene to a guest room and serve her, clearly of higher authority than the rest of the servants in the room. Matthias also rose, head barely lowering in what could be a greeting with with some imagination. "I will see you at dinner, then," he finished, pleasant as ever. It was only once she left the room that his expression turned frosty once again. Two people remained in his office, the blond attendant and a tall imposing guard. "Mikas...take good care of her," he whispered, staring past the duo at the open door with narrowed eyes. He didn't need to explain further as the younger male nodded in understanding and left with a bow. The remaining man, Jaime, the Captain of his guard, studied Matthias with a slightly confused expression.
"You don't trust her," he stated, sitting down on the chair where Irene had sat before without a need for prompting. His attitude was that of a concerned friend rather than a soldier to his Lord. "No," was his Prince's only response. Silence stretched for a long time between the two as Matthias processed everything that had happened slowly, the beginnings of a scheme forming in his mind. "I need you to find me some things," he begun. Jaime's eyes widened as he listened. "You really think...?" The guard asked and he needed no verbal confirmation once he saw the determination in his friend's face.
Once Jaime left, Matthias leaned back in his chair. No one could tell from his face what he was feeling about the chaos of the day. Only those closest to him could understand that he was in one of his rare moods of inspiration. At the very least, he thought, tonight's dinner will be interesting.
Lenaara
These thoughts remained unknown to anyone other than himself as he leaned back in his chair, gaze still steady on Irene as she started to speak. The brunette refused to look him in the eyes after that brief moment when their gazes had interlocked. Smart, he thought, she has good instincts. The smile on his face hardened by a miniscule fraction. Good instincts were good in anyone except those against him. He hoped, for her own good, that after this talk she could be fully removed from the latter group.
When she spoke, there was a certain quality to her voice that made others listen. It was not something that had to do with charisma, it was a different trait entirely and one that he admired. He had spent years training that particular skill to perfection. With Irene, however, it appeared as if it came naturally to her, so much so that she didn't seem to even realize it herself. Once again, he found himself intrigued by this curious rogue.
The more he listened to her proposal, the more he found himself liking the idea of it. If it was truly as simple as she had implied, he would have done it in an instant. Matthias placed little importance on emotions such as love. His marriage was always intended to be a political one and the thought of taking the hand of someone whom he had only known for a matter of minutes did not disturb him nearly as much as it probably should have. Marriage wasn't as permanent a thing as people made it seem anyway. Was his father not living proof?
His hesitance was in her identity, which was dubious at best. Although he trusted Vladimir, or at least trusted him not to give out useless information, Matthias was a stickler for solid evidence. He could use the recently developed life magic to test it. All he needed was her blood and something of the late Izmarian king's. Although both talented life magic users and a dead king's possessions were tough things to find, it was nothing beyond his capabilities.
However, if she turned out to be the real thing, what then? He could not simply declare her the next Queen of Izmar and marry her without justification. Even if his father accepted this, his brothers, along with more than half the nobility in Vaela, would not. Matthias's eyes roamed over the woman sitting across him again, studying her down to the details. Rough skin, calloused hands, a fit, muscular body befitting a female warrior more than a lady of high society. No one would readily accept her as royalty, even of the Izmarians that they thought were savages. They would have to stage a play of sorts, something dramatic yet realistic enough for people to accept a rogue woman as a long lost princess.
Matthias did not reply even when she asked him directly for his answer, silently mulling over different ideas as they stormed through his mind. Finally, he let out a sigh, so soft that it seemed to be meant only for himself. "Lady Irene, I must admit that this is a...difficult decision for me to make," he started, tone gentle yet helpless. His icy stare seemed to have melted, a calming, deep lake taking its place. "I would like to discuss this with my advisors before I come to a conclusion. For the time being, I would like to invite you to stay in my residence." A person who had spent time in the Vaelan court would have recognized the oddities in his words. For starters, he had adressed her as Lady, not Princess, clearly meaning to say that he did not trust her. By the time he had finished his last line, the two guards behind her had suddenly become alert, as if ready to drag her away. With a warm voice and smiling face, Matthias had told her 'I don't trust you, and you will be a prisoner here until I decide I do.' One didn't need much imagination to think of what happens if he decides he doesn't.
His eyes met those of an attendant standing at the corner of the room and it was like a secret message had been passed. The young blond boy immediately ordered the others to escort Irene to a guest room and serve her, clearly of higher authority than the rest of the servants in the room. Matthias also rose, head barely lowering in what could be a greeting with with some imagination. "I will see you at dinner, then," he finished, pleasant as ever. It was only once she left the room that his expression turned frosty once again. Two people remained in his office, the blond attendant and a tall imposing guard. "Mikas...take good care of her," he whispered, staring past the duo at the open door with narrowed eyes. He didn't need to explain further as the younger male nodded in understanding and left with a bow. The remaining man, Jaime, the Captain of his guard, studied Matthias with a slightly confused expression.
"You don't trust her," he stated, sitting down on the chair where Irene had sat before without a need for prompting. His attitude was that of a concerned friend rather than a soldier to his Lord. "No," was his Prince's only response. Silence stretched for a long time between the two as Matthias processed everything that had happened slowly, the beginnings of a scheme forming in his mind. "I need you to find me some things," he begun. Jaime's eyes widened as he listened. "You really think...?" The guard asked and he needed no verbal confirmation once he saw the determination in his friend's face.
Once Jaime left, Matthias leaned back in his chair. No one could tell from his face what he was feeling about the chaos of the day. Only those closest to him could understand that he was in one of his rare moods of inspiration. At the very least, he thought, tonight's dinner will be interesting.
Lenaara
Lenaara
Dreaming of honey cakes.
GetThree
There was nothing more to be said between them. Whatever Prince Matthias thought of Irene, was important. It did not matter that she possessed neither the beauty nor wits befitting an Empress. So long as Izmar was a tempting piece of barren ugly rock, the Prince’s answer to her proposal was going to remain the same. Greed was a powerful tool to be used and greed was all that people like him felt.
Irene felt comfort in knowing she’d always be an outsider in his world.
Ending the audience with the same bow as with which it had begun, Irene followed the contingent of servants that without so much as glancing at her, headed deeper into the palace. After a time, they arrived at the doors that the servants pushed open, revealing a chamber much grander in size than the one she was given before.
It was open and light, a serene atmosphere of luxurious elegance. Last rays of sunlight shone through the decorative screens leading to what appeared to be an open balcony. Fabrics swayed gently in the breeze, coloured golden by the fading light. The servants fanned around the room, passing evenly spaced stone columns that supported the ceiling, from which similar semi-transparent fabrics were hung in a decorative fashion.
Like silent sentries the servants took their respective posts around the room, not so different from the guards stationed around the palace. No matter how much Irene willed herself to ignore their presence, she couldn’t shake off the sickly feeling of being watched.
Was there truly a point to so many attending to her when all she had done since entering this room was move a chair towards the terrace and sit there, stoic and tense? Prince Matthias’s words rattled in her mind with the comfort of a pebble in a boot. Be it from exhaustion or relief or disappointment, but for an instant, Irene sank further into the chair. A wave of nauseous anger rippled through her. The feeling of unease remained with her even the audience. She supposed it was going to follow her no matter where she went.
It was too much to hope for an immediate answer from the Prince.
When the last of the sun’s light vanished beyond the horizon, a servant girl arrived with a stack of clean clothes wrapped in canvas. Irene did not stir and when the girl asked in a soft voice if Irene wanted a bath drawn, she did accept immediately. Then, she rose from the chair and ordered all servants to leave the room. They hesitated but ultimately obeyed the order and bowed not for the first time that day. It felt strange at seeing such deference or be bowed to, for she was no one of importance to these people. Not yet an Empress, anyway.
Irene felt like an imposter as she soaked in the scented water inside the chambers carved out of marble; a thief when she picked up a vial of perfumed oil to rub onto her skin and hair to mask the scent of blood that clung to her for weeks; a liar when she pulled on the deep olive dress the servants left her. It did not suit her.
The long gown bared her arms but was otherwise modest, with a high collar. Dressed as she were, scrubbed clean and then pampered with expensive aromatic oils, Irene felt like an imposter. It sickened her to the core.
Returning to her chair to wait for the time when the Prince called her for dinner – an invitation she was not looking forward to – Irene stared into the middle distance and did not bother calling in the servants to return to their posts. To be left alone was a newfound luxury and Irene took this chance to think of Matthias.
It was too much to hope for an immediate answer from the Prince.
He did not laugh at her, though she fully expected him to. Neither did he sound insulted by the notion that some commoner wanted to wed him. A bastard daughter of a King or not, Irene would always remain a lowborn. She was raised like one and lived like one for her entire life, never wishing to be anything but. She knew not of the rules inside the Court, couldn’t even begin to understand all the particulars of etiquette and had no taste for power machinations, having no talent for lying nor intelligence to speak in half-truths and riddles the aristocrats were so adept in.
But she had her instincts, honed through years of combat, and they warned her of the trap into which she walked voluntarily. Irene couldn’t care less what title the Prince used to address her nor how many servants he sent to attend to her. To a prisoner these trivialities did not matter. Only a fool would think she was a welcome guest, considering the news she’d arrived with.
GetThree
Junior Member
Time flew by, hours passing like seconds, as Matthias found himself drowned in paperwork. The pile of thick files never seemed to decrease and the amount of letters he had had to personally write each day was staggering. People who thought his life as part of the Imperial Family was easy should really try on his workload for a day. He could give a 1000 gold coins to everyone who survived it and it wouldn't even make a dent in his bank. His headache had come back full force, his hands were aching and, by the time the night had come, Matthias had honestly never been happier to learn that dinner was ready.
Irene came to him almost as an afterthought. He had written a letter back to Vladimir of Vellamar to confirm her identity once more and had sent out men to gather the resources needed to confirm the authenticity of her claims. Only once he was more than certain that she was the last remaining Heir to the Izmarian throne, the only and final person with the Azdahaag bloodline, would he accept her proposal. Matthias was as meticulous as he was unforgiving. If she turned out to be fake… well, then both her and Vladimir would have hell to pay.
As that last bloodthirsty thought flashed in his mind, Matthias had already reached the grand dining hall. In the entire residence, other than the exterior, this hall was probably the most lavishly decorated room. It was painted a dark navy blue, with gold ivy-like patterns running up the walls and a grand crystal chandelier hanging down from the ceiling. A long ebony table seemed to stretch across the room, all sorts of colorful and aromatic dishes arranged on its surface. It looked like a scene out of a fairytale castle, the hall of a faerie king. Once you enter, you must not eat or drink a thing. Once you eat or drink, you may never leave. They always eat, every word that comes out of his mouth, they gobble it up like it were the food of the gods. And the moment he sunk his claws in them, he never let go.
Matthias took the seat at the head of the table. The only other seat where the food had been prepared was the seat closest to him on his right. He had specially arranged his two other guests, both foreign nobles, to be given a night tour of the Capital so he could be alone with Irene. It was his firm belief that sharing a meal with with someone told you a lot about them. Everything from the foods that they chose to eat and their mannerisms could be used to determine heritage, status, culture and more.
After a few moments of waiting, the doors finally opened to revealed his company for the night. She stood tall in a long formal gown, her expression an odd mix of pride and humility. She was a far cry from the dirty rogue she had been but, for all her outer beauty, she still did not resemble nobility. From the second she entered his sight, he could see the emotions swarming her like flies. Worry, reluctance, resignation. So much feeling displayed so openly and she didn’t even seem to realize. Something like disappointment flickered in his heart. There was much that this woman needed to learn if she wanted to become an Empress.
The thought of marrying a common woman, a mercenary at that, did not particularly bother him. However, his reputation was at an all time high at this critical time in the inheritance race and he did not want his closest person, his own wife, to be the one that ruins it all. Matthias rose from his seat to pull out her chair for her, painted smile on his lips as if it had never gone from since she had left him. “Lady Irene,” he called by means of greeting, taking her hand and placing a soft kiss on the back of it. It was laughably obvious how tense she was just from that brief touch. The art of aristocracy was not their lavish decor or their refined tastes, it was deception, pretense and treachery. An impressive warrior she might be in her own world, but in this one she was but an infant. “I hope that the dishes are to your liking,” he added as he reclaimed his seat. He gestured to the servants to start their meal and said no more, silently observing his company. He had arranged for a rather simple meal tonight, considering the previous circumstances of his guest. But an exceedingly plain meal, in his eyes, was still a formal, three-course one. If he were alone, Matthias wouldn’t even bother with a proper main course. In front of guests, common or noble, that was of course unacceptable. The servers placed a bowl in front of each of them, a simple creamy mushroom soup, steaming and fragrant. Matthias started on his meal, never losing track of even the smallest action from Irene throughout the night.
Lenaara
Irene came to him almost as an afterthought. He had written a letter back to Vladimir of Vellamar to confirm her identity once more and had sent out men to gather the resources needed to confirm the authenticity of her claims. Only once he was more than certain that she was the last remaining Heir to the Izmarian throne, the only and final person with the Azdahaag bloodline, would he accept her proposal. Matthias was as meticulous as he was unforgiving. If she turned out to be fake… well, then both her and Vladimir would have hell to pay.
As that last bloodthirsty thought flashed in his mind, Matthias had already reached the grand dining hall. In the entire residence, other than the exterior, this hall was probably the most lavishly decorated room. It was painted a dark navy blue, with gold ivy-like patterns running up the walls and a grand crystal chandelier hanging down from the ceiling. A long ebony table seemed to stretch across the room, all sorts of colorful and aromatic dishes arranged on its surface. It looked like a scene out of a fairytale castle, the hall of a faerie king. Once you enter, you must not eat or drink a thing. Once you eat or drink, you may never leave. They always eat, every word that comes out of his mouth, they gobble it up like it were the food of the gods. And the moment he sunk his claws in them, he never let go.
Matthias took the seat at the head of the table. The only other seat where the food had been prepared was the seat closest to him on his right. He had specially arranged his two other guests, both foreign nobles, to be given a night tour of the Capital so he could be alone with Irene. It was his firm belief that sharing a meal with with someone told you a lot about them. Everything from the foods that they chose to eat and their mannerisms could be used to determine heritage, status, culture and more.
After a few moments of waiting, the doors finally opened to revealed his company for the night. She stood tall in a long formal gown, her expression an odd mix of pride and humility. She was a far cry from the dirty rogue she had been but, for all her outer beauty, she still did not resemble nobility. From the second she entered his sight, he could see the emotions swarming her like flies. Worry, reluctance, resignation. So much feeling displayed so openly and she didn’t even seem to realize. Something like disappointment flickered in his heart. There was much that this woman needed to learn if she wanted to become an Empress.
The thought of marrying a common woman, a mercenary at that, did not particularly bother him. However, his reputation was at an all time high at this critical time in the inheritance race and he did not want his closest person, his own wife, to be the one that ruins it all. Matthias rose from his seat to pull out her chair for her, painted smile on his lips as if it had never gone from since she had left him. “Lady Irene,” he called by means of greeting, taking her hand and placing a soft kiss on the back of it. It was laughably obvious how tense she was just from that brief touch. The art of aristocracy was not their lavish decor or their refined tastes, it was deception, pretense and treachery. An impressive warrior she might be in her own world, but in this one she was but an infant. “I hope that the dishes are to your liking,” he added as he reclaimed his seat. He gestured to the servants to start their meal and said no more, silently observing his company. He had arranged for a rather simple meal tonight, considering the previous circumstances of his guest. But an exceedingly plain meal, in his eyes, was still a formal, three-course one. If he were alone, Matthias wouldn’t even bother with a proper main course. In front of guests, common or noble, that was of course unacceptable. The servers placed a bowl in front of each of them, a simple creamy mushroom soup, steaming and fragrant. Matthias started on his meal, never losing track of even the smallest action from Irene throughout the night.
Lenaara
Lenaara
Dreaming of honey cakes.
GetThree
Irene was acutely aware of the attention, the scrutiny.
Tense, uncomfortable, she couldn’t stop herself from leaning to her right to put some distance between herself and the Prince. A few additional inches of space between them did nothing to alleviate the uneasiness. He was not the one at fault. It was the combination of everything – the luxurious room where servants and guards were loyal to their master and no one else; the food that could be poisoned; lack of a weapon at her side, save the silverware. Irene felt like a bird ready to take flight when spooked.
Scent of citrus flowers clogged her nose as she breathed in and instantly regretted using the oil. “Thank you, Your Highness.” Her voice was monotone without a hint of gratitude.
The spices drifted towards her, beckoning her to eat, and her stomach twisted into a knot. Irene fought back the wave of nausea. Instead of reaching out towards the silverware, Irene straightened in the chair – as much as she could, anyway – and watched the Prince eat at least a few mouthfuls before reaching for a spoon herself.
She watched the metal as she stirred the soup for longer than it necessary. Aware of one of the servants nearing her well before they appeared in her peripheral vision, Irene raised a hand to cover the top of her empty goblet. The servant boy pulled back the silver pitcher and retreated to his post.
Glancing at the Prince, Irene lowered her eyes in apology. “I mean no disrespect,” she said absently. “In the past four months I have almost been poisoned six times. You must understand my caution.”
The food was delicious. After taking a mouthful of soup Irene realized that she was starving. It’s been days since she last ate her fill. At first, she tried to pace herself, but a lifetime of rushed meals did not make her a slow eater. The bowl was empty well before the Prince could get through half of his. When Irene reached to put the bowl to the side, a servant replaced it with the second course.
Ever the dutiful servant. Being attended to in such a way made Irene’s brows twitch in a frown of disapproval but she remained silent. Was there truly a point to such doting? Was nobility unable to lift a plate and replace it with another without calling on hired help? Pretentious and unnecessarily complicated, all of it.
Irene did not touch the food until Prince Matthias was done with his soup. She remained silent, head turned to the side to look at nothing in particular. Possible topics of conversation floated around her mind, but none seemed appropriate. The plate of steamed lamb and vegetables was lukewarm by the time she started eating with the same caution as before. Once positive the food was safe, the course was finished as quickly as the first except for the neat pile of untouched vegetables.
Cool breeze drifted over her bare arms. It would’ve been better if she was wearing the dirtied clothes she’d arrived in, but they were taken away by the servants to, she assumed, wash and mend. The gown they gave her instead was meant for someone with a much more feminine figure, with soft light skin and healthy curved. While Irene was lean and tall, the scars marring her skin would never belong to a woman of royal birth.
With sudden clarity, Irene realized she was never to wear the purple robes again. An odd thing to be sad over, considering.
Whatever the Prince hoped to gain from this dinner Irene couldn’t guess. Her discomfort was as plain as day as was her paranoia of being killed by a meal. Leaning against the chair’s back, Irene looked at the man at her side for the first time since she entered the room.
Not one for manipulation, the idea of inquiring about his thoughts on her proposal was discarded. She looked at Matthias in silence, searching for something she wasn’t quite was there. The man was confidence incarnate, all pleasant smiles and manners, and Irene believed in none of it. There was something wrong about him, something dangerous and fake, and while her gut told her never to trust such a man, she could not find any evidence to prove her instincts right.
He was royalty. It was the only proof she needed. They were all the same, no matter the kingdom.
“When I arrived,” Irene said after a pause, “the guards took away my spear. I would like it back. Repaired, if possible. I’d feel safer with a weapon at my side. Unless you disapprove?” Then, added as if in mocking afterthought, “Your Highness.” The formality of using titles was not lost on her. She was no sell-sword brute who worked for the highest bidder. Not anymore, in any case.
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GetThree
Junior Member
The dinner, boring and quiet as it was, was an eye-opener. It had presented him with much to think on. Her less than ideal meal etiquette, he could accept, it came as no great shock to him. However, in all of his experience sharing meals with others, from the lowest of soldiers to the highest of aristocracy, none had ever slighted him so outrightly before. The worst part was that he couldn’t even be offended because she clearly held no malice behind her words. She had not considered the weight of what she was saying, what layers of meaning it could have in the eyes of others. To Irene, she was simply being cautious. But even the servants in the room had tensed up because they understood the implications of her words. His possible future Empress was not as aware as his household servants.
Matthias sighed, throwing a hand over his face. His headache was killing him now. A soft rustle distracted him from his thoughts as someone pulled back the curtain and entered his sleeping chamber. He sat up, gesturing for the lithe figure to rise from their bow. “This is the spear,” Mikas told him, handing over a rather badly damaged wooden spear to him. He had promised Irene to return it to her after reparations, so of course that’s what he would do. He would even add in a few extra things for her, surveillance magic being one. Perhaps a magic controlled explosive, for ease of capture or killing should he need to. He adjusted, naturally as he’d done a thousand times before, for Mikas to sit down beside him. “What do you think of her?” He asked absently, turning the spear over in his hand. There was a brief period of silence. “She is not disagreeable,” was the soft reply. That cheerful, kind Mikas could only provide this neutral response said it all. This woman was bound to be the herald of many migraines in the foreseeable future. Yet he will not let her go, for the sake of obtaining Izmar. Greed was a scary thing, even the cleverest, steadiest of minds could be clouded by it.
Days passed after that first, surprisingly as monotonous as before. Irene came rarely out of her own chambers and Matthias was once again absorbed in his work. No one outside of a select few knew of the hidden Izmarian in Matthias’s house and none of them were people who would leak the information. For now, all was peaceful. It had been nearly a week after that, when the appearance of Jaime and his squad stirred up the residence once again. Accompanying them was a greying old man, one of the most sought after mages in Vaela, and a shining dagger with the emblem of Izmarian royalty engraved on its ivory hilt.
The dagger was presented to Matthias wrapped in silk. He did not unwrap it to check. If it was Jaime, he could trust this to be real. “Call Lady Irene to my office,” he ordered, before turning his attention to the old mage. There was no warmth to be found in his expression, a stark contrast from his usual behaviour when dealing with guests. “Your Imperial Highness, I, Phineas Finchley, am at your service,” the elderly greeted, a barely noticeable tremble in his voice. Matthias said nothing for a long while, staring icily at the man like one might look down at an annoying insect. The true face of royalty, some might say, condescending and cold no matter who enters their sight.
Finally he spoke. “Your rewards, should you do well, will be great, Mr. Finchley,” he started, leaning forward just the slightest bit, his voice a few octaves lower than its usual pitch. “I expect to see the greatness of your abilities today.” In the dimly lit room, sunlight illuminating only the side of his sharp face, with uniformed guards surrounding them both, his words seemed to echo. Finchley nodded shakily, heart pounding as they waited for the subject of the ritual to arrive. The man in front of him was nothing like the saintly Third Prince the whole of Vaela knew. To see such a contrasting picture from the one he was expecting only increased his fear. He was filled with anxiety and determination to make the ritual go smoothly. If only he knew that his fate had been sealed the moment Prince Matthias’s men arrived at his door. Whether Irene turned out to be Princess or not, the information will not leave this residence until he mean it to.
He watched as Finchley set up the runes for the ritual, placing the dagger delicately into a basin filled with odd solution. Just as the mage finished setting up, the door to the room opened. Without needing orders, Jaime moved from behind his chair toward the woman who entered, drawing a small dagger. “Pardon me, Lady Irene, but this needs to be done.” Matthias apologized, knowing that there were many who thought blood magic to be taboo. “This ritual will determine your bloodline. All you need to give a drop of your blood, and once the ritual is over I will accept you as Princess of Izmar and my bride.” From the corners of his eyes, he saw the old mage stumble in shock but he ignored it in favor of the tall woman staring at him with eyes so wide, the predatory gleam in his own gaze seemed to be reflected in hers.
Matthias sighed, throwing a hand over his face. His headache was killing him now. A soft rustle distracted him from his thoughts as someone pulled back the curtain and entered his sleeping chamber. He sat up, gesturing for the lithe figure to rise from their bow. “This is the spear,” Mikas told him, handing over a rather badly damaged wooden spear to him. He had promised Irene to return it to her after reparations, so of course that’s what he would do. He would even add in a few extra things for her, surveillance magic being one. Perhaps a magic controlled explosive, for ease of capture or killing should he need to. He adjusted, naturally as he’d done a thousand times before, for Mikas to sit down beside him. “What do you think of her?” He asked absently, turning the spear over in his hand. There was a brief period of silence. “She is not disagreeable,” was the soft reply. That cheerful, kind Mikas could only provide this neutral response said it all. This woman was bound to be the herald of many migraines in the foreseeable future. Yet he will not let her go, for the sake of obtaining Izmar. Greed was a scary thing, even the cleverest, steadiest of minds could be clouded by it.
Days passed after that first, surprisingly as monotonous as before. Irene came rarely out of her own chambers and Matthias was once again absorbed in his work. No one outside of a select few knew of the hidden Izmarian in Matthias’s house and none of them were people who would leak the information. For now, all was peaceful. It had been nearly a week after that, when the appearance of Jaime and his squad stirred up the residence once again. Accompanying them was a greying old man, one of the most sought after mages in Vaela, and a shining dagger with the emblem of Izmarian royalty engraved on its ivory hilt.
The dagger was presented to Matthias wrapped in silk. He did not unwrap it to check. If it was Jaime, he could trust this to be real. “Call Lady Irene to my office,” he ordered, before turning his attention to the old mage. There was no warmth to be found in his expression, a stark contrast from his usual behaviour when dealing with guests. “Your Imperial Highness, I, Phineas Finchley, am at your service,” the elderly greeted, a barely noticeable tremble in his voice. Matthias said nothing for a long while, staring icily at the man like one might look down at an annoying insect. The true face of royalty, some might say, condescending and cold no matter who enters their sight.
Finally he spoke. “Your rewards, should you do well, will be great, Mr. Finchley,” he started, leaning forward just the slightest bit, his voice a few octaves lower than its usual pitch. “I expect to see the greatness of your abilities today.” In the dimly lit room, sunlight illuminating only the side of his sharp face, with uniformed guards surrounding them both, his words seemed to echo. Finchley nodded shakily, heart pounding as they waited for the subject of the ritual to arrive. The man in front of him was nothing like the saintly Third Prince the whole of Vaela knew. To see such a contrasting picture from the one he was expecting only increased his fear. He was filled with anxiety and determination to make the ritual go smoothly. If only he knew that his fate had been sealed the moment Prince Matthias’s men arrived at his door. Whether Irene turned out to be Princess or not, the information will not leave this residence until he mean it to.
He watched as Finchley set up the runes for the ritual, placing the dagger delicately into a basin filled with odd solution. Just as the mage finished setting up, the door to the room opened. Without needing orders, Jaime moved from behind his chair toward the woman who entered, drawing a small dagger. “Pardon me, Lady Irene, but this needs to be done.” Matthias apologized, knowing that there were many who thought blood magic to be taboo. “This ritual will determine your bloodline. All you need to give a drop of your blood, and once the ritual is over I will accept you as Princess of Izmar and my bride.” From the corners of his eyes, he saw the old mage stumble in shock but he ignored it in favor of the tall woman staring at him with eyes so wide, the predatory gleam in his own gaze seemed to be reflected in hers.
Lenaara
Dreaming of honey cakes.
GetThree
The hurried footsteps told Irene of the visitor long before the doors were opened, and the summons was announced. It was the first time she’d leave the rooms since the dinner she’d shared with the Prince the week before.
The days were pleasantly uneventful. Hours spent in comfortable solitude cleared Irene’s mind of all uncertainty. She had gifted Izmar to Vaela on a silver platter, promising to never be involved in the political matters of her homeland. The only downside of the gift was that it came with a woman as barren as the land she so easily gave up.
A part of her, the hopeful innocence that wished to see some good in people, prayed the Prince was not going to accept the proposal without considering what sort of a responsibility he was taking off her shoulders. Izmar was no empty kingdom. It had people that were born and died in poverty, unable to escape the confines of the Mountain. And while the land was rich in ore and precious gems, no farmlands or waters rich in fish existed there.
Izmar always remained an isolated land. It made itself into an impenetrable fortress and existed in blissful ignorance of the remaining world. The aristocracy boasted their riches and named their rulers insultingly, bordering silliness, names that once may have meant something. And while the Exile had been abolished nearly two decades ago, Izmar remained closed to foreigners and their influence.
Moreover, the people of a kingdom made prison, would never accept a Queen who, in their eyes, was cursed by their benevolent God. Whether or not the Prince was aware of the troubles that would soon be his to deal with, Irene knew for certain he did not know she’d been Exiled.
It sickened her to withhold this piece of information. These thoughts plagued her mind over the quiet days of ignoring everyone and being ignored in return. On the rare occasion Irene spoke, it was to order everyone out of her chambers. Isolation was safer to risking exposing her Mark to a maid who’d step into the bathing chambers under the assumption that the guest needed assistance.
Left alone with her thoughts and nothing else, Irene resigned herself to the uncertain future. Either the Prince accepted the proposal, or he did not. She was prepared to hear it and deal with the consequences of his decision. Yet no amount of preparation was going to be enough for what she witnessed instead.
It was too much to hope for the Prince to believe her claim without a shred of evidence to back it up. But why did it feel like betrayal?
Irene stared at the basin with the horror of someone who’d just come back from the neighbour’s to find her own house burnt to the ground. Mute shock was soon replaced by panic and Irene stepped back, wanting to be as far from the blood magic ritual as possible. But the doors were closed and the guards, sensing her distress, moved from their posts.
“I refuse to do this,” she said with finality and watched one of the men near her, dagger in hand.
It seemed she did not have a choice, the ritual arranged and missing only one component. It would have been to easy to agree to it. Only a drop of blood, nothing more. But to give it up was to find out who she was without a doubt. Izmar practiced a similar form of magic when determining the next in line for succession to the throne. Irene knew deep inside that she would have had to do it sooner or later, but this was too soon.
Stupidly stubborn, Irene pulled her hand back before the guard could take it. He reached for it anyway and when his fingers touched her wrist, she, driven by pure instinct, grabbed his little finger and pulled. It was a little-known fact that where that finger went, the arm followed, otherwise something broke along the way. She pulled down and to the side, bringing the guard closer to her height, and with the heel of her free hand hit the guard under the side of his jaw.
The other guards were in motion by the time the first staggered back. Surrounded, Irene felt like a caged bird that was frantically flying into the cage walls. But the guards could only see a woman who had just attacked one of their own. When another reached for her, Irene evaded the attempt to grab her, took him by the arm and shoulder, yanked him towards her and side stepped around the propelled by the force body.
A blade hissed, candle light glimmering against a half-unsheathed sword that the guard was too hesitant to draw. Cornered, the distance between them was far too small. Irene took the opportunity to strike the man with the palm of her hand against his Adam’s apple, ultimately crushing his wind pipe and he let go of the sword’s hilt to claw at his neck, wheezing.
All she wanted was space, a chance to speak and maybe convince the others that the ritual was unnecessary. The thought of taking part in it sent her heart into a fit of panic. When she looked up and searched the faces for the only one who could order the ritual to stop, she only found an icy stare.
GetThree
Junior Member
Matthias watched as Irene grappled with his guards, completely unamused. Both Vaela and Izmar were countries accepting of using magic. Even though their neighbours were not as welcoming toward that notion, the hatred of magic was no longer as strong or prevalent as before. Considering that, there was only one reason he could think of for her desperate struggle. She was not who she claimed to be.
Jaime looked back at him, seeking confirmation. Matthias nodded. A wild beast can only be tamed with violence. A faint glow surrounded Jaime’s hands for a split second before he lunged at the woman, one hand aiming for her throat and the other gripping tightly onto his blade. Camouflaged by the chaos, his attack met its target precisely and the duo toppled to the ground. When she had lost her freedom of mobility, Jaime’s advantage in size showed itself much more obviously then before. Even while caged under him she continued to fight. Normally hitting a woman, worse a Lady, was something that would never even cross his mind. However, time spent with Matthias had enforced this one idea into his mind, for better or for worse, if nothing else: Your enemy is an obstacle, not a human being. His hand gripped her hair so tightly it might have torn skin as he rammed her head into the floor. For the brief second that she stilled, Jaime swiftly made a cut on her left cheek, just deep enough to draw blood.
Matthias snapped his fingers at the petrified mage standing at the side and taking in the scene with a horrified face. “Quickly finish the test,” he commanded, voice curt. The stunned mage sprung into action as if he were wound-up toy let loose. The old man took the bloodied blade from Jaime and dipped it in to the basin of solution, muttering words in a language only he understood. Matthias’s eyes were fixed on the clear container and the whole room seemed to hold their breath. Nothing happened for a long while. The air felt denser, more suffocating with every minute that passed by. The kill order was on the tip on his tongue, just itching to leave his lips.
Then it happened. The liquid started to change color, from clear to a misty grey, then darker and darker until it became and thick as black as ink. The tension in the air that seemed like it would explode dissipated as if had never been there as the cold fury hanging above Matthias like a dark cloud faded. She was real Izmarian royalty. The last princess. His ticket to a mountain full of treasure.
As if he hadn’t been on the verge of slicing her throat seconds before, Matthias bent to help Irene up. Practically dragging her to her feet, he reached out to brush his fingers against the bleeding cut on her cheek. He pulled close to her, lips almost touching the shell of her ear as he whispered in words that dripped with honeyed poison, “Then, Princess, I accept your proposal.” He moved away from her, his curved lips giving his face a sinister feel in the dark room.
“Escort her back to her room and have a physician check on her,” he called out the the servants that had been waiting outside the room. “From now on, my Princess is to be treated with the utmost priority,” he said to the guards, casually like he was telling them that the weather was nice despite his chilling last words, “Don’t let her out of your sights.”
As most of the people filed out of his room, Finchley gave a small cough. His expression was a mixture of expectation and trepidation. Matthias smiled, gesturing to one of his guards. “Follow him, he’ll give you your reward.” Relief flooded the elderly man’s face as he muttered words of thanks and praise. And if he ever took back those words as he was slaughtered and thrown into the sea, Matthias, relaxed in his room and satisfied with the outcome of the day, never heard. In his mind, he had already moved on to days ahead, setting the stage, building the props and rolling the carpets for his beloved fiancee to reveal herself to the world.
Jaime looked back at him, seeking confirmation. Matthias nodded. A wild beast can only be tamed with violence. A faint glow surrounded Jaime’s hands for a split second before he lunged at the woman, one hand aiming for her throat and the other gripping tightly onto his blade. Camouflaged by the chaos, his attack met its target precisely and the duo toppled to the ground. When she had lost her freedom of mobility, Jaime’s advantage in size showed itself much more obviously then before. Even while caged under him she continued to fight. Normally hitting a woman, worse a Lady, was something that would never even cross his mind. However, time spent with Matthias had enforced this one idea into his mind, for better or for worse, if nothing else: Your enemy is an obstacle, not a human being. His hand gripped her hair so tightly it might have torn skin as he rammed her head into the floor. For the brief second that she stilled, Jaime swiftly made a cut on her left cheek, just deep enough to draw blood.
Matthias snapped his fingers at the petrified mage standing at the side and taking in the scene with a horrified face. “Quickly finish the test,” he commanded, voice curt. The stunned mage sprung into action as if he were wound-up toy let loose. The old man took the bloodied blade from Jaime and dipped it in to the basin of solution, muttering words in a language only he understood. Matthias’s eyes were fixed on the clear container and the whole room seemed to hold their breath. Nothing happened for a long while. The air felt denser, more suffocating with every minute that passed by. The kill order was on the tip on his tongue, just itching to leave his lips.
Then it happened. The liquid started to change color, from clear to a misty grey, then darker and darker until it became and thick as black as ink. The tension in the air that seemed like it would explode dissipated as if had never been there as the cold fury hanging above Matthias like a dark cloud faded. She was real Izmarian royalty. The last princess. His ticket to a mountain full of treasure.
As if he hadn’t been on the verge of slicing her throat seconds before, Matthias bent to help Irene up. Practically dragging her to her feet, he reached out to brush his fingers against the bleeding cut on her cheek. He pulled close to her, lips almost touching the shell of her ear as he whispered in words that dripped with honeyed poison, “Then, Princess, I accept your proposal.” He moved away from her, his curved lips giving his face a sinister feel in the dark room.
“Escort her back to her room and have a physician check on her,” he called out the the servants that had been waiting outside the room. “From now on, my Princess is to be treated with the utmost priority,” he said to the guards, casually like he was telling them that the weather was nice despite his chilling last words, “Don’t let her out of your sights.”
As most of the people filed out of his room, Finchley gave a small cough. His expression was a mixture of expectation and trepidation. Matthias smiled, gesturing to one of his guards. “Follow him, he’ll give you your reward.” Relief flooded the elderly man’s face as he muttered words of thanks and praise. And if he ever took back those words as he was slaughtered and thrown into the sea, Matthias, relaxed in his room and satisfied with the outcome of the day, never heard. In his mind, he had already moved on to days ahead, setting the stage, building the props and rolling the carpets for his beloved fiancee to reveal herself to the world.
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Lenaara
Dreaming of honey cakes.
GetThree
It was impossible to move. World flashed white as her body was suddenly pushed downwards to the floor and Irene fought against the hold, flexing her stomach and raising her arms to the hands that pressed against her. Too late did she turn and for a brief moment between being hit and landing on the floor, hard, she couldn’t believe the speed with which the guard moved. It was unnatural.
Fear kept Irene awake, baseless panic fuelling her pointless attempts at breaking free.
Opening her eyes to stare at the guard above her, Irene shifted her weight to curl a leg around his to flip the man over. Either sensing her intentions or intending to do this all along, he grabbed her hair and Irene hissed from the burning sensation in her scalp before the world was submerged in white once more and she got dangerously close to falling into comforting embrace of unconsciousness.
Did they not understand?
The cold touch of a blade against her skin was momentary. Once her hazy mind understood what happened, she tried to jerk free, move away from the basin and the runes as much as it was possible, so they could understand that she did not want to be apart of it. But the guard’s hands pinned her to the floor and the growing headache turned her movements sluggish, slow, her limbs leaden. No matter how much Irene moved, how she struggled and thrashed, stubborn to the end, the dagger was still dipped into the basin.
Irene’s hands curled around the guard’s wrists and she held onto them for a long silent moment. Their eyes locked, cold and unfeeling, and no matter how Irene wished to convey the panic and desperation, she knew deep inside that it was pointless. The guard would not lessen the pressure and as the Prince told the other man to begin, she did not look at them.
Magic always comes with a price.
It endangers us more than you think.
When Irene looked away from the guard, turning her head to avoid seeing the ritual, she hoped the magic was going to fail. In that moment, Irene entered a strange sense of detachment, floating in the haven of her empty, tired mind. In that cold wash of dispassion, she floated beyond her person and was a mere witness to everything in the room. Her hands slid from the guard’s arms and lay limp.
Irene had given up. There was nothing more to be done and be over.
Just as she waited when they put the Mark on her chest.
When it was done, and she was hauled up, Matthias’s words were muted by the ringing in her ears. Irene recoiled from him, pushing away from the man with such determination to be away from him that she collided with someone who went to help her stand. The room swayed, or perhaps she did, and through the pressure in her head Irene understood what the ritual has shown the Prince. Mind foggy, she stared at the bowl in mute despair. The situation called for celebration, but Irene felt as if someone close to her had died and she was in mourning.
Someone’s hands supported her on the way back to her chambers. Servants’, most likely. Once the initial shock had passed, rage pooled within Irene. This anger was a foreign feeling, strange and wrong, and it fought its way out, demanding to be known and heard. So, Irene clenched her jaw tightly and muscles rippled along it in contained fury.
Voices murmured outside, soft and steady, after the physician left her chambers and declared that the Lady needed rest. Left alone, Irene climbed out of the bed where the servants insisted she should stay and tore the dress from her body and flung it into the farthest corner of the room.
They brought her purple and gold robes last night. Washed and mended, they were folded and left on a chair by the bed. Irene, for all her desire to wear something that was so familiar to her, only stared at the folded heap, not quite sure what to do.
Spurred by the revelation of who she truly was without a doubt, Irene reached for the robe and wrapped it around herself. Staggering back towards the bed, she climbed in and curled on her side like a child.
Despite the thorough wash, the clothes still retained the faintest fragrance of pine needles and medicinal herbs. A scent that always brought back pleasant memories of a past that she would never return to. Irene lay there, breathing in the fading fragrance, and grieved.
Grieved for the hopeful innocence that had been shattered by the revelation that there was nothing good in this dark, evil world.
The physician came to check on the guest several times over the course of the following days. To his surprise, she recovered quickly but declared that something else was ailing her. A shock so intense that it took away her appetite and will to do anything but sit or lie down. Whether he shared this discovery with the Prince, Irene couldn’t guess nor cared enough to try. Still a prisoner, she resigned herself to a peaceful existence in her chambers.
In her silent mourning, Irene thought of the past. Searching her memories, she sought to find all the lies she’d been told. It was impossible to tell deception from what was true and the betrayal the blood magic had shown her turned every memory she had of Leon sour. Leon, a man who she thought had given up everything to protect an innocent child. A dear uncle and mentor, a teacher, with a firm belief that a woman had no place on a battlefield, that still agreed to train a girl with a natural aptitude for combat. Leon, the only constant in her life, a pillar to lean on and know for certain that he had a plan, some general idea of where to go and what to do. Irene always thought she was a burden, one that dragged down a man fated for greatness. What a foolish thought.
Not one to drown in melancholy, Irene chased the thoughts away before they could take root.
Shortly after the news that the guest was well enough to no longer be bed-ridden, Irene was rarely given privacy. Tutors sent by Prince Matthias came in and out of Irene’s rooms daily, flooding her with information about Vaelan politics and traditions. Some lessons she enjoyed more than others. Origins of Vaela and its history was a fascinating subject and Irene accepted the traditions practiced in the nation with a surprising lack of prejudice. She knew the language already and could read and write, further dispelling the image of a brutish woman everyone believed her to be.
When it came down to etiquette, however, Irene was stubborn. Refusing out of principle to learn the proper way of maintaining a pleasant conversation, Irene expressed her firm belief that she could speak with people without being taught the intricacies. Hardly the pickiest of eaters, Irene ate anything she did not suspect of poison without protest, except for her obvious dislike of steamed or fried vegetables that her tutor found amusing. What he did not enjoy, however, was watching the woman finish her meals with an insulting lack of finesse. While the skill of eating quickly on the road was useful in her old life, her current one demanded elegance.
Irene displayed no talents befitting a noble woman. When asked to sing, she looked at the tutor as if he’d asked the most ridiculous of things. She did as asked while looking at the man as if she found him sadly dull-witted, and her voice was deemed average at best. The idea was abandoned, and it was decided that Irene should learn to play a musical instrument instead. To the tutor’s delight, Irene could mimic the moments of his hands without needing much instruction, but it soon became obvious that she was musically inept. Plucking on the strings, knowing only one melody, was the extent of her skills with the instrument, despite the tune’s complexity.
Aside from learning about Vaela, Irene appeared to enjoy dancing. As with the instruments she was shown to play, she copied the movement of a dance with impressive precision. The music and movement were a welcome change from lounging in a chair all day, ignoring the arguments of old men about the necessity of these lessons.
To learn to curtsy and know what national holiday was being celebrated, Irene could understand. The intricacy of the political system was a different matter. She was content with being as detached as possible from the Court and its machinations. Being told of the old rivalries and temporary fragile alliances, wasn’t what she’d agreed to.
One of the tutors, to her surprise, was an attendant. Pleasant and polite, Irene enjoyed his company more than others’. Their conversations were one sided, as they often were with her tutors, but there was something about Mikas that drew people in, an optimism so rarely found in people in his position.
Yet no amount of optimism could be enough to make a lesson about the complexity if of the royal Court be any less dull. Irene had lost track of who was related to whom five people in.
Leaning back, Irene breathed out heavily through her nose and rubbed her eyes as she raised a hand to stop the attendant. “This is a waste of time,” she said and rose from the chair.
They had taken a seat by the balcony. The decorative screens had been pushed open and the curtains fluttered, dancing softly in the cool breeze. Irene had pulled a chair towards the balcony to look at the sea and its shoreline, not quite sure herself what for, and the servants took that as a sign that she enjoyed the scenery. Several times they’d asked if she wanted to have breakfast outside or to go for a walk, but each offer to leave the room was either refused or ignored.
Mikas had been given a seat across from her and the servants brought them a plate of fruit and a pitcher of wine. Reaching down for a date, Irene circled her chair to lean against one of the pillars. Ankles crossed, an arm wound around her waist while her other hand played with the date, she was silent for a moment.
“What is his Imperial Highness hoping to gain from this?” Irene finally asked and glanced at Mikas. “I am not to be involved in politics. That was our agreement. What purpose do these lessons serve?”
GetThree
Junior Member
For Matthias, Irene Azdahaag was as good as a walking gold mine. Thus, he treated her as any man would treat their gold: with the utmost care. Her security was nearly double his own. The elites from his personal squad rotating in shifts to watch her every second of the day, along with quite a number of other guards stationed at her door, in her chambers and every other place that she spent time in. Luckily for his men, Irene didn’t really go anywhere but around her own chambers.
It was hard for Matthias to believe that she was a former mercenary, when the most basic idea of scouting new territory didn’t seem to be on her mind in the slightest. Nearly all her tutors, save the woman who taught her dance, commented on her being lifeless and subdued, never speaking unless spoken to and even then no more than the bare minimum. There was a stark difference in the steady woman who had entered his office with the eyes of a fighter and the defeated yet obstinate person she was showing herself to be. If he wasn’t acutely aware that his to-be fiancee had not a drop of talent in the art of pretense, he would have thought one of those personalities to be an intricate fake.
Combining what he heard from the physician and Mikas, it was more likely that she was in a state of shock and depression from what had happened on the day of the ritual. He still had yet to figure out why her reaction had been so intense, but no matter, her current condition was not something that he could fix immediately, so he could only resort to giving her space and good company in hopes that she will recover by the time he is ready to introduce her to Court. He had left her care on that front to Mikas, who was more familiar with comforting others than Matthias would ever care to be.
He had initially intended for Mikas to only oversee her care and not actually send him to her side, but the younger male turned out to be the only one in the household that she actually spoke more than three words to. That didn’t surprise Matthias. Mikas had a sort of healing quality that radiated from him, a rare find in the hive of corruption that was Thean Gerith. If Matthias hadn’t found him back then, lost and terrified in a sea of people, it wouldn’t be a stretch to imagine that he wouldn’t be nearly as sane as he was now. Matthias frowned at the thought and waved it away. He was never a fan of recalling past memories, they were all rather awful and come up enough in his sleep anyway.
Finishing up the last sentence in his letter to Lord Katharos, he rolled the parchment up tightly and sealed it. The gold colored wax dried quickly to reveal the emblem of the Imperial Family, a symbol that could ward bandits away better than any defensive magic. He handed the letter in his hand to the man waiting across the table, an enigmatic figure dressed in black. They did not exchange any words, for when this particular messenger of his was called it meant only one thing. The letter was of great urgency and no one must see a word of it but the intended recipient. The man in black bowed and left the room, steps so silent that one might have thought him a ghost.
Lord Katharos was his most powerful supporter in the Court, the only person other than the Neavis House to hold the maximum of four seats in the house. Although Matthias had first gained his attention through the man’s daughter, after a long time alliance, they had earned the respect of each other and shared the same goals for the Empire. He did not need to worry about revealing Irene to him for the Lord was the man who had suggested taking Izmar to him in the first place. Both of them knew, as well, that marriage...did not have to last.
“Warren,” he called out to the soldier standing guard outside his door and the man came practically marching in. “Go to Mikas, tell him that I’m inviting Princess Irene for tea and to bring her out to the gardens,” he ordered, fighting not to roll his eyes at the other man’s clear excitement as he left to carry out the instructions. Matthias rose from his chair, stretching like a cat and taking in a deep breath. He would now have to see what hours of tutoring has done to help his Princess be more like her role. Though he tried to ignore it, he had the sinking feeling that he was going to be disappointed.
*****
Mikas was a bad liar. There, he said it. His Prince had repeated that line so many times to him but Mikas had always stubbornly refused to accept that. He could lie, obviously, he was mature enough and he definitely could be as fluent as anyone on the street in the art of deception. That idea, for the upteenth time, was crushed as he struggled to form an articulate response to Lady, no Princess, Irene’s question.
He knew that if he were to give the truth, while Prince Matthias was still in the middle of preparations, the Princess would not be agreeable to it. However, as said before, Mikas was a bad liar. “He...he simply wants Lady Irene to be familiar with your new country so that, perhaps, you can...be a better Empress. Yes, that’s…” Her serious stare on him as he gave his answer was not helping. It was like taking an exam while your professor was standing right in front of you.
Mikas let out a defeated sigh, his hand subconsciously going up to fiddle with his hair as he leaned back into his chair. “It’s complicated, Princess. It would be wiser to ask this to my lord,” he started, continuing with a wry smile, “which you would be able to do if you actually ate with him.”
He had grown to like the strange but refreshing character of the new addition to the household over the past few days. She was a person of little words, but her expressions and her actions spoke much more than one would initially expect. She was a good person. The Prince could definitely do worse in a woman. It was such a shame that Matt had managed to anger her on the same day that he had proposed to her. Honestly, his friend’s social skills liked taking vacations at the weirdest times.
He would have continued by suggesting that she eats outside today, when a knock sounded at their door. Mikas stood up and answered the door. A guard, with a red face - Mikas wondered if he was out of breath, informed him that the Prince wished to have tea with Princess Irene in the garden. A smile bloomed on his face and he thanked the guard before heading back to the woman waiting in her lounge.
In a flash, Mikas had Irene dressed up and nearing the Atlis Pavillion. The white dome-like shelter was small but beautifully decorated, giving off a refined feeling to those that looked at it. Under the shade, a lone man sat silently, dressed casually in a simple yet elegant black and white outfit. The servants stopped outside the pavillion, all lowered in a perfect bow, unmoving, more uniform than most soldiers would ever be.
*****
Matthias had been lost in his thoughts when his Princess’s entourage arrived. He rose from where he sat, smile in place, reaching out a hand to the woman. She promptly ignored him and went to the seat furthest from his without a single word of greeting. Like a child sulking. Matthias showed no signs of anger at her blatant disrespect, going back to his seat. The food and tea were brought, traditional Vaelan deserts and tea, and the meal began without any complication. The beginning of the meal went like any other that Matthias might share with other guests. He asked her about her lessons, her day, her preferences. But the only response he received in return was the occasional sigh.
Even with his experience dealing with people from all walks of life, this was a first. Just as no one had ever so freely questioned the security of his house, no one had ever ignored him so completely in the middle of a meal. It seemed that Irene was determined to give him many firsts.
Never let it be said that Matt was not adaptable. Since she was determined to make things difficult, he would stop being polite as well. His lips pulled into a thin line, eyes narrowing. His hand grabbed Irene’s on the table, a romantic gesture to everyone but the two involved parties. His grip was bruisingly tight on her wrist, expressing the tension that the pleasant tone of his voice did not. “It seems my Princess is irritable today,” he drawled, almost as if he was teasing her. “I have been busy and can’t be as attentive to you as I would like. If my presence is needed to improve your mood, please, don’t hesitate to say so. I will definitely provide it,” he stated, their gazes locking as he released her hand slowly. ‘Get your act together while I’m still leaving you alone.’ She might not fully understand his hidden meaning, but it did not matter. The threat had gotten through.
There was no further conversation following that. The meal went on, the tensed silence building up like a fog around the Pavillion. Matthias could see Irene’s gaze wandering, as if finding an excuse to leave. He would have provided her with one simply because even work was better than sitting here and drinking tea with a wooden statue, but there was a loud sound coming from the back of the garden that distracted them both. With his enhanced hearing, he could hear the the clash of bodies and yells from his soldiers. Matthias arched a slim eyebrow, already used to the antics of his men, and turned back around, only to see a curious light in his company’s eyes that he hadn’t ever before.
It was hard for Matthias to believe that she was a former mercenary, when the most basic idea of scouting new territory didn’t seem to be on her mind in the slightest. Nearly all her tutors, save the woman who taught her dance, commented on her being lifeless and subdued, never speaking unless spoken to and even then no more than the bare minimum. There was a stark difference in the steady woman who had entered his office with the eyes of a fighter and the defeated yet obstinate person she was showing herself to be. If he wasn’t acutely aware that his to-be fiancee had not a drop of talent in the art of pretense, he would have thought one of those personalities to be an intricate fake.
Combining what he heard from the physician and Mikas, it was more likely that she was in a state of shock and depression from what had happened on the day of the ritual. He still had yet to figure out why her reaction had been so intense, but no matter, her current condition was not something that he could fix immediately, so he could only resort to giving her space and good company in hopes that she will recover by the time he is ready to introduce her to Court. He had left her care on that front to Mikas, who was more familiar with comforting others than Matthias would ever care to be.
He had initially intended for Mikas to only oversee her care and not actually send him to her side, but the younger male turned out to be the only one in the household that she actually spoke more than three words to. That didn’t surprise Matthias. Mikas had a sort of healing quality that radiated from him, a rare find in the hive of corruption that was Thean Gerith. If Matthias hadn’t found him back then, lost and terrified in a sea of people, it wouldn’t be a stretch to imagine that he wouldn’t be nearly as sane as he was now. Matthias frowned at the thought and waved it away. He was never a fan of recalling past memories, they were all rather awful and come up enough in his sleep anyway.
Finishing up the last sentence in his letter to Lord Katharos, he rolled the parchment up tightly and sealed it. The gold colored wax dried quickly to reveal the emblem of the Imperial Family, a symbol that could ward bandits away better than any defensive magic. He handed the letter in his hand to the man waiting across the table, an enigmatic figure dressed in black. They did not exchange any words, for when this particular messenger of his was called it meant only one thing. The letter was of great urgency and no one must see a word of it but the intended recipient. The man in black bowed and left the room, steps so silent that one might have thought him a ghost.
Lord Katharos was his most powerful supporter in the Court, the only person other than the Neavis House to hold the maximum of four seats in the house. Although Matthias had first gained his attention through the man’s daughter, after a long time alliance, they had earned the respect of each other and shared the same goals for the Empire. He did not need to worry about revealing Irene to him for the Lord was the man who had suggested taking Izmar to him in the first place. Both of them knew, as well, that marriage...did not have to last.
“Warren,” he called out to the soldier standing guard outside his door and the man came practically marching in. “Go to Mikas, tell him that I’m inviting Princess Irene for tea and to bring her out to the gardens,” he ordered, fighting not to roll his eyes at the other man’s clear excitement as he left to carry out the instructions. Matthias rose from his chair, stretching like a cat and taking in a deep breath. He would now have to see what hours of tutoring has done to help his Princess be more like her role. Though he tried to ignore it, he had the sinking feeling that he was going to be disappointed.
*****
Mikas was a bad liar. There, he said it. His Prince had repeated that line so many times to him but Mikas had always stubbornly refused to accept that. He could lie, obviously, he was mature enough and he definitely could be as fluent as anyone on the street in the art of deception. That idea, for the upteenth time, was crushed as he struggled to form an articulate response to Lady, no Princess, Irene’s question.
He knew that if he were to give the truth, while Prince Matthias was still in the middle of preparations, the Princess would not be agreeable to it. However, as said before, Mikas was a bad liar. “He...he simply wants Lady Irene to be familiar with your new country so that, perhaps, you can...be a better Empress. Yes, that’s…” Her serious stare on him as he gave his answer was not helping. It was like taking an exam while your professor was standing right in front of you.
Mikas let out a defeated sigh, his hand subconsciously going up to fiddle with his hair as he leaned back into his chair. “It’s complicated, Princess. It would be wiser to ask this to my lord,” he started, continuing with a wry smile, “which you would be able to do if you actually ate with him.”
He had grown to like the strange but refreshing character of the new addition to the household over the past few days. She was a person of little words, but her expressions and her actions spoke much more than one would initially expect. She was a good person. The Prince could definitely do worse in a woman. It was such a shame that Matt had managed to anger her on the same day that he had proposed to her. Honestly, his friend’s social skills liked taking vacations at the weirdest times.
He would have continued by suggesting that she eats outside today, when a knock sounded at their door. Mikas stood up and answered the door. A guard, with a red face - Mikas wondered if he was out of breath, informed him that the Prince wished to have tea with Princess Irene in the garden. A smile bloomed on his face and he thanked the guard before heading back to the woman waiting in her lounge.
In a flash, Mikas had Irene dressed up and nearing the Atlis Pavillion. The white dome-like shelter was small but beautifully decorated, giving off a refined feeling to those that looked at it. Under the shade, a lone man sat silently, dressed casually in a simple yet elegant black and white outfit. The servants stopped outside the pavillion, all lowered in a perfect bow, unmoving, more uniform than most soldiers would ever be.
*****
Matthias had been lost in his thoughts when his Princess’s entourage arrived. He rose from where he sat, smile in place, reaching out a hand to the woman. She promptly ignored him and went to the seat furthest from his without a single word of greeting. Like a child sulking. Matthias showed no signs of anger at her blatant disrespect, going back to his seat. The food and tea were brought, traditional Vaelan deserts and tea, and the meal began without any complication. The beginning of the meal went like any other that Matthias might share with other guests. He asked her about her lessons, her day, her preferences. But the only response he received in return was the occasional sigh.
Even with his experience dealing with people from all walks of life, this was a first. Just as no one had ever so freely questioned the security of his house, no one had ever ignored him so completely in the middle of a meal. It seemed that Irene was determined to give him many firsts.
Never let it be said that Matt was not adaptable. Since she was determined to make things difficult, he would stop being polite as well. His lips pulled into a thin line, eyes narrowing. His hand grabbed Irene’s on the table, a romantic gesture to everyone but the two involved parties. His grip was bruisingly tight on her wrist, expressing the tension that the pleasant tone of his voice did not. “It seems my Princess is irritable today,” he drawled, almost as if he was teasing her. “I have been busy and can’t be as attentive to you as I would like. If my presence is needed to improve your mood, please, don’t hesitate to say so. I will definitely provide it,” he stated, their gazes locking as he released her hand slowly. ‘Get your act together while I’m still leaving you alone.’ She might not fully understand his hidden meaning, but it did not matter. The threat had gotten through.
There was no further conversation following that. The meal went on, the tensed silence building up like a fog around the Pavillion. Matthias could see Irene’s gaze wandering, as if finding an excuse to leave. He would have provided her with one simply because even work was better than sitting here and drinking tea with a wooden statue, but there was a loud sound coming from the back of the garden that distracted them both. With his enhanced hearing, he could hear the the clash of bodies and yells from his soldiers. Matthias arched a slim eyebrow, already used to the antics of his men, and turned back around, only to see a curious light in his company’s eyes that he hadn’t ever before.
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Lenaara
Dreaming of honey cakes.
GetThree
Irene was being unfair. Worse, she was being hateful without reason.
It was too much to hope that distancing herself from her would-be husband was going to be tolerated, or in the very least remain unquestioned. Having gained what she wanted, a man to take an entire nation off her hands, Irene resigned herself to a peaceful existence within the confines of a palace. It was to be her golden cage and while the thought of spending the rest of her life within its confines was nauseating and somehow impossible, it was as the fate decided.
When the Prince took her hand, more harshly than she’d ever anticipated him to, she turned to look at him for the first time since her arrival. What she saw was a careful crack in the mask of a gentleman. Words coated with sugared venom held little meaning except for the most obvious one – he’d continue inviting her to spend time with him, no matter how awkward they were in each other’s company.
Irene had not anticipated her golden cage to have a jailer.
For a fleeting moment it seemed as if she was going to say something to him. Brows knit together in a mixture of confusion and annoyance, Irene had nearly spat a thought that made her internally recoil once its meaning clicked.
Your presence sours milk.
The thought that followed was of self-pity. What was she becoming? Aside from the blood ritual, the Prince had done nothing to earn her ire. Too long was she cooped up inside, watching the sun instead of feeling it on her skin. No one expressively ordered her to never leave the grounds nor stay in her rooms. The increase in guards was not unnoticed – Irene could hear their marching steps, the clanking of their immaculate armour, and could tell with near certainty how many were stationed outside of her rooms, how often they changed shifts and whose footfalls belonged to whom. She found herself waking up often in the middle of the night, woken up by the not so subtle footfalls.
In a palace that was anything but safe, nothing could get past such a guard force but a select few. Was this not what she wanted? Protection from any attempts on her life, at least until Izmar was no more.
And, what then? Was she to be a mute Empress?
Or will the guards and servants who so diligently follow her turn into executioners?
No. He needs me alive.
Indeed, it was better not to think. Irene waited for the Prince to end the…this. Just as the dinner they shared, this excuse to see each other felt pretentious. Intending for a walk to clear her mind, Irene was looking for an excuse to do anything but sit still and sip on tea she could not taste. So, when the opportunity presented itself in faint noise that reminded her of a tavern’s brawl, Irene did not hesitate to take it. Anything was better than this. Movement was what she craved, to see something real in this lifeless house.
Guards fell into formation the moment Irene stood up and left the pavilion. She was just outside of it, perhaps a body’s length from the elegant dome-like structure, when she stopped and turned to look at the Prince over her shoulder. It was due time she stopped sulking. If Prince Matthias wanted to spend time with her, for whatever absurd reason, he could do so while they walked instead of ate.
The garden was beautiful. Detached as Irene was, it was no wonder she hadn’t noticed the sheer elegance of the palace grounds. They have not stopped while heading in the direction of the noise that caught her attention in the first place, but Irene was looking at the garden with the eye of someone who had an appreciation for natural beauty. Perhaps she should have meals outside, considering the nobility’s strange obsession with eating to ward off boredom.
Acutely aware of the guards and the posse of attendants following her, Irene also took note of any others around the gardens. Gardeners tended to the grounds and stopped their work to bow or curtsy. Irene walked by without saying a word, only sparing them a look that resembled mild irritation. She wasn’t quite sure what to do when bowed to.
She supposed she never will be used to this show of forced respect.
***
Warren followed the procession as any other dutiful guard. Unlike any other dutiful guard, he was eyeing the bride of his master warily.
A glance was thrown at the couple in the pavilion. He could not hear their conversation and would never have allowed himself to even think about listening in on their private affairs. It was not why Warren had come. He had come to protect Prince Matthias. The job assigned to Warren was a simple one and he took great pride in it. He did the task perfectly, with dedication. He knew this. Everyone knew this.
He had heard from others – guards and servants alike – that many viewed his loyalty to be bordering idiocy, stupidity, lack of his own choice. Warren always thought it to be strange. Is it wrong to be proud of one’s position? To be proud of working for a family that his father, and his father’s father, stood with? And work with dedication because there is simply no other way but to give it your best? The Vaether family has never wrong him, or his family, never gave him reason to hate them or question their beliefs.
Until, that is, Irene.
Warren was there the day of the ritual, had the bruise on his neck to show for it. He was one of the first guards to react to the scene. It was strange, he thought, that the woman was acting this way. He was as dumbfounded as everyone else, shocked by the scene and confused.
And then he watched the woman strike his Captain.
It was impossible to think anyone could overpower Jaime Aerie, push him away as if he was some rag doll to be thrown aside. And the woman was backing away, looking at everyone with such…cold eyes. She reminded him of a snake, a cobra.
Warren was too shocked that day to be the first to even step towards her. He still felt shame for not acting quickly enough, for not being the one to restrain the woman. Only when his comrade was pushed away, and the woman was in front of Warren, backed into a corner, did he act. Warren had nearly stumbled backward that day, pale-faced as the sun’s bleak disk.
So, Warren thought to himself to do better, if it was even possible, and guard Prince Matthias.
Immersed in thought, Warren watched the Prince and Irene and their immediate surroundings for any sign of danger. They passed the garden without incident, never pausing to admire the scenery. Ground keepers paused their work to bow respectfully to the couple and Warren noticed with mild irritation the way Irene looked at the attendants. Brows knit, lips drawn into a pale line.
Without quite meaning to, the guard glanced behind him towards the servants, searching for the warmth of green eyes. Once he realized what he was doing, Warren raised a hand to his hair to flatten the unruly locks into place. The constant running of his fingers through the already smoothed strands resulted in them standing on end, sticking out here and there. He resembled a ruffled-up bird.
A guard nearest him pressed an elbow into his side, a silent warning to stop.
The guard barracks were just beyond the garden. Sounds of fighting was coming from the training grounds, the field of sand surrounded by a wooden fence. A dozen or so men were standing there, watching a duel between the Captain of the guard and a young kid, who was shirtless and sweating profusely, trying to match the Captain in terms of strength. Warren came to stand a respectable distance behind the Prince and his woman, who went towards the fence and leaned against it, watching the fight intently.
Warren lifted his gaze from the woman and watched the duel as well, praising the younger man for being skilled with a weapon. The Captain, however, surpassed him in terms of both skill and strength, and the youth was disarmed swiftly. The two stood for a moment until the youth bent down to rest his hands on his knees, breathing so heavily as if he was going to collapse from exhausting all his strength.
Then, Irene’s voice interrupted the silence with sudden clarity. It was the first time he’d heard her speak since the ritual. “You are doing it wrong,” she observed. “The defence is good, yes. Yet you rely on brute strength instead of your small size. The weapon is the extension of your arm, not a stick to bludgeon with.”
The youth turned with such speed Warren thought he’d slip on the sand. He bowed, as did the other men around them. Irene only drew her lips again in silent disapproval. She straightened and started to take out the drops of rubies dangling from her ears.
Shifting her gaze away from the young guard who still had not raised his head, Irene looked at Jamie and said, “May I spar with you? An honest duel, this time. Without you charging at me armed with magic.”
GetThree
Junior Member
Matthias stared after his guest as she suddenly rose from her seat and left wordlessly, heading toward the soldiers’ barracks where the noise had come from, only sparing him a single backwards glance as if urging him to hurry up. Ah, yet another first. A woman walking away from him rather than the other way round. Maybe it was karma coming back to get him, that his future wife would be colder to him than he had been to all the others combined. Though if that was true, he felt that it was a little unfair. He had never been less than a gentleman, no matter what his feelings about women courting him. Surely, he deserves at least a few words?
The servants looked at her with incredulity, gazes going back and forth between their bereft master and the strange Lady who was not like a lady at all. Perhaps Matthias would have shared their sentiments about an hour ago but now he simply sighed as he stood up, dabbing at his mouth with a napkin and lightly dusting off his clothes. How surprising could being heartlessly abandoned be when even a snarling beast would have been more affable toward him then she had the entire time they’d spent together? Instead of shocked, he was rather amused.
With quick strides, Matthias caught up with his Princess, falling in beside her with ease like he’d done it a thousand times. Her pace was brisk, but her dress limited her mobility, allowing him to keep up with her somewhat leisurely. As they passed by the gardens, servants bowed and greeted them. Matthias smiled and nodded at them, a small but noticeable gesture. Graceful, dignified, superior, but neither arrogant nor condescending. The ideal picture of nobility. In clear contrast, Irene swept by all of them like a storm, ignoring them as thoroughly as she had him.
Her face twisted as if she had tasted something sour as she walked past the bowing servants. Of course, he was aware that she was only confused and discomforted by the almost reverent respect from servants she had previously thought herself equal to. However, there were few others who would understand. To them, she was pompous and haughty, treating them like insignificant creatures just because she had the attention of their Prince. She would not make many friends in the household if she continued like this.
All of these thoughts flashed by in his mind in the short span of time it took to get to the fighting ring, of sorts, that the soldiers used to spar. Matthias used to spend hours sparring and training, but now it was hard for him to come by an opponent that roused his fighting spirit. It wasn’t that his skill in combat or his magic power was unmatched. It was instead his fluency in combining the two that made him a terrifying opponent few could match, even less overcome. “It’s because he’s a genius, we’re helpless against him,” people would say as if his ability was some sort of ancient magic rather than effort and skill. If anyone had poured as much blood and sweat into training as he had, they could become an impressive warrior even if their talent was nil. Not many were aware of this, though.
To them, the life of a prodigy was enviable. That this prodigy was born royalty, well! What an easy life he has, what a lucky man. What does it matter if he is beaten, broken and isolated, what can mere mortals do for someone who can surely never get hurt? Matthias loathed that sort of thinking.
Roars escaped from the crowd as Jaime’s opponent fell to his knees, gasping for air. Jaime held only a thin wooden rod in his hand, while the boy’s metal spear had rolled quite a distance away. Although still a boy, the challenger was a talented fighter and had proven himself capable in magic as well. He was someone Matthias had kept his eyes on, but he was also still very lacking in experience and understanding of combat. He was not yet Jaime’s opponent, as clearly seen from his stuttering heartbeat and heavy pants. He noted the boy’s weakness mentally, making a note to tell him in a later training. However, a certain someone beat him to it.
Matthias was impressed by how well she had analyzed the fight, being able to pinpoint and explain the fault in a fighter from barely a minute of watching was a useful and rare skill. The soldiers turned to look at her in disbelief, as if she had grown a second head. A noble Lady telling trained soldiers how to fight was indeed an inconceivable scene. Their questioning gazes only seemed to grow more intense when she asked for a fight with Jaime. Some even burst into laughter. Matthias would have laughed as well, if he were any less restrained, though for a different reason than theirs.
A mercenary asking a knight for an “honest duel”, who would’ve thought? Mirth danced in Matthias’s gaze as Jaime’s eyes widened comically. The irony in the situation was clearly not lost on him either. His friend's face changed from shocked to insulted to mildly impressed as he gaped at his fellow brunette. The entire courtyard descended into chaos, hushed discussions springing up from every direction that got louder with every passing second. “If my Princess wishes for it then it will happen. I, too, would like to see this duel,” he finally spoke out, face calm as ever but with a voice full of laughter. Everyone silenced for a beat, before the conversations came back even louder. A glare was sent in his direction by Jaime and he shrugged slightly, as if saying that he was a helpless third party.
He called for Mikas and the boy held exasperation in his eyes as he went to help Irene adjust her dress, making slits at the sides and tying it up to just above her knees. For the sake of modesty, the dress could be no shorter, even this much had the servants whispering and his men looking away. The whole household knew by now that the Princess who had appeared from nowhere was his woman. Someone brought her leather gloves, while Jaime put away the rod he was holding. Obviously, former mercenary or not, they couldn’t have a fight with weapons when one party was a noble woman and guest of his household.
On the day of the ritual, Irene had managed to strike Jaime. However, her hit had landed so strongly only because Jaime hadn’t been expecting a physical reaction at all. Their fight had ended with Jaime’s relatively easy win, but only through the use of magic. In a proper one-on-one fight where the use of magic was prohibited, it was hard to tell who would win. While Jaime was a talented warrior, he was a stickler for the rules and confined himself to certain methods and moves, making him predictable for someone with enough experience. Irene, on the other hand, was a mercenary and an elite one at that according to his informants. Her strength and skill could not be underestimated, but she was heavily disadvantaged from a purely physical standpoint.
Matthias stood back and chose to watch instead of guess. Irene and Jaime circled each other, with intense concentration, resembling a fight to the death more than a casual spar. The wooden statue he had ate with had suddenly sprung to life. Who could’ve known she had such a fire hiding in her? A small smirk played on Matthias’s lips. Perhaps his married life would be more interesting than he had expected.
The servants looked at her with incredulity, gazes going back and forth between their bereft master and the strange Lady who was not like a lady at all. Perhaps Matthias would have shared their sentiments about an hour ago but now he simply sighed as he stood up, dabbing at his mouth with a napkin and lightly dusting off his clothes. How surprising could being heartlessly abandoned be when even a snarling beast would have been more affable toward him then she had the entire time they’d spent together? Instead of shocked, he was rather amused.
With quick strides, Matthias caught up with his Princess, falling in beside her with ease like he’d done it a thousand times. Her pace was brisk, but her dress limited her mobility, allowing him to keep up with her somewhat leisurely. As they passed by the gardens, servants bowed and greeted them. Matthias smiled and nodded at them, a small but noticeable gesture. Graceful, dignified, superior, but neither arrogant nor condescending. The ideal picture of nobility. In clear contrast, Irene swept by all of them like a storm, ignoring them as thoroughly as she had him.
Her face twisted as if she had tasted something sour as she walked past the bowing servants. Of course, he was aware that she was only confused and discomforted by the almost reverent respect from servants she had previously thought herself equal to. However, there were few others who would understand. To them, she was pompous and haughty, treating them like insignificant creatures just because she had the attention of their Prince. She would not make many friends in the household if she continued like this.
All of these thoughts flashed by in his mind in the short span of time it took to get to the fighting ring, of sorts, that the soldiers used to spar. Matthias used to spend hours sparring and training, but now it was hard for him to come by an opponent that roused his fighting spirit. It wasn’t that his skill in combat or his magic power was unmatched. It was instead his fluency in combining the two that made him a terrifying opponent few could match, even less overcome. “It’s because he’s a genius, we’re helpless against him,” people would say as if his ability was some sort of ancient magic rather than effort and skill. If anyone had poured as much blood and sweat into training as he had, they could become an impressive warrior even if their talent was nil. Not many were aware of this, though.
To them, the life of a prodigy was enviable. That this prodigy was born royalty, well! What an easy life he has, what a lucky man. What does it matter if he is beaten, broken and isolated, what can mere mortals do for someone who can surely never get hurt? Matthias loathed that sort of thinking.
Roars escaped from the crowd as Jaime’s opponent fell to his knees, gasping for air. Jaime held only a thin wooden rod in his hand, while the boy’s metal spear had rolled quite a distance away. Although still a boy, the challenger was a talented fighter and had proven himself capable in magic as well. He was someone Matthias had kept his eyes on, but he was also still very lacking in experience and understanding of combat. He was not yet Jaime’s opponent, as clearly seen from his stuttering heartbeat and heavy pants. He noted the boy’s weakness mentally, making a note to tell him in a later training. However, a certain someone beat him to it.
Matthias was impressed by how well she had analyzed the fight, being able to pinpoint and explain the fault in a fighter from barely a minute of watching was a useful and rare skill. The soldiers turned to look at her in disbelief, as if she had grown a second head. A noble Lady telling trained soldiers how to fight was indeed an inconceivable scene. Their questioning gazes only seemed to grow more intense when she asked for a fight with Jaime. Some even burst into laughter. Matthias would have laughed as well, if he were any less restrained, though for a different reason than theirs.
A mercenary asking a knight for an “honest duel”, who would’ve thought? Mirth danced in Matthias’s gaze as Jaime’s eyes widened comically. The irony in the situation was clearly not lost on him either. His friend's face changed from shocked to insulted to mildly impressed as he gaped at his fellow brunette. The entire courtyard descended into chaos, hushed discussions springing up from every direction that got louder with every passing second. “If my Princess wishes for it then it will happen. I, too, would like to see this duel,” he finally spoke out, face calm as ever but with a voice full of laughter. Everyone silenced for a beat, before the conversations came back even louder. A glare was sent in his direction by Jaime and he shrugged slightly, as if saying that he was a helpless third party.
He called for Mikas and the boy held exasperation in his eyes as he went to help Irene adjust her dress, making slits at the sides and tying it up to just above her knees. For the sake of modesty, the dress could be no shorter, even this much had the servants whispering and his men looking away. The whole household knew by now that the Princess who had appeared from nowhere was his woman. Someone brought her leather gloves, while Jaime put away the rod he was holding. Obviously, former mercenary or not, they couldn’t have a fight with weapons when one party was a noble woman and guest of his household.
On the day of the ritual, Irene had managed to strike Jaime. However, her hit had landed so strongly only because Jaime hadn’t been expecting a physical reaction at all. Their fight had ended with Jaime’s relatively easy win, but only through the use of magic. In a proper one-on-one fight where the use of magic was prohibited, it was hard to tell who would win. While Jaime was a talented warrior, he was a stickler for the rules and confined himself to certain methods and moves, making him predictable for someone with enough experience. Irene, on the other hand, was a mercenary and an elite one at that according to his informants. Her strength and skill could not be underestimated, but she was heavily disadvantaged from a purely physical standpoint.
Matthias stood back and chose to watch instead of guess. Irene and Jaime circled each other, with intense concentration, resembling a fight to the death more than a casual spar. The wooden statue he had ate with had suddenly sprung to life. Who could’ve known she had such a fire hiding in her? A small smirk played on Matthias’s lips. Perhaps his married life would be more interesting than he had expected.
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Lenaara
Dreaming of honey cakes.
GetThree
Had they no shame?
Warren watched his peers with mild irritation. One of the few who was immune to the growing excitement, he remained ever the vigilant guard by Prince Matthias’s side. Shoulders squared, a hand resting over the pommel of his sword, Warren stared holes into the backs of the guards who had moved towards the ring of sand for a better view. More out of duty than shame, Warren refused to look below the Lady’s waist, even when she’d made it increasingly difficult to avert his gaze in time when she so unceremoniously flung both legs over the fence.
A buzz of anticipation in the air was almost tangible. The two opponents continued to circle each other, and Warren noticed with surprise Irene’s relaxed demeanour. Once again, she reminded him of a snake, slithering silently over the sand, ready to strike if provoked.
Someone’s hand appeared in Warren’s peripheral and he looked down at it, brows drawn in silent question. “We’re taking bets. You in?” The owner spoke and pointed a thumb over his shoulder.
“You cannot really think the Princess is going to win, do you?” Warren asked, surely looking at his comrade as if he just proposed the silliest of ideas.
The other only laughed and waved a dismissive hand. “’Course not. We’re betting on how long she lasts before the Captain throws her Highness on the sand.”
Oh, it was tempting. Warren glanced at the woman in consideration, cocking his head to the side as he contemplated the offer and said, “No, you should return to your—”
A cry rang out across the courtyard as the fight began, cheered on by the guards who were expecting a show.
And a show they got, though not the kind they wished for.
Distracted by the guard, Warren had not seen her move at first. It brought forth a not so pleasant memory. Of silver eyes that bore into his like daggers, narrow and piercing. There was no fear in those eyes, no hesitation or confusion. No, Warren had seen the woman change in a fraction of a second the moment his fingers coiled around her wrist in the Prince’s office.
At the time, Warren realized what had happened only when air refused to enter his lungs. He gasped and panted, his body falling into a different kind of shock. Not enough air. He had been suffocating, wheezing, and he could not forget how this woman, this snake, moved towards him. Like water, flowing and fast and unstoppable, twisting her body around the limbs that reached out towards her. The flash of silver eyes was the last thing he remembered before collapsing and drowning in immense pain.
Now a witness instead of participant, Warren watched Irene with a fascination unbefitting his hatred for her. Each movement was fluid, focused on conserving energy. A warrior himself, Warren could see that years of training honed her body to work in unison with her mind, to flow like water in a stream.
The Captain was no fool, either, and he was far above everyone else in terms of skill. Yet each time he attacked, Irene evaded and focused on defence rather than offense. She’d tried to hit him several times at first, but the Captain blocked each attempt. The courtyard had grown silent, none daring to shout encouragement to defeat the woman. Betting had been forgotten and Warren had a sneaking suspicion that everyone had lost their bets, anyway.
Why doesn’t she blind him with the sand? The thought entered his mind so suddenly Warren was taken aback by it. Was he truly encouraging her to win? Preposterous. The Captain had to be holding back, considering who his opponent was to the Prince.
“That must have hurt,” the guard beside Warren observed so quietly, Warren thought the guard spoke out loud without meaning to.
Not recalling a single hit landing on her person, Warren looked at his comrade for clarification. The other nodded at the woman, looking down at her feet. Warren followed his gaze and sucked in a breath, feeling his stomach roll unpleasantly. The sight, though repulsive, explained why Irene preferred to rest her weight on the non-dominant side.
Barefoot, Irene had her skirts wrapped about her thighs, exposing taunt tan skin corded with muscle. Faint pale lines could be seen - nearly faded remnants of old cuts. The one that caught not only Warren’s attention but also many others’, was a scar much different from the rest. It was an ugly thing. Most prominent and recent of them all, it displayed various stages of healing. In a jagged line it went from Irene’s ankle to end just above the knee, covering the entire front of her right shin. The torn skin was discoloured, bright against the pale sunlight that played along the scar's ridges.
When too close to the fence, Irene turned, and sand rose in a cloud about their feet. The Captain had the upper hand, that much was obvious, and when he swung a fist at her, Warren knew the fight was just about to end. Irene wrapped a hand around the Captain’s wrist, moving further back to avoid the momentum of the swing, and without anyone expecting it at all, side stepped, kicked Jamie against his ankle, and sent the man past her, falling to the ground.
Warren would never have believed the guard barracks could be so quiet.
Irene pushed a hand through her hair, moving back the shorter strands that had escaped the tight braid, and stepped towards Jamie, offering a hand to help him up. She did not look smug nor proud but…pleased. Distracted by the elegant fluidity of her movement and by the scar, Warren hadn’t noticed the change in Irene’s behaviour. Used to the empty shell of a woman, he never expected to see her so alive.
GetThree
Junior Member
Matthias watched the duel with high expectations, the captain of his guards against his most important political ally. Or, alternatively, his best friend against his fiancee. He was familiar with Jaime’s strength and style, he could guess the older man’s next move without even having to look. He was much more interested in Irene, who had confidently headed into combat against a much larger opponent with not a bit of protection on her person.
Her movements were smooth and unrestrained. She seemed at ease in her environment, like an animal in their natural habitat. Her style was not flashy but it was balanced, effective. She did not struggle between method and instinct, a problem for many soldiers, but combined them fluidly instead. It was impressive. Her way of fighting was inherently similar to his own, but there were many small divergences that added up to make them different overall. For example, in that situation, a jab coming in from the right while he was in the corner of the ring, he would not have dodged but sent a low kick into his opponent’s open left. However, the return blow she gave afterward was a clever move and one he would not have thought to risk in such a tight space.
As the duel continued, the noise in the barracks rose to an almost painful volume. When he looked around, he could see excitement and expectation on the soldiers’ faces. They were battling between their head and their heart. In the former, they not only wanted their Captain to win but also held the unshakable belief that he would. They had their pride as a military as great as even the Imperial Army. For any of them, not to mention their commander, to lose to a noble woman was unacceptable. But deeper inside, in their subconscious, they wanted to see something amazing happen. Without even realizing it themselves, many started to root for Irene.
Fire in her eyes, bare hands and bare feet, prowling the ring with tensed muscles but a relaxed grin gracing a sharp yet pretty face. Wild and free. Admittedly a more attractive image of a woman than he anticipated. He could see why his men were enjoying the fight so much.
As the duel drew close to its conclusion, Jaime slowly begun to gain the upper hand. There was an odd note in Irene’s movements, however, as if she was waiting for something. Jaime’s hand came swinging at her face. Irene moved to catch it. She had just slightly underestimated his speed. It was going to land. Then Jaime’s hand stuttered. He had realized if he followed through with this a heavy strike to his leg was unavoidable. It was just a split second but Irene took advantage of it thoroughly. She managed to grab his wrist. The best Jaime could do now was to minimize the damage as he was thrown to the floor using his own momentum.
Silence. There was silence, so thick in the air you could taste it.
Jaime peered up at the hand that was given to him, a complicated expression on his face. Slowly, he reach up to take it, pulling himself up to his feet. He bowed at Irene, lower than usual to acknowledge his loss. Someone started to clap from the other side of the ring and others followed. There was no cheering, no shouts of encouragement or congratulations. A mellow yet clear declaration of acceptance and approval. It was said that a child resembles its parents and an army resembles its commander. Jaime was nothing but honorable and disciplined, dignified even in defeat. His soldiers naturally followed. More than friendship or talent, this was why Matthias had chosen Jaime Aerie as the commander of his guard.
Servants rushed forward to help Irene, untying her dress and cleaning off the dirt that had gotten on her in a flurry. Jaime walked toward Matthias, the odd expression on his face not yet faded. “I was careless,” he confessed, almost whispering. Matthias hummed in agreement, a contemplating gaze still on his Princess. She was just a few steps away, looking at the both of them quietly as she let the attendants fuss over her. They locked eyes for just a fraction of a second before he turned away to look at his rather depressed friend. His tone held a rare trace of genuine warmth as he clasped Jaime on the shoulder with a small smile, “You did well.”
The rest of his evening was comparatively very uneventful, dealing with financial matters more than anything. The preparations for Irene’s appearance in the Court was on hold until he received an affirmative reply from Lord Katharos. Once he had confirmed his plans with all involved parties, the only thing left would be to somehow get Irene willing and ready to play her very important role. A play could not be staged without its lead actress.
Leaving his office, he headed back to his chambers. His chambers, along with most of the left wing, had the same color scheme as his military colors, the navy blue and gold that contrasted strongly with the off-whites of the guest’s right wing. Both of them had white exteriors reminiscent of the Palace and both were grand and luxurious. However, the left wing carried a far darker and more imposing atmosphere than the bright, airy right wing. Both his office and the dining hall were in the middle extension that connected the two. His rooms were much further in, the place nearest to the sea.
Though his lounge was lavish and regal, his bedroom was as sparsely decorated as its owner. Other than the lone signet ring on his finger, the most extravagant thing he had on him was often his sword, forged from Fae Iron and Orc Bones, with a tinted blue blade and decorated at the hilt with a single Storm Lily frozen in melted gold. A gift from his father that, as fancy as it was, was a sharp and unyielding blade.
It was this sword that he was removing now, along with his belt. His loose dress shirt was quickly abandoned as well. The attendant, a young girl, probably new, came forward to collect his clothing, face redder than flames. He waved his hand and gestured for her to leave. He never had servants wait on him when he bathed.
The open bath, resembling a natural pond rather than a man-made structure, was the only sanctuary he had in his daily life. On top of a cliff right beside the shoreline, where the sky and the sea appears to unite and the sound of waves crashing is all you can hear. A heaven in hell, a retreat from reality, away from the rest of the world, at peace. Even if only for a little while.
Matthias stood and stared outside the window for a long while, just a little mesmerized by the night sky outside. It would be even more gorgeous outside. Perhaps if he were to end his day with such a beautiful scene, his dreams would be less ugly than usual. With that thought in mind, he lost his last piece of clothing and stepped out to the bath with only a towel to accompany him.
Her movements were smooth and unrestrained. She seemed at ease in her environment, like an animal in their natural habitat. Her style was not flashy but it was balanced, effective. She did not struggle between method and instinct, a problem for many soldiers, but combined them fluidly instead. It was impressive. Her way of fighting was inherently similar to his own, but there were many small divergences that added up to make them different overall. For example, in that situation, a jab coming in from the right while he was in the corner of the ring, he would not have dodged but sent a low kick into his opponent’s open left. However, the return blow she gave afterward was a clever move and one he would not have thought to risk in such a tight space.
As the duel continued, the noise in the barracks rose to an almost painful volume. When he looked around, he could see excitement and expectation on the soldiers’ faces. They were battling between their head and their heart. In the former, they not only wanted their Captain to win but also held the unshakable belief that he would. They had their pride as a military as great as even the Imperial Army. For any of them, not to mention their commander, to lose to a noble woman was unacceptable. But deeper inside, in their subconscious, they wanted to see something amazing happen. Without even realizing it themselves, many started to root for Irene.
Fire in her eyes, bare hands and bare feet, prowling the ring with tensed muscles but a relaxed grin gracing a sharp yet pretty face. Wild and free. Admittedly a more attractive image of a woman than he anticipated. He could see why his men were enjoying the fight so much.
As the duel drew close to its conclusion, Jaime slowly begun to gain the upper hand. There was an odd note in Irene’s movements, however, as if she was waiting for something. Jaime’s hand came swinging at her face. Irene moved to catch it. She had just slightly underestimated his speed. It was going to land. Then Jaime’s hand stuttered. He had realized if he followed through with this a heavy strike to his leg was unavoidable. It was just a split second but Irene took advantage of it thoroughly. She managed to grab his wrist. The best Jaime could do now was to minimize the damage as he was thrown to the floor using his own momentum.
Silence. There was silence, so thick in the air you could taste it.
Jaime peered up at the hand that was given to him, a complicated expression on his face. Slowly, he reach up to take it, pulling himself up to his feet. He bowed at Irene, lower than usual to acknowledge his loss. Someone started to clap from the other side of the ring and others followed. There was no cheering, no shouts of encouragement or congratulations. A mellow yet clear declaration of acceptance and approval. It was said that a child resembles its parents and an army resembles its commander. Jaime was nothing but honorable and disciplined, dignified even in defeat. His soldiers naturally followed. More than friendship or talent, this was why Matthias had chosen Jaime Aerie as the commander of his guard.
Servants rushed forward to help Irene, untying her dress and cleaning off the dirt that had gotten on her in a flurry. Jaime walked toward Matthias, the odd expression on his face not yet faded. “I was careless,” he confessed, almost whispering. Matthias hummed in agreement, a contemplating gaze still on his Princess. She was just a few steps away, looking at the both of them quietly as she let the attendants fuss over her. They locked eyes for just a fraction of a second before he turned away to look at his rather depressed friend. His tone held a rare trace of genuine warmth as he clasped Jaime on the shoulder with a small smile, “You did well.”
The rest of his evening was comparatively very uneventful, dealing with financial matters more than anything. The preparations for Irene’s appearance in the Court was on hold until he received an affirmative reply from Lord Katharos. Once he had confirmed his plans with all involved parties, the only thing left would be to somehow get Irene willing and ready to play her very important role. A play could not be staged without its lead actress.
Leaving his office, he headed back to his chambers. His chambers, along with most of the left wing, had the same color scheme as his military colors, the navy blue and gold that contrasted strongly with the off-whites of the guest’s right wing. Both of them had white exteriors reminiscent of the Palace and both were grand and luxurious. However, the left wing carried a far darker and more imposing atmosphere than the bright, airy right wing. Both his office and the dining hall were in the middle extension that connected the two. His rooms were much further in, the place nearest to the sea.
Though his lounge was lavish and regal, his bedroom was as sparsely decorated as its owner. Other than the lone signet ring on his finger, the most extravagant thing he had on him was often his sword, forged from Fae Iron and Orc Bones, with a tinted blue blade and decorated at the hilt with a single Storm Lily frozen in melted gold. A gift from his father that, as fancy as it was, was a sharp and unyielding blade.
It was this sword that he was removing now, along with his belt. His loose dress shirt was quickly abandoned as well. The attendant, a young girl, probably new, came forward to collect his clothing, face redder than flames. He waved his hand and gestured for her to leave. He never had servants wait on him when he bathed.
The open bath, resembling a natural pond rather than a man-made structure, was the only sanctuary he had in his daily life. On top of a cliff right beside the shoreline, where the sky and the sea appears to unite and the sound of waves crashing is all you can hear. A heaven in hell, a retreat from reality, away from the rest of the world, at peace. Even if only for a little while.
Matthias stood and stared outside the window for a long while, just a little mesmerized by the night sky outside. It would be even more gorgeous outside. Perhaps if he were to end his day with such a beautiful scene, his dreams would be less ugly than usual. With that thought in mind, he lost his last piece of clothing and stepped out to the bath with only a towel to accompany him.
Lenaara
Dreaming of honey cakes.
The ring was a little island separated from the rest of the world. Only two people existed in that moment, locked in a duel that was not all that impressive. It might have lasted an eternity or no time at all. Flurry of limbs and sprays of sand as they moved across the field, glistening, gleaming over lean tan muscle sweat under the sun.
It was over in an instant and the sound came rushing in. After the stunned Captain was helped to his feet, it was Irene’s turn to be taken aback as the man sunk into a bow. Shaking her head, she snorted and patted him on the back, hard, as she would a friend.
Servants swarmed the woman in an instant, brushing off the sand stuck to her legs and arms and neck. In moments the robe was pulled onto her, covering the unseemly outfit she’d made herself to spar. She’d broken a sweat and the robe was rough against her skin, too constricting and warm, shutting off the pleasant cool breeze. Not too pleased with the doting, Irene stood still, drunk from adrenaline that coursed through her body. It was a pleasing feeling even as the buzz of excitement receded on the way back to her chambers.
The robe was discarded the moment Irene stepped into the room. All her attendants were told to leave after a dinner was brought in. Alone, doors locked behind the last of the servants, Irene started to pluck the jewellery from her ears and arms and neck. It was red and gold to compliment the colours of her clothes. Unnecessarily extravagant in the design of Izmarian jewellers, the pieces were large and heavy. When Irene asked for fabric in colours of red and creamy whites, she had not anticipated to be given entire sets of rubies and pearls, onyx and amber. One of the etiquette tutors advised Irene to get used to wearing heavy jewellery ensembles. Irene agreed to pierce her ears that day, too detached from the world to care.
Mikas, it seemed, was quite happy matching the accessories for her. Irene had no taste for such things but refused to wear the elaborate chokers so in fashion at Vaelan court or the heavy slabs of bloated gold in her ears to off-set her simple hairstyle. Perhaps it was a better idea to give Mikas the entire chest of jewels or, better, send it to the treasury where it can do more good than it did sitting around a mercenary’s neck.
Accessories gone, the remaining of Irene’s clothes followed and she headed for the bath. It was always empty but drawn, the water warm even when the night’s air had grown chilly. At first, she suspected it to be a natural hot spring but Vaela was a land of magic, so an enchantment keeping the water warm was more likely.
A pool carved into the stone, atop a cliff overlooking the sea below. Torchlight illuminated the room, tongues of fire playing in brass plates placed on stands around the room. Baskets with linen towels were at the far side along with vials and jars of soaps and scented salts and oils. Pillars of white stone held the ceiling and along its edge hung curtains of cream gossamer.
Irene preferred to sit as far away from the pool’s edge as it was possible. There, only a narrow line of the sea could be seen, its edge visible by the line of moonlight. This late at night, the sea was as black and cold as the sky above it. Moonlight played along the waves, coloured the rolling waves a shimmering blue. Yet, for all its beauty, Irene couldn’t stand looking at that dark void. Anything and everything could be lurking there, hidden in deep water.
Only the sky and sounds of crashing waves to keep her company, Irene found herself to be more at peace in the bathing chamber than anywhere else in the house. The water soothed the returned ache in her leg and washed away the sand from earlier. Hair loose, it pooled around Irene in tendrils of near black, half-concealing the inky lines below her neck.
At first, Irene was cautious when alone in the bathing chamber. Anyone could walk in, a servant or a guard or even the Prince, but the days went by without an incident and Irene lowered her guard, left the clothes in her room and no longer brought the linen towels close to the edge of the bath, ready to be thrown across her chest in a moment’s notice.
What a fool she’s been to think the bathing room was hers alone.
Soft candlelight flickered in Irene’s peripheral vision and at first, she thought it was just the fire dancing in the wind. Then, masked by the sound of waves below, she heard the faintest of steps.
Irene turned around lightning fast, her chest pressed against the pool’s wall. Immediately assuming it was a servant, an order to leave was already on Irene’s lips when the man stepped into the moonlight. It made his skin glow like a pearl, enhancing the contours of the sinews beneath, and the golden shine of his hair resembled a crown for one fleeting moment. Impossibly beautiful and strong and completely naked. Prince Matthias only had a towel draped about his shoulders, for all good it did to cover his nudity.
Irene wanted nothing more than to duck into the water. The pool was shallow so far from the cliff’s edge and the water was barely up to her waist. Not bothered by nudity, hers or someone else’s, Irene couldn’t care less if the Prince saw her body. The Mark, however, was a different matter. Her hand darted to it almost immediately in a futile attempt to cover it from curious eyes. She couldn’t permit the Prince to see it, not yet, not when their marriage wasn’t set in stone that nothing but death could end it.
Realizing she was staring, Irene looked away. “Have you no sense of modesty?”
It was over in an instant and the sound came rushing in. After the stunned Captain was helped to his feet, it was Irene’s turn to be taken aback as the man sunk into a bow. Shaking her head, she snorted and patted him on the back, hard, as she would a friend.
Servants swarmed the woman in an instant, brushing off the sand stuck to her legs and arms and neck. In moments the robe was pulled onto her, covering the unseemly outfit she’d made herself to spar. She’d broken a sweat and the robe was rough against her skin, too constricting and warm, shutting off the pleasant cool breeze. Not too pleased with the doting, Irene stood still, drunk from adrenaline that coursed through her body. It was a pleasing feeling even as the buzz of excitement receded on the way back to her chambers.
The robe was discarded the moment Irene stepped into the room. All her attendants were told to leave after a dinner was brought in. Alone, doors locked behind the last of the servants, Irene started to pluck the jewellery from her ears and arms and neck. It was red and gold to compliment the colours of her clothes. Unnecessarily extravagant in the design of Izmarian jewellers, the pieces were large and heavy. When Irene asked for fabric in colours of red and creamy whites, she had not anticipated to be given entire sets of rubies and pearls, onyx and amber. One of the etiquette tutors advised Irene to get used to wearing heavy jewellery ensembles. Irene agreed to pierce her ears that day, too detached from the world to care.
Mikas, it seemed, was quite happy matching the accessories for her. Irene had no taste for such things but refused to wear the elaborate chokers so in fashion at Vaelan court or the heavy slabs of bloated gold in her ears to off-set her simple hairstyle. Perhaps it was a better idea to give Mikas the entire chest of jewels or, better, send it to the treasury where it can do more good than it did sitting around a mercenary’s neck.
Accessories gone, the remaining of Irene’s clothes followed and she headed for the bath. It was always empty but drawn, the water warm even when the night’s air had grown chilly. At first, she suspected it to be a natural hot spring but Vaela was a land of magic, so an enchantment keeping the water warm was more likely.
A pool carved into the stone, atop a cliff overlooking the sea below. Torchlight illuminated the room, tongues of fire playing in brass plates placed on stands around the room. Baskets with linen towels were at the far side along with vials and jars of soaps and scented salts and oils. Pillars of white stone held the ceiling and along its edge hung curtains of cream gossamer.
Irene preferred to sit as far away from the pool’s edge as it was possible. There, only a narrow line of the sea could be seen, its edge visible by the line of moonlight. This late at night, the sea was as black and cold as the sky above it. Moonlight played along the waves, coloured the rolling waves a shimmering blue. Yet, for all its beauty, Irene couldn’t stand looking at that dark void. Anything and everything could be lurking there, hidden in deep water.
Only the sky and sounds of crashing waves to keep her company, Irene found herself to be more at peace in the bathing chamber than anywhere else in the house. The water soothed the returned ache in her leg and washed away the sand from earlier. Hair loose, it pooled around Irene in tendrils of near black, half-concealing the inky lines below her neck.
At first, Irene was cautious when alone in the bathing chamber. Anyone could walk in, a servant or a guard or even the Prince, but the days went by without an incident and Irene lowered her guard, left the clothes in her room and no longer brought the linen towels close to the edge of the bath, ready to be thrown across her chest in a moment’s notice.
What a fool she’s been to think the bathing room was hers alone.
Soft candlelight flickered in Irene’s peripheral vision and at first, she thought it was just the fire dancing in the wind. Then, masked by the sound of waves below, she heard the faintest of steps.
Irene turned around lightning fast, her chest pressed against the pool’s wall. Immediately assuming it was a servant, an order to leave was already on Irene’s lips when the man stepped into the moonlight. It made his skin glow like a pearl, enhancing the contours of the sinews beneath, and the golden shine of his hair resembled a crown for one fleeting moment. Impossibly beautiful and strong and completely naked. Prince Matthias only had a towel draped about his shoulders, for all good it did to cover his nudity.
Irene wanted nothing more than to duck into the water. The pool was shallow so far from the cliff’s edge and the water was barely up to her waist. Not bothered by nudity, hers or someone else’s, Irene couldn’t care less if the Prince saw her body. The Mark, however, was a different matter. Her hand darted to it almost immediately in a futile attempt to cover it from curious eyes. She couldn’t permit the Prince to see it, not yet, not when their marriage wasn’t set in stone that nothing but death could end it.
Realizing she was staring, Irene looked away. “Have you no sense of modesty?”
GetThree
Junior Member
It was a cold night. He could feel the chilly ocean breeze on his bare skin, an oddly pleasant sensation. Matthias ran a hand through his hair, messing up the previously neatly arranged hairstyle, blonde strands falling to frame his face. Under the silver glow of the full moon, shimmering azure eyes reminiscent of the sea he stood above, he was free of all the chains he restrained himself with. More the boy that never was than the man he is or the Prince that would never be.
His gait was relaxed and unhurried as he headed toward the bath. When he was just outside the arched entrance to the pool, he finally tore his gaze away from the sky. Only to see something completely unexpected. Irene, hair loose and eyes wide, gaping at him from inside the bath. Mist rose from the steaming waters of the pool, blurring her image slightly. The light of the fires from the torches surrounding them reflected off the water surrounding her, giving her dark hair a red tint. He froze in his steps.
The two people stared at each other for a long second. One stood under the cold moonlight, the other among flickering fire, two opposite yet similarly beautiful figures. Like a painting, a picturesque scene that made its audience hold their breath. Only the participants of the scene knew the reality: it was a moment of awkward silence.
Matthias coughed slightly as Irene turned away from him, hand over her chest, nearly panicking. He didn’t know what she was suddenly so embarrassed about. Wasn’t she the same person who had brazenly shown off her legs just earlier in the evening? Now she was telling him that he had no shame? Matthias frowned. Her apparent shyness made him feel an abrupt bout of self-consciousness as well. Was he supposed to cover up, then? Wouldn’t that defeat the purpose of taking a bath?
He chose not to answer her question and entered the water anyway. The woman stayed crouching in the very corner of the pool, eyes narrowed as she glared at him, hands still thrown over her chest despite the fact that her long hair made it impossible for him to see anything even if he tried. Matthias arched an eyebrow at her, his posture loose unlike her stiff one, his expression a mixture between a question and a challenge. If she didn’t want him to see her bare that badly then she was stuck in here until he left first. Matthias wasn’t about to sacrifice his time of peace to save her “sense of modesty”.
“The view from this bath is the best in Thean Gerith, Princess. It’s a waste to spend your time in it so far in the corner,” he remarked, regarding her with a disparaging expression. He moved toward her, ignoring how she flinched as he slipped off the towel hanging on his shoulder. He stopped just an arm’s length away from her, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “I tend to spend quite a long time here, Princess. Will you be alright staying like that?” His voice was serious, as if he was honestly worried rather than taunting her.
The towel in his hands was the bait on a fishing rod, luring an unsuspecting fish onto the hook of the fisherman. Though Irene was anything but unsuspecting toward him. That was fine, though. Matthias was an expert at baiting his prey, especially in terms of finding their weaknesses. Irene’s odd sense of propriety was an unexpected development, he could run with it. He raised the piece of cloth in his hand to her eye level. An unimportant strip of cloth, in the right situation, could even be traded for precious stones. “A favor in exchange for a favor is only right, don’t you think so, my beloved Princess?”
His gait was relaxed and unhurried as he headed toward the bath. When he was just outside the arched entrance to the pool, he finally tore his gaze away from the sky. Only to see something completely unexpected. Irene, hair loose and eyes wide, gaping at him from inside the bath. Mist rose from the steaming waters of the pool, blurring her image slightly. The light of the fires from the torches surrounding them reflected off the water surrounding her, giving her dark hair a red tint. He froze in his steps.
The two people stared at each other for a long second. One stood under the cold moonlight, the other among flickering fire, two opposite yet similarly beautiful figures. Like a painting, a picturesque scene that made its audience hold their breath. Only the participants of the scene knew the reality: it was a moment of awkward silence.
Matthias coughed slightly as Irene turned away from him, hand over her chest, nearly panicking. He didn’t know what she was suddenly so embarrassed about. Wasn’t she the same person who had brazenly shown off her legs just earlier in the evening? Now she was telling him that he had no shame? Matthias frowned. Her apparent shyness made him feel an abrupt bout of self-consciousness as well. Was he supposed to cover up, then? Wouldn’t that defeat the purpose of taking a bath?
He chose not to answer her question and entered the water anyway. The woman stayed crouching in the very corner of the pool, eyes narrowed as she glared at him, hands still thrown over her chest despite the fact that her long hair made it impossible for him to see anything even if he tried. Matthias arched an eyebrow at her, his posture loose unlike her stiff one, his expression a mixture between a question and a challenge. If she didn’t want him to see her bare that badly then she was stuck in here until he left first. Matthias wasn’t about to sacrifice his time of peace to save her “sense of modesty”.
“The view from this bath is the best in Thean Gerith, Princess. It’s a waste to spend your time in it so far in the corner,” he remarked, regarding her with a disparaging expression. He moved toward her, ignoring how she flinched as he slipped off the towel hanging on his shoulder. He stopped just an arm’s length away from her, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “I tend to spend quite a long time here, Princess. Will you be alright staying like that?” His voice was serious, as if he was honestly worried rather than taunting her.
The towel in his hands was the bait on a fishing rod, luring an unsuspecting fish onto the hook of the fisherman. Though Irene was anything but unsuspecting toward him. That was fine, though. Matthias was an expert at baiting his prey, especially in terms of finding their weaknesses. Irene’s odd sense of propriety was an unexpected development, he could run with it. He raised the piece of cloth in his hand to her eye level. An unimportant strip of cloth, in the right situation, could even be traded for precious stones. “A favor in exchange for a favor is only right, don’t you think so, my beloved Princess?”
Lenaara
Dreaming of honey cakes.
Mountain damn him, was he truly enjoying this?
In a futile attempt Irene reached up to snatch the towel from his hand. It nearly exposed her chest as she jumped out of the water, almost losing the cover of the bath’s edge. But the cloth slipped from her fingers. The Prince, annoyingly smug about the situation, pulled the towel out of her reach just as her fingertips brushed against it.
Looking up at the Prince, Irene glared at him from below furrowed brows. “Enjoying yourself, are you?” There was no malice in her voice. Indeed, she sounded more tired than excited at his teasing. Considering what she was hiding, Irene thought herself uncharacteristically calm in this situation.
Had the Mark not been such a threat to what they agreed on, had Matthias been a normal man instead of royalty…Perhaps, she would have enjoyed his teasing.
“You know as well as I, how stubborn I can be.” Carefully, Irene turned with her back to the man and started to move farther from him towards the other side of the pool. If she had to stare at the void to prove a point, she was going to do it. Potential dangers of the deep waters dwarfed in comparison to what was bound to happen if the Mark was carelessly revealed.
The water was up to Irene’s neck by the time she reached the very edge of the pond. Arms folded before her, she rested a chin on them and looked out into the sea. It was endless, a blanket of ever shifting darkness. Waves crashed below, beautifully deadly, glimmering like stardust under the moonlight. The sky was clear, and stars gazed down at Irene in tens of thousands of little lights.
Irene was silent and utterly still. The towel and the Prince seemingly forgotten, she looked at the scenery in quiet contemplation. When she finally spoke, her voice was just above a whisper.
“I dislike the sea,” she said, perhaps more to herself than to the man behind her. “When I was young, I watched a man get dragged under water by a siren. The adults warned us never to go to the shore. Too dangerous, they said. But I could see it from our house. We lived high up, you see, and through the rocks the water was barely visible. It was always quiet and still, a pool of silver green that reminded me of grass. I wanted to see it up close.”
Lifting a hand, Irene ran it through her hair and let it rest at the back of her neck. Perhaps it was the scenery that made her speak more than a few words to her soon to be husband. Or she wanted to distract him long enough to drop his teasing act and pass her the towel, as if she was bribing him with a story from her past. Whatever it was, Irene needed this. Needed to speak to someone after being lost for such a long time deep inside her own mind.
“So,” Irene continued, “one day when my mother left, I snuck out. A stupid thing to do. A group of fishermen was just dragging their boats into the water when I arrived and hid behind a rock. The last boat had three men in it, one at the front with a spear, one on rowing duty, and the third at the back. The boat was just about to pass an overly large boulder when something stirred atop it. I watched in horror as a creature fell and dragged the last man off the boat into the water. There was no sound at all. The others didn’t even notice their comrade was gone. I never ran as fast in my entire life as I did that day.”
Silence filled the air. Torchlight flickered, and shadows danced. Waves continued their never-ending onslaught below, crashing against the shore and the cliff, spraying a myriad of translucent droplets into the moonlight.
The cold breeze dried the water on Irene’s shoulders and the chill started to settle in. She lowered into the pool, wetting her hair completely in the process.
“When can we marry, your Highness? I tolerate the people you send to teach me. Yet I fail to see how that is supposed to bring me any closer to the throne.” Glancing over her shoulder, Irene’s eyes met the Prince’s. They were a bright azure, a splash of colour against the fairness of his skin and hair. “Unless you have forgotten the true and only reason why you agreed to my proposal?”
In a futile attempt Irene reached up to snatch the towel from his hand. It nearly exposed her chest as she jumped out of the water, almost losing the cover of the bath’s edge. But the cloth slipped from her fingers. The Prince, annoyingly smug about the situation, pulled the towel out of her reach just as her fingertips brushed against it.
Looking up at the Prince, Irene glared at him from below furrowed brows. “Enjoying yourself, are you?” There was no malice in her voice. Indeed, she sounded more tired than excited at his teasing. Considering what she was hiding, Irene thought herself uncharacteristically calm in this situation.
Had the Mark not been such a threat to what they agreed on, had Matthias been a normal man instead of royalty…Perhaps, she would have enjoyed his teasing.
“You know as well as I, how stubborn I can be.” Carefully, Irene turned with her back to the man and started to move farther from him towards the other side of the pool. If she had to stare at the void to prove a point, she was going to do it. Potential dangers of the deep waters dwarfed in comparison to what was bound to happen if the Mark was carelessly revealed.
The water was up to Irene’s neck by the time she reached the very edge of the pond. Arms folded before her, she rested a chin on them and looked out into the sea. It was endless, a blanket of ever shifting darkness. Waves crashed below, beautifully deadly, glimmering like stardust under the moonlight. The sky was clear, and stars gazed down at Irene in tens of thousands of little lights.
Irene was silent and utterly still. The towel and the Prince seemingly forgotten, she looked at the scenery in quiet contemplation. When she finally spoke, her voice was just above a whisper.
“I dislike the sea,” she said, perhaps more to herself than to the man behind her. “When I was young, I watched a man get dragged under water by a siren. The adults warned us never to go to the shore. Too dangerous, they said. But I could see it from our house. We lived high up, you see, and through the rocks the water was barely visible. It was always quiet and still, a pool of silver green that reminded me of grass. I wanted to see it up close.”
Lifting a hand, Irene ran it through her hair and let it rest at the back of her neck. Perhaps it was the scenery that made her speak more than a few words to her soon to be husband. Or she wanted to distract him long enough to drop his teasing act and pass her the towel, as if she was bribing him with a story from her past. Whatever it was, Irene needed this. Needed to speak to someone after being lost for such a long time deep inside her own mind.
“So,” Irene continued, “one day when my mother left, I snuck out. A stupid thing to do. A group of fishermen was just dragging their boats into the water when I arrived and hid behind a rock. The last boat had three men in it, one at the front with a spear, one on rowing duty, and the third at the back. The boat was just about to pass an overly large boulder when something stirred atop it. I watched in horror as a creature fell and dragged the last man off the boat into the water. There was no sound at all. The others didn’t even notice their comrade was gone. I never ran as fast in my entire life as I did that day.”
Silence filled the air. Torchlight flickered, and shadows danced. Waves continued their never-ending onslaught below, crashing against the shore and the cliff, spraying a myriad of translucent droplets into the moonlight.
The cold breeze dried the water on Irene’s shoulders and the chill started to settle in. She lowered into the pool, wetting her hair completely in the process.
“When can we marry, your Highness? I tolerate the people you send to teach me. Yet I fail to see how that is supposed to bring me any closer to the throne.” Glancing over her shoulder, Irene’s eyes met the Prince’s. They were a bright azure, a splash of colour against the fairness of his skin and hair. “Unless you have forgotten the true and only reason why you agreed to my proposal?”
GetThree
Junior Member
Matthias did not insist on the subject of exchanging favors when Irene chose to avoid it. What she said was true. He had, in fact, witnessed her stubborn streak in person, even been victim to it quite a few times. What she did not realize, however, was that he himself was every bit as obstinate. If she wanted to wait it out, he would accompany her to the end.
Irene seemed to think that his good humor was ill-intended. Which, well, it was, though not in the way she was imagining. Perhaps she thought that any part of him that was remotely amiable was an act. He did not care to explain otherwise.
There were people whom he could grab by the neck and push off a cliff, yet would still believe he was nothing short of virtuous. There were also people who could find malice in all that he did even when there was none to be found. Matthias had long lost interest in changing their views. Those who could truly and fully comprehend another as a whole person were rarer than gemstones, after all.
Matthias listened to her story in silence. He supposed he could understand, how horrifying it had been, how fear must have arrested her in that moment, a little girl watching a man fall to a beast. Matthias had been on many monster subjugations, he’d seen how foul, grotesque and vicious creatures could be. Yet, even on his first time, aged merely 14, he had failed to be unnerved by those animals. Whether it was on land, in the sky or in the sea, nothing could be more terrifying than the monsters who wore the skin of men.
Irene’s tired voice cut through his thoughts. He should have expected her to ask this. There was nobody else she could get the answer from. He mulled over whether or not to tell her now. He could be confident that there would be no complications in his plan to introduce her to the Court, due to the limited number of people who were aware of both her existence and her appearance. The question was how he could convince her to agree.
“The process of marriage between royalty...it is not as simple as you’re thinking, Princess. Both you and I are aiming for the throne, we cannot afford to make a single misstep,” he begun, slowly, carefully weighing his words. “Politics, in Vaela, extend even to the simplest social interactions. Once I announce my intent to marry you, everything you do will be judged by the standard expected of the Vaelan Imperial Family. Your actions will affect the credibility of not only your identity but also your suitability as my partner. I do not expect you to be as perfect a Lady as those who were born and raised in the Court, but you at least need some knowledge on the workings of Vaelan society.”
He paused after that, looking in the other’s grey eyes, seeming more genuine that he had been for all of their previous interactions combined. His words were not lies, he held no hidden intentions. His subdued demeanor was an act so good he fooled even himself. There was nothing to be seen on him that felt even slightly fake. “That is as far as I can explain now, while my preparations are still ongoing. I will give you the armor needed to enter the lion’s den but there is only you who can choose to put it on,” The towel was held out in his hand like a peace offering and his voice was soft, as if he was giving in. “A favor, Irene.”
Irene seemed to think that his good humor was ill-intended. Which, well, it was, though not in the way she was imagining. Perhaps she thought that any part of him that was remotely amiable was an act. He did not care to explain otherwise.
There were people whom he could grab by the neck and push off a cliff, yet would still believe he was nothing short of virtuous. There were also people who could find malice in all that he did even when there was none to be found. Matthias had long lost interest in changing their views. Those who could truly and fully comprehend another as a whole person were rarer than gemstones, after all.
Matthias listened to her story in silence. He supposed he could understand, how horrifying it had been, how fear must have arrested her in that moment, a little girl watching a man fall to a beast. Matthias had been on many monster subjugations, he’d seen how foul, grotesque and vicious creatures could be. Yet, even on his first time, aged merely 14, he had failed to be unnerved by those animals. Whether it was on land, in the sky or in the sea, nothing could be more terrifying than the monsters who wore the skin of men.
Irene’s tired voice cut through his thoughts. He should have expected her to ask this. There was nobody else she could get the answer from. He mulled over whether or not to tell her now. He could be confident that there would be no complications in his plan to introduce her to the Court, due to the limited number of people who were aware of both her existence and her appearance. The question was how he could convince her to agree.
“The process of marriage between royalty...it is not as simple as you’re thinking, Princess. Both you and I are aiming for the throne, we cannot afford to make a single misstep,” he begun, slowly, carefully weighing his words. “Politics, in Vaela, extend even to the simplest social interactions. Once I announce my intent to marry you, everything you do will be judged by the standard expected of the Vaelan Imperial Family. Your actions will affect the credibility of not only your identity but also your suitability as my partner. I do not expect you to be as perfect a Lady as those who were born and raised in the Court, but you at least need some knowledge on the workings of Vaelan society.”
He paused after that, looking in the other’s grey eyes, seeming more genuine that he had been for all of their previous interactions combined. His words were not lies, he held no hidden intentions. His subdued demeanor was an act so good he fooled even himself. There was nothing to be seen on him that felt even slightly fake. “That is as far as I can explain now, while my preparations are still ongoing. I will give you the armor needed to enter the lion’s den but there is only you who can choose to put it on,” The towel was held out in his hand like a peace offering and his voice was soft, as if he was giving in. “A favor, Irene.”
Lenaara
Dreaming of honey cakes.
It was an honest answer that Irene had not expected. The feeling of wrongness evaporated into the air, carried away into the night with the mist of faintly scented water. No matter how much Irene searched Matthias’s face, turned his words over in her mind expecting some sort of a trap, a lie, nothing pointed to manipulation. What he said made sense, a twisted, overcomplicated sense.
Not for the first time Irene reminded herself what was at stake. An empty throne wasn’t the only thing waiting for her in Izmar.
One must do what one can and should do.
Slowly, Irene reached for the towel and as her fingers curled into the fabric, their eyes locked. There was determination in her eyes. “Very well. But,” she tugged on the towel, “I will not pretend to be something I am not.”
Irene wrapped the towel while she was still in the water and it was soaked when she climbed out of the bath, clutching the front of the only cover she had with an iron grip. Water pooled at her feet, leaving a trail of little puddles on the way to her chambers.
As usual at this time of the day, it was completely empty and dark, only the moonlight and soft glow of distant torches to illuminate the room. Curtains floated like pale wraiths in the breeze. The fireplace was empty and cold, the servants sent out of the room before they could stoke it for the night. The bed was as cold as the floor. Hair wrung out and braided, Irene pulled on a night gown the attendants left for her and curled into the too-thin blankets. A forest floor was more comfortable and safe than the canopied bed.
That night Irene dreamt for the first time in weeks. In it, milky-pale masks kept chanting Princess from the shadows.
Despite the rather ominous dream, the following days went by without incident. Having shaken off the melancholy, Irene spoke and ate more but remained cautious all the same. Food was meticulously checked for poison, poked and prodded by silverware. Having learnt her lesson at the bath, she no longer soaked in the waters for longer than it was necessary. In and out, five minutes tops, before anyone even noticed she was there. To not bathe was much safer but as Irene spent more time in the guard barracks and the sand ring than anywhere else in the palace, she felt the need to wash off the sand and sweat.
Separated from luxury, it was easy to lose oneself in thought that the palace with all its gardens and pillars and pavilions was far away, a part of an entirely different world. But the uniform of royal guard could not be ignored. It served as a perfect reminder that Irene was still within the boundaries of Prince Matthias’s residence. In the very least, this part of Irene’s prison was alive. Be it training or marching or practicing formation, the barracks were in a constant state of activity. The guards were so much unlike the silent servants fussed about her like ghosts, never speaking or looking at her in the eye, their backs bent in a perpetual bow.
Though Irene wanted to spend more time in the ring, her days of fighting were over. It was ecstatic to feel the buzz of adrenaline again, to wake in the morning to sore muscles and stiff back. But every day spent locked in a duel was a day of aching pain inside her leg. She had to request a small basin from the attendants to fill it with the water from the bath to have her leg soak in the water. The pain insisted that it was time for Irene to let go.
Too stubborn to agree even with herself, Irene refused to abandon the only chance to move. For now, the barracks and the sand ring were a welcome distraction from the growing sense of claustrophobia. The guards, Mountain bless them, were an amiable sort, the only warmth in the otherwise cold palace.
Irene was in the sand ring when Mikas told her of the Prince’s decision that she should be introduced at Court later in the evening. It was so sudden, so unexpected, that Irene paused for a fraction of a moment to stare at the servant, not sure if she’d heard him right. It earned her a hit in the ribs, her sparring partner seemingly unfazed by the news. Served her right for not paying attention.
When she returned to her chambers with Mikas, the room was a hurricane of colour and activity. At the far side, to the right from the oriel windows enclosed with carved latticework, a tall wooden mirror was put against a wall. After bathing – alone, despite the protests – Irene spent most of the day in front of that mirror, standing as still as a statue, wondering to herself if that towel the Prince gave her was worth it. The favour he was cashing in was more trouble than it was worth.
Fabrics, trinkets, boxes of all shapes and sizes – everything was meticulously arranged around the room. Servant girls brought over silks and rolls of velvet to match against Irene’s skin, comparing one shade of red to another and then against the cream of some gossamer gown. Irene remained silent except to voice a refusal to wear thin, flowing fabric, and pulled up the skirt of her underrobe to display the scar along her right leg. It was an excuse of course, none of the markings on her body defined her. Well, except one.
It felt wrong. Irene felt like an imposter, standing before the mirror and looking at her reflection, at the woman who she thought looked just as the nobility she so despised. It made her realize she cared about her appearance more than she originally thought.
The braid remained untouched, long and tight, only clasped by a golden clip that concealed the brittle end. A servant girl brought a circled of gold and rubies to place atop Irene’s brow but was stopped. To make up for the lack of accessories atop her head, large golden disks were placed into her ears – polished onyx surrounded by a ring of pearls. The jewels matched the arrangement around her shoulders, disks of gold linked together to form a chain, with a titan of a polished ruby in the middle. Its weight was uncomfortable against her chest.
They put on her an ensemble of red and ivory. An arrangement of layered robes set in place by a heavier robe of thicker material, tight and secured around the torso with golden clasps. The skirt opened below the waist, revealing the perfectly arranged, featherlight layers of different shades of ivory. Wide sleeves were folded back at the wrist, displaying the black silk beneath. Golden and white embroidery around the hem and sleeves decorated the robes in flowing elegant symbols.
One of the girls insisted on lining Irene’s eyes with kohl. His Highness ordered them, she said. Swallowing down an oath, Irene permitted them to put the makeup on her. The moment it was on, Irene fought the urge to wipe it off. Silver eyes shone beneath the smudged line of black and her lips were tinted red by a mix of carmine and beeswax. But, just as the Vaelan face powders, the colours did not match her skin, suited best for someone with a fair complexion.
Once they were done and Irene stepped away from the mirror, it became obvious that there was only so much the clothes could hide. Irene lacked the subtle elegance of the noble’s gait. Her calloused hands were covered by white gloves – she hated gloves – and though rough skin was hidden, the way she seemed to want to reach towards a weapon she did not have couldn’t be more obvious. Life has moulded her into a hardened warrior, not a noble lady who could stand for hours at a time before a mirror, choosing between two shades of white.
How did the Prince call it? Armour to enter a lion’s den? Irene had enough fabric on her shoulders to make a tent.
Perhaps, she could repurpose the necklace into a weapon.
The way of transportation did not lift her spirits. After a ride in a litter, Irene felt thoroughly miserable. Anything was better to being carried by a dozen men while lounging in a gilded chair. Irene would have even preferred a horse. When the litter was lowered, and Irene pushed away the cover to climb out, one of the men offered her a hand. She took it only out of necessity, fully expecting to trip on the long skirts.
“Thank you,” she told the him and he bowed, as silent as the attendants at the palace. Gratitude was all she could offer them, as bound to her role as they were.
Prince Matthias was supposedly at Court since morning. Not thrilled by the prospect of entering the Emperor’s palace, wandering about without a purpose nor wish to be there, Irene started up the long staircase. Carved out of marble and limestone, the impossibly wide stairs were framed by alternating statues of lions frozen in a prowl, and nude men and women of perfect proportions. Down below, Irene could still hear the busy hubbub of the city. It soon faded, instead replaced by murmuring voices of the people atop the staircase. They were in groups or alone, walking or sitting, dressed in garbs befitting nobility or plain linen attires of servants.
Pillars held the wide triangular roof of the gate at the top of the stairs. Guards were positioned beneath each pillar, silent sentries in immaculate armour of the Imperial guard. None looked her way as she passed the pillars and the open gate and stepped into the inner courtyard.
Not for the first time Irene reminded herself what was at stake. An empty throne wasn’t the only thing waiting for her in Izmar.
One must do what one can and should do.
Slowly, Irene reached for the towel and as her fingers curled into the fabric, their eyes locked. There was determination in her eyes. “Very well. But,” she tugged on the towel, “I will not pretend to be something I am not.”
Irene wrapped the towel while she was still in the water and it was soaked when she climbed out of the bath, clutching the front of the only cover she had with an iron grip. Water pooled at her feet, leaving a trail of little puddles on the way to her chambers.
As usual at this time of the day, it was completely empty and dark, only the moonlight and soft glow of distant torches to illuminate the room. Curtains floated like pale wraiths in the breeze. The fireplace was empty and cold, the servants sent out of the room before they could stoke it for the night. The bed was as cold as the floor. Hair wrung out and braided, Irene pulled on a night gown the attendants left for her and curled into the too-thin blankets. A forest floor was more comfortable and safe than the canopied bed.
That night Irene dreamt for the first time in weeks. In it, milky-pale masks kept chanting Princess from the shadows.
Despite the rather ominous dream, the following days went by without incident. Having shaken off the melancholy, Irene spoke and ate more but remained cautious all the same. Food was meticulously checked for poison, poked and prodded by silverware. Having learnt her lesson at the bath, she no longer soaked in the waters for longer than it was necessary. In and out, five minutes tops, before anyone even noticed she was there. To not bathe was much safer but as Irene spent more time in the guard barracks and the sand ring than anywhere else in the palace, she felt the need to wash off the sand and sweat.
Separated from luxury, it was easy to lose oneself in thought that the palace with all its gardens and pillars and pavilions was far away, a part of an entirely different world. But the uniform of royal guard could not be ignored. It served as a perfect reminder that Irene was still within the boundaries of Prince Matthias’s residence. In the very least, this part of Irene’s prison was alive. Be it training or marching or practicing formation, the barracks were in a constant state of activity. The guards were so much unlike the silent servants fussed about her like ghosts, never speaking or looking at her in the eye, their backs bent in a perpetual bow.
Though Irene wanted to spend more time in the ring, her days of fighting were over. It was ecstatic to feel the buzz of adrenaline again, to wake in the morning to sore muscles and stiff back. But every day spent locked in a duel was a day of aching pain inside her leg. She had to request a small basin from the attendants to fill it with the water from the bath to have her leg soak in the water. The pain insisted that it was time for Irene to let go.
Too stubborn to agree even with herself, Irene refused to abandon the only chance to move. For now, the barracks and the sand ring were a welcome distraction from the growing sense of claustrophobia. The guards, Mountain bless them, were an amiable sort, the only warmth in the otherwise cold palace.
Irene was in the sand ring when Mikas told her of the Prince’s decision that she should be introduced at Court later in the evening. It was so sudden, so unexpected, that Irene paused for a fraction of a moment to stare at the servant, not sure if she’d heard him right. It earned her a hit in the ribs, her sparring partner seemingly unfazed by the news. Served her right for not paying attention.
When she returned to her chambers with Mikas, the room was a hurricane of colour and activity. At the far side, to the right from the oriel windows enclosed with carved latticework, a tall wooden mirror was put against a wall. After bathing – alone, despite the protests – Irene spent most of the day in front of that mirror, standing as still as a statue, wondering to herself if that towel the Prince gave her was worth it. The favour he was cashing in was more trouble than it was worth.
Fabrics, trinkets, boxes of all shapes and sizes – everything was meticulously arranged around the room. Servant girls brought over silks and rolls of velvet to match against Irene’s skin, comparing one shade of red to another and then against the cream of some gossamer gown. Irene remained silent except to voice a refusal to wear thin, flowing fabric, and pulled up the skirt of her underrobe to display the scar along her right leg. It was an excuse of course, none of the markings on her body defined her. Well, except one.
It felt wrong. Irene felt like an imposter, standing before the mirror and looking at her reflection, at the woman who she thought looked just as the nobility she so despised. It made her realize she cared about her appearance more than she originally thought.
The braid remained untouched, long and tight, only clasped by a golden clip that concealed the brittle end. A servant girl brought a circled of gold and rubies to place atop Irene’s brow but was stopped. To make up for the lack of accessories atop her head, large golden disks were placed into her ears – polished onyx surrounded by a ring of pearls. The jewels matched the arrangement around her shoulders, disks of gold linked together to form a chain, with a titan of a polished ruby in the middle. Its weight was uncomfortable against her chest.
They put on her an ensemble of red and ivory. An arrangement of layered robes set in place by a heavier robe of thicker material, tight and secured around the torso with golden clasps. The skirt opened below the waist, revealing the perfectly arranged, featherlight layers of different shades of ivory. Wide sleeves were folded back at the wrist, displaying the black silk beneath. Golden and white embroidery around the hem and sleeves decorated the robes in flowing elegant symbols.
One of the girls insisted on lining Irene’s eyes with kohl. His Highness ordered them, she said. Swallowing down an oath, Irene permitted them to put the makeup on her. The moment it was on, Irene fought the urge to wipe it off. Silver eyes shone beneath the smudged line of black and her lips were tinted red by a mix of carmine and beeswax. But, just as the Vaelan face powders, the colours did not match her skin, suited best for someone with a fair complexion.
Once they were done and Irene stepped away from the mirror, it became obvious that there was only so much the clothes could hide. Irene lacked the subtle elegance of the noble’s gait. Her calloused hands were covered by white gloves – she hated gloves – and though rough skin was hidden, the way she seemed to want to reach towards a weapon she did not have couldn’t be more obvious. Life has moulded her into a hardened warrior, not a noble lady who could stand for hours at a time before a mirror, choosing between two shades of white.
How did the Prince call it? Armour to enter a lion’s den? Irene had enough fabric on her shoulders to make a tent.
Perhaps, she could repurpose the necklace into a weapon.
The way of transportation did not lift her spirits. After a ride in a litter, Irene felt thoroughly miserable. Anything was better to being carried by a dozen men while lounging in a gilded chair. Irene would have even preferred a horse. When the litter was lowered, and Irene pushed away the cover to climb out, one of the men offered her a hand. She took it only out of necessity, fully expecting to trip on the long skirts.
“Thank you,” she told the him and he bowed, as silent as the attendants at the palace. Gratitude was all she could offer them, as bound to her role as they were.
Prince Matthias was supposedly at Court since morning. Not thrilled by the prospect of entering the Emperor’s palace, wandering about without a purpose nor wish to be there, Irene started up the long staircase. Carved out of marble and limestone, the impossibly wide stairs were framed by alternating statues of lions frozen in a prowl, and nude men and women of perfect proportions. Down below, Irene could still hear the busy hubbub of the city. It soon faded, instead replaced by murmuring voices of the people atop the staircase. They were in groups or alone, walking or sitting, dressed in garbs befitting nobility or plain linen attires of servants.
Pillars held the wide triangular roof of the gate at the top of the stairs. Guards were positioned beneath each pillar, silent sentries in immaculate armour of the Imperial guard. None looked her way as she passed the pillars and the open gate and stepped into the inner courtyard.
GetThree
Junior Member
The Throne Room was the largest room in the Palace, a feat in itself considering the size of every room in just the Castle alone. The floor was like a sea of marble, each single tile lined with gold. White stone pillars stood tall along its sides, with ivy vines made of pure gold crawling up every one. At the very end of the room, on a raised platform, a huge throne stood, an ivory structure lined with velvet, flanked by the statues of roaring lions at its side. The flag of the Vaelan Empire hung down from the high ceiling on the wall behind it.
Needlessly extravagant, some might say, just as the rest of the Palace, just as the residences of every Prince. But that very extravagance, the overwhelming nature of it, was a deliberate step taken to secure power. It was a status symbol, something that separated its occupants from everyone else. It told all those who walked in that this was the Vaether family. Cold, superior, untouchable.
Another of the shows of power that Vaelan royalty weld like swords was the single firm protocol in the Vaelan Court that all had to obey without exception. When the Emperor was speaking, no one else can. Whether you were a Lord without a single Seat or a Prince, this unspoken rule was observed by everyone at all times.
It had been the same that morning, when Emperor Jan had brought up the civil war happening in Izmar. In the pin-drop silence, his words had echoed. The entire room had tensed, clearly not expecting the sudden change in topic. Izmar was a subject that the entire Court thought about but never spoke of. There was no one who hadn’t already thought of taking advantage of the turmoil in Izmar, especially with the rumors of the lost Princess spreading like wildfire. Many had made efforts to find her. None had succeeded because none had ever thought to look in the room connected to their virtuous Third Prince’s.
Faint amusement accompanied those thoughts but Matthias’s expression was the picture of seriousness. Seated on the right of his father, the most conspicuous position after the throne, the sudden, fleeting frown on his usually smiling visage was noticed by many of the Court, old foxes as they were. He did not have to wait long for someone to call him out on it.
“The Third Prince seems to have some thoughts on this?” A Lord spoke out, an insignificant member of his eldest brother’s party. Glacier eyes flickered to the man, making its target flinch, a small divergence from his otherwise flawless amiability. The interest from the audience rose. What information could be so great that the loss of it could make a perfect mask drop?
Matthias remained stubbornly quiet despite the room’s obvious anticipation, reluctance apparent in his demeanor. After his silence stretched a beat too long, The Emperor turned to him, ordering him to talk without speaking a word. There was nothing that the Emperor Jan loathed more than having things hidden from him, an ironic dislike for a man who rules over a nest of liars. “I must admit, father, that I have failed to inform you of… a guest, someone important to me,” he said, voice like a child wrongfully reprimanded.
With just the word “father” falling from his lips, a rare occurence, the Emperor relaxed visibly. If his self-control had been any less Matthias would have sneered at that. He used to love that his father favored him most, more proud of earning a smile from the stoic man than a million praises from his tutors. He used to love his father, worship him even. Now he found him ridiculous, a senile old man searching desperately for affection from the son he had so thoughtlessly, so thoroughly abandoned.
“I have been thinking much, as all the Lords here have, on how to save our neighbours from the terrible war in the mountain. And…” he trailed off and the whole room seemed to hold their breath. “I believe I have found the solution.”
From there on, everything went perfectly to script. The story goes that on his latest travels to Riverside, he met a woman with the Silver Dragon dagger. Curious, he approached her, only to find that she carried the bloodline of the owner of the dagger, the late King of Izmar. He brought her back to Vaela to provide her with the shelter she needed. He is completely sure that the woman is who she claims. His witnesses? The renowned Jarl of Riverside, Vladimir and the Lord of the Noble House of Katharos. Irene Azdahaag had the full support and trust of a powerful and favored Prince, an influential and most senior member of the Court and respected foreign nobility. With that, who dared question her? Not a single soul.
And so it was revealed and dispersed, the Princess of Izmar, Irene Azdahaag, is in the Vaelan Empire, under the protection of the Third Prince Matthias. By evening, all the nobility were aware of this. The banquet had been arranged in a hurry, announced only a few hours before it started, and yet the great majority of Vaelan nobility had shown up. Everyone was intrigued about the enigmatic foreign Princess.
Matthias was in the inner residences in the Palace when he received notice that Irene was about to arrive. This side of the Castle was rather isolated, all its former occupants having left to build their own residences, him being the latest. The interior was similar to all the other chambers the rest of the Palace. Marble floors, so polished and clean they shone, were laid on the floor. Portraits hung on the wall, painted in oils and framed by gold, an eternal memory of the people they featured. Some were beautiful, some not, but they all shared that same detached, condescending look in their eyes.
He had changed into more appropriate attire, elaborate light blue robes with silver trimmings, for the so-called welcome celebration in his old chambers. It was not a place with many great memories unlike childhood homes tended to be. Perhaps he should think himself lucky that he can still enter it without having to endure the feeling of his heart trying to tear its way out of his chest. There was nothing humorous about that thought. It was sick, in fact, that anyone would have a part of their own home that drew out such horrendous emotions. Yet a grin still found itself on Matthias’s face.
“Cain just turned fourteen, didn’t he?” He asked Jaime, the only other person in the long, empty corridor leading toward the entrance of the Palace. A seemingly innocent question, overflowing with venom. “Faean is twelve summers old in June. Their average comes to thirteen,” he paused. It was as if that number held some sort of dark magic, that once it was spoken, a gust of wind blew by. Shadows danced around him under the faint, flickering candlelight.
“The perfect age, don’t you think?” His voice dropped to a whisper, blown away by the wind, a soft drawl holding the hints of something malevolent, leaking out from cracks so carefully sewn shut. There was laughter in his voice, a twisted, wicked sort that could send shivers down spines.
“Matt,” came the warning call from the tall guard accompanying him. Matthias did not reply. They continued down the sheltered passage alone in silence. Due to the night’s event being unexpected, the servants were all rushing back and forth in the Castle to arrange everything in the halls as perfectly as royal banquets demanded. Hence, the path to the main courtyard was unusually empty.
The main courtyard was like a garden itself, just slightly less elaborate than the Imperial Gardens. It was stationed between the outer buildings and the Castle itself. It was an open space, with small shelters in each corner, benches along the sides and flower bushes lining stone paths that led to the Castle.
A fountain carved from white jade served as its centrepiece, on top it stood a statue of a gorgeous woman draped in flowing silk, face turned to the sky and hands reaching out for something nobody but her could see. Impossibly beautiful, devoid of warmth and forever frozen in a state of wanting. It was almost like a warning to those entering, that this was the fate of all those who walked through the grand doors beyond it.
Matthias waited just outside the foyer, the building that acted as the entrance to the courtyard. The foyer had a giant emblem of the Imperial Family on the floor in bright red, a loud welcome to the Palace’s visitors. It was as lavishly decorated as the rest of the Palace, all marble floors and mahoghany benches. The invited nobility were already streaming in, all dressed to the nines in silk and gold. He greeted every single guest who entered by their name with a smile. He received quite the handful of flirtacious smiles in return and he couldn’t help but be amused at the thought of those Noble ladies’ impending reactions at the oncoming announcement of his engagement. He had instructed his servants to bring Irene later than the rest of the guests and, hence, had to wait patiently for a long while until he saw the entourage carrying his flag arrive.
The veil of the luxurious sedan chair was swept aside, revealing a dark haired woman as its sole occupant. Her cold silver eyes could be seen clearly from a mile away, lined with kohl and accompanied by full crimson lips. Brown locks fell from her braid to frame her slightly bored, expressionless face. Her dark features were a striking contrast to the red and whites of her outfit, which was expensive and intricately designed from head to toe. She gave a gloved hand to the guard nearest to her as she stepped off her transport. It could have been a perfect representation of the beautiful, cold, regal appearance of a Princess. If only her movements weren't so stiff and jerky, if she hadn't looked like she wanted to be anywhere but there as she walked toward the foyer with the pace of a snail. Impatient, Matthias went forward to meet her halfway. He smiled at her, giving her his hand to take. "You look the part, I must admit, Princess," he began, avoiding further compliments knowing that she wouldn't believe him anyway. "There's nothing to fear here. Just remember your lessons. Your only part to play is to follow my lead," he paused to give a reassuring glance and a soft squeeze of the hand, "I'll take care of it." Those were his final words before he lead her into the Castle and beyond the oak doors of the Throne Room.
Needlessly extravagant, some might say, just as the rest of the Palace, just as the residences of every Prince. But that very extravagance, the overwhelming nature of it, was a deliberate step taken to secure power. It was a status symbol, something that separated its occupants from everyone else. It told all those who walked in that this was the Vaether family. Cold, superior, untouchable.
Another of the shows of power that Vaelan royalty weld like swords was the single firm protocol in the Vaelan Court that all had to obey without exception. When the Emperor was speaking, no one else can. Whether you were a Lord without a single Seat or a Prince, this unspoken rule was observed by everyone at all times.
It had been the same that morning, when Emperor Jan had brought up the civil war happening in Izmar. In the pin-drop silence, his words had echoed. The entire room had tensed, clearly not expecting the sudden change in topic. Izmar was a subject that the entire Court thought about but never spoke of. There was no one who hadn’t already thought of taking advantage of the turmoil in Izmar, especially with the rumors of the lost Princess spreading like wildfire. Many had made efforts to find her. None had succeeded because none had ever thought to look in the room connected to their virtuous Third Prince’s.
Faint amusement accompanied those thoughts but Matthias’s expression was the picture of seriousness. Seated on the right of his father, the most conspicuous position after the throne, the sudden, fleeting frown on his usually smiling visage was noticed by many of the Court, old foxes as they were. He did not have to wait long for someone to call him out on it.
“The Third Prince seems to have some thoughts on this?” A Lord spoke out, an insignificant member of his eldest brother’s party. Glacier eyes flickered to the man, making its target flinch, a small divergence from his otherwise flawless amiability. The interest from the audience rose. What information could be so great that the loss of it could make a perfect mask drop?
Matthias remained stubbornly quiet despite the room’s obvious anticipation, reluctance apparent in his demeanor. After his silence stretched a beat too long, The Emperor turned to him, ordering him to talk without speaking a word. There was nothing that the Emperor Jan loathed more than having things hidden from him, an ironic dislike for a man who rules over a nest of liars. “I must admit, father, that I have failed to inform you of… a guest, someone important to me,” he said, voice like a child wrongfully reprimanded.
With just the word “father” falling from his lips, a rare occurence, the Emperor relaxed visibly. If his self-control had been any less Matthias would have sneered at that. He used to love that his father favored him most, more proud of earning a smile from the stoic man than a million praises from his tutors. He used to love his father, worship him even. Now he found him ridiculous, a senile old man searching desperately for affection from the son he had so thoughtlessly, so thoroughly abandoned.
“I have been thinking much, as all the Lords here have, on how to save our neighbours from the terrible war in the mountain. And…” he trailed off and the whole room seemed to hold their breath. “I believe I have found the solution.”
From there on, everything went perfectly to script. The story goes that on his latest travels to Riverside, he met a woman with the Silver Dragon dagger. Curious, he approached her, only to find that she carried the bloodline of the owner of the dagger, the late King of Izmar. He brought her back to Vaela to provide her with the shelter she needed. He is completely sure that the woman is who she claims. His witnesses? The renowned Jarl of Riverside, Vladimir and the Lord of the Noble House of Katharos. Irene Azdahaag had the full support and trust of a powerful and favored Prince, an influential and most senior member of the Court and respected foreign nobility. With that, who dared question her? Not a single soul.
And so it was revealed and dispersed, the Princess of Izmar, Irene Azdahaag, is in the Vaelan Empire, under the protection of the Third Prince Matthias. By evening, all the nobility were aware of this. The banquet had been arranged in a hurry, announced only a few hours before it started, and yet the great majority of Vaelan nobility had shown up. Everyone was intrigued about the enigmatic foreign Princess.
Matthias was in the inner residences in the Palace when he received notice that Irene was about to arrive. This side of the Castle was rather isolated, all its former occupants having left to build their own residences, him being the latest. The interior was similar to all the other chambers the rest of the Palace. Marble floors, so polished and clean they shone, were laid on the floor. Portraits hung on the wall, painted in oils and framed by gold, an eternal memory of the people they featured. Some were beautiful, some not, but they all shared that same detached, condescending look in their eyes.
He had changed into more appropriate attire, elaborate light blue robes with silver trimmings, for the so-called welcome celebration in his old chambers. It was not a place with many great memories unlike childhood homes tended to be. Perhaps he should think himself lucky that he can still enter it without having to endure the feeling of his heart trying to tear its way out of his chest. There was nothing humorous about that thought. It was sick, in fact, that anyone would have a part of their own home that drew out such horrendous emotions. Yet a grin still found itself on Matthias’s face.
“Cain just turned fourteen, didn’t he?” He asked Jaime, the only other person in the long, empty corridor leading toward the entrance of the Palace. A seemingly innocent question, overflowing with venom. “Faean is twelve summers old in June. Their average comes to thirteen,” he paused. It was as if that number held some sort of dark magic, that once it was spoken, a gust of wind blew by. Shadows danced around him under the faint, flickering candlelight.
“The perfect age, don’t you think?” His voice dropped to a whisper, blown away by the wind, a soft drawl holding the hints of something malevolent, leaking out from cracks so carefully sewn shut. There was laughter in his voice, a twisted, wicked sort that could send shivers down spines.
“Matt,” came the warning call from the tall guard accompanying him. Matthias did not reply. They continued down the sheltered passage alone in silence. Due to the night’s event being unexpected, the servants were all rushing back and forth in the Castle to arrange everything in the halls as perfectly as royal banquets demanded. Hence, the path to the main courtyard was unusually empty.
The main courtyard was like a garden itself, just slightly less elaborate than the Imperial Gardens. It was stationed between the outer buildings and the Castle itself. It was an open space, with small shelters in each corner, benches along the sides and flower bushes lining stone paths that led to the Castle.
A fountain carved from white jade served as its centrepiece, on top it stood a statue of a gorgeous woman draped in flowing silk, face turned to the sky and hands reaching out for something nobody but her could see. Impossibly beautiful, devoid of warmth and forever frozen in a state of wanting. It was almost like a warning to those entering, that this was the fate of all those who walked through the grand doors beyond it.
Matthias waited just outside the foyer, the building that acted as the entrance to the courtyard. The foyer had a giant emblem of the Imperial Family on the floor in bright red, a loud welcome to the Palace’s visitors. It was as lavishly decorated as the rest of the Palace, all marble floors and mahoghany benches. The invited nobility were already streaming in, all dressed to the nines in silk and gold. He greeted every single guest who entered by their name with a smile. He received quite the handful of flirtacious smiles in return and he couldn’t help but be amused at the thought of those Noble ladies’ impending reactions at the oncoming announcement of his engagement. He had instructed his servants to bring Irene later than the rest of the guests and, hence, had to wait patiently for a long while until he saw the entourage carrying his flag arrive.
The veil of the luxurious sedan chair was swept aside, revealing a dark haired woman as its sole occupant. Her cold silver eyes could be seen clearly from a mile away, lined with kohl and accompanied by full crimson lips. Brown locks fell from her braid to frame her slightly bored, expressionless face. Her dark features were a striking contrast to the red and whites of her outfit, which was expensive and intricately designed from head to toe. She gave a gloved hand to the guard nearest to her as she stepped off her transport. It could have been a perfect representation of the beautiful, cold, regal appearance of a Princess. If only her movements weren't so stiff and jerky, if she hadn't looked like she wanted to be anywhere but there as she walked toward the foyer with the pace of a snail. Impatient, Matthias went forward to meet her halfway. He smiled at her, giving her his hand to take. "You look the part, I must admit, Princess," he began, avoiding further compliments knowing that she wouldn't believe him anyway. "There's nothing to fear here. Just remember your lessons. Your only part to play is to follow my lead," he paused to give a reassuring glance and a soft squeeze of the hand, "I'll take care of it." Those were his final words before he lead her into the Castle and beyond the oak doors of the Throne Room.
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Lenaara
Dreaming of honey cakes.
After a heartbeat of hesitation, Irene reached out to take the Prince’s hand, feeling more like an imposter. To hold his hand was to agree to this charade, pretending to be a Princess of a foreign kingdom. She supposed the dress and jewels were to ease her transition into the role, force the acceptance onto her if common sense and solid evidence were not enough. But Irene felt nothing, not even trepidation at the thought of stepping into an Imperial Palace where commoners were forbidden from.
Brows knit together in a frown, Irene waved a dismissive hand at the Prince. “I am in no mood for jests. Do what must be done.”
The warmth of his hand led Irene past the foyer. They paused only for a fraction of a moment as the guards pushed aside huge double doors. From beyond, a sonorous voice echoed through the room, shushing every conversation.
“If it pleases our esteemed guests…” Side by side they stepped into the Throne room and Irene was nearly blinded by its brightness. Every head in the room swilled their way, a sea of faces. “Third Prince, Matthias Atlis Vaether II…and,” the voice paused, taking a breath, and Irene’s heart clenched in both shame and disgust, “Princess of Izmar, Irene Ur’Udam Mongke Luu Azdahaag.”
All eyes turned towards them, bodies twisting, necks craning for a better vantage point. No one dared speak and the silence was almost palpable. An even staccato of their footsteps was the only sound as they walked down a path cleared by the crowd. From the edge of her gaze, Irene observed the shock that rippled through the sea of nobility. Their shock subsided faster than hers, giving way to scrutiny and the hushed whispering resumed.
Their marriage was to be a small affair. The less publicity it got, the better. It was safer that way and they could focus on the important matters instead – retaking a kingdom that belonged to her by birth right.
Irene wanted to take her hand from Matthias’s. His grip tightened, perhaps sensing her anger, and she narrowed her eyes at the foolish, stupid Prince. “What is the meaning of this?” Irene hissed through gritted teeth. The sound got nearly drowned by the whispers buzzing around them like pesky flies.
Shifting her gaze from the Prince, damning the man to be eaten by the great Wyrm, Irene looked ahead, at the too large throne and its occupant. Whispers receded to a faint echo and another noble was announced behind them, their name too faint for Irene to hear through the heartbeat in her ears. The Prince was right. It was a den of lions and its alpha was atop a grand throne that everyone in this room wished to have. Every face turned in their direction, watching the guests of the hour with carefully concealed curiosity. They all wore masks imitating emotion – smile, shock, jealousy, admiration, lust. None of it was real. To offset their fake lives, they built a palace of marble and gold and laughed in the face of irony as they painted it all white, a colour of innocence. Tired of that, they turned on the people who felt more than just greed, and killed them to feel pleasure, drowning in ecstasy from playing God.
Irene hated all of it. She seethed with anger that froze her face into a neutral mask where only eyes were lit ablaze by fire of rage. She continued to hold the hand of a man who was a part of this world with strength fuelled by fury and couldn’t care less if she hurt him. With perfect precision Irene sunk into a bow before the Emperor and remained there, eyes cast on the too smooth tiles of the floor. Every lesson she was given by the tutors was discarded, thrown back to the far side of her mind by cold sea of fury.
Matthias planned this. Mountain bury him, the man wanted to make a spectacle of her arrival. He may as well have painted a red target on her back, inviting any and all assassins to try their luck.
Princess of Izmar. What a bloody joke. Dressed up, painted pretty, told to follow and stay quiet. Irene has never felt more humiliated in her entire life.
Brows knit together in a frown, Irene waved a dismissive hand at the Prince. “I am in no mood for jests. Do what must be done.”
The warmth of his hand led Irene past the foyer. They paused only for a fraction of a moment as the guards pushed aside huge double doors. From beyond, a sonorous voice echoed through the room, shushing every conversation.
“If it pleases our esteemed guests…” Side by side they stepped into the Throne room and Irene was nearly blinded by its brightness. Every head in the room swilled their way, a sea of faces. “Third Prince, Matthias Atlis Vaether II…and,” the voice paused, taking a breath, and Irene’s heart clenched in both shame and disgust, “Princess of Izmar, Irene Ur’Udam Mongke Luu Azdahaag.”
All eyes turned towards them, bodies twisting, necks craning for a better vantage point. No one dared speak and the silence was almost palpable. An even staccato of their footsteps was the only sound as they walked down a path cleared by the crowd. From the edge of her gaze, Irene observed the shock that rippled through the sea of nobility. Their shock subsided faster than hers, giving way to scrutiny and the hushed whispering resumed.
Their marriage was to be a small affair. The less publicity it got, the better. It was safer that way and they could focus on the important matters instead – retaking a kingdom that belonged to her by birth right.
Irene wanted to take her hand from Matthias’s. His grip tightened, perhaps sensing her anger, and she narrowed her eyes at the foolish, stupid Prince. “What is the meaning of this?” Irene hissed through gritted teeth. The sound got nearly drowned by the whispers buzzing around them like pesky flies.
Shifting her gaze from the Prince, damning the man to be eaten by the great Wyrm, Irene looked ahead, at the too large throne and its occupant. Whispers receded to a faint echo and another noble was announced behind them, their name too faint for Irene to hear through the heartbeat in her ears. The Prince was right. It was a den of lions and its alpha was atop a grand throne that everyone in this room wished to have. Every face turned in their direction, watching the guests of the hour with carefully concealed curiosity. They all wore masks imitating emotion – smile, shock, jealousy, admiration, lust. None of it was real. To offset their fake lives, they built a palace of marble and gold and laughed in the face of irony as they painted it all white, a colour of innocence. Tired of that, they turned on the people who felt more than just greed, and killed them to feel pleasure, drowning in ecstasy from playing God.
Irene hated all of it. She seethed with anger that froze her face into a neutral mask where only eyes were lit ablaze by fire of rage. She continued to hold the hand of a man who was a part of this world with strength fuelled by fury and couldn’t care less if she hurt him. With perfect precision Irene sunk into a bow before the Emperor and remained there, eyes cast on the too smooth tiles of the floor. Every lesson she was given by the tutors was discarded, thrown back to the far side of her mind by cold sea of fury.
Matthias planned this. Mountain bury him, the man wanted to make a spectacle of her arrival. He may as well have painted a red target on her back, inviting any and all assassins to try their luck.
Princess of Izmar. What a bloody joke. Dressed up, painted pretty, told to follow and stay quiet. Irene has never felt more humiliated in her entire life.
GetThree
Junior Member
To walk into any room and immediately have the attention of everyone, whether it be ten or thousands of people. To have a hundred pairs of eyes bore into you, scrutinizing you like you were a piece of artwork and they were calculating your worth. For Matthias, this was the norm. He had never thought of it as an extraordinary or shocking experience.
So when Irene had tensed up at the sight of the buzzing Throne Room, he had simply tightened his grip and pulled her onward, accepting the bows and greetings of everyone they walked past. It was only when she had spat out those words, nearly shaking with rage, luckily unheard by anyone else, that he had paused to look at her.
This? If by ‘This’ she meant the banquet, wasn’t she already aware that she was going to be introduced to the Vaelan nobility when she had came? Or was she perhaps, for all the precious resources he had spent on her lessons, unaware that when nobility referred to “the Court”, outside political topics, they were referring to the all of the Vaelan Noble Houses and its members? When he said he would reveal her existence today, wasn’t this naturally what it entailed? He thought she would have at least figured out that much on her own but it seemed even this was more than he could expect from her.
Even then, why was she more angry than simply surprised? This banquet was an unavoidable thing. For one, the Vaelan Court had an extensive network of information. Hiding anything from anyone was a tough process and trying to control the spread of any secret once it was revealed was practically impossible. If she was going to be revealed anyway, then it was best to do it on their own terms. Also, she couldn’t possibly have expected him to marry someone who had never shown herself in public, could she? He was a Prince. Foreign royalty or not, he couldn’t marry an unknown figure without basically handing out pieces of his broken reputation to his enemies on a silver platter.
Feeling her wrath clearly in his aching hand, Matthias felt his own irritation grow. Here she was, once again, playing the victim when he should be the one feeling wronged. It was hardly his fault that she was a fool. Even a six year old child from a Noble House could have connected the dots and understood his lack of choice in this situation. He didn’t believe she had less mental capacity than a six year old, therefore the only remaining explanation for her shock and anger here was that she didn’t even try.
She never stopped to consider what kind of complications her own proposal would bring, much less how to solve them. She had thrown her burden in his face and ran off to pretend she was still a free woman, acting as if his every attempt to help her step into her new, harsh world was a villainous act. She was a dragon rolling itself in mud as if that would make it a horse instead, as if pretending her own claws and wings didn’t exist could make others stop hunting her for it.
As they bowed together to the Emperor, Matthias looked up at the Throne and reminded himself what all of this was for. She was his best, easiest way to that seat and so he would be her protector, even if it meant babysitting a stubborn fool. By the time they rose from their bow, he had managed to stuff his anger away and focus on his purpose. Emperor Jan sat with a stony face, displeasure obvious at Irene’s lack of introduction of herself. The Empress looked on from the side, a predatory grin starting to form at the side of her lips. Matthias caught her eyes and he flashed her an equally sinister smile, taking glee in watching her face crumble just the slightest bit.
“Father,” he greeted, instead of the elderly man’s title. The Throne Room seemed to freeze, their honed instincts sensing a play about to take place. “There is something else I have neglected to tell you, that I find fitting to say now, with all of the esteemed Noble Houses present,” he begun smoothly, knowing that he had every single pair of ears perking up while maintaining his gaze on the Emperor.
“The Gods have been kind to Izmar, that their future Queen should be someone so benevolent and brave as Irene. She wishes to save Izmar and help it move away from the restrictions that ancient traditions have places on its people, so that her people may prosper. I, too, wish to see the rise of nations, both mine and hers,” he was practically beaming as he held up his and Irene’s joined hands. “We are of one heart and one mind, father. No one has understood me better than you and I hope you can see my true feelings as you have always done. I wish to take the hand of this woman to walk with for the rest of my life. I have found my Princess and I would be delighted if you would give me your blessings to marry her.” He stopped there, bowing deeply once again, subtly pulling Irene down with him.
It was dramatic, overly romantic, a dialogue out of popular Lady’s books rather than reality. There was no mentions of her great beauty or enchanting voice, as his older brother had embarrassingly done, but what he said was enough to be as efficient as screaming “I love this woman!” to the Emperor’s face. While his face was hidden mid-bow, Matthias exhaled softly, feeling more exhausted from one speech than everything else he had done the rest of the day combined. He honestly wanted to be anywhere but here, doing this, if it hadn’t been absolutely necessary. There was no one in the Court who would believe this so easily but his speech had left them with no opportunity to throw dirt on either of their reputation.
A meeting as if by fate, a love between two dragons amongst men who only understand each other, standing above the united countries that they built up hand-in-hand, what love story is more epic than this? Glancing at Irene, eyes blank and with as much energy in her body as a dead man, Matthias fought down the urge to scoff. Her current state wouldn’t convince a dog that she wanted to marry him. No matter, he supposed, as long as she didn’t speak much, he could cover for her.
As they took their seats, a chair being brought in for Irene beside his own, many swarmed them with empty words of congratulations. He tried his best to keep as much attention of his half-dead fiancee as he could but it grew harder with every passing guest, not the least because Irene’s expression kept getting worse.
It was fortunate that due to the arrangements of their seats, his so-called family had no chance to come speak with them. For nobility to have to leave their own seats to even speak to an Imperial Family member was having them admit they were less important. None of his brothers and especially not the Empress would put themselves below him so outrightly. Matthias’s thoughts flickered to a cheerful, bright eyed boy and his gaze travelled to Faean, chin in hand, trying but failing to be subtle about staring straight at him. ‘Such a shame’ were the words that came to mind but he locked out that thought before it could take root and turned away.
The stream of people who had come to congratulate them never seemed to run out. He was feeling as lifeless as Irene looked, drained from the sheer number of times he’s had to say “Thank you. Yes, my Princess is indeed amazing. No, she’s just tired. The wedding isn’t confirmed. Of course, have a nice evening.” It was the same thing every time, in the same order, same tone. He looked to Irene beside him and wondered if she was keeping her face this sour just to have a kick out of making him suffer by cooking up excuse after excuse for her.
The food had been brought, the music had started to escalate, and there were couples already on the dance floor. Everyone had asked if he and Irene would dance but he had refused saying that Irene was tired and unfamiliar with Vaelan dances. He knew she was good at dancing from her teachers. However, with her dark expression, he wouldn’t be able to guarantee the safety of his feet or, more importantly, the whole charade he had exhausted himself to put up this evening.
“I always hoped that you would finally marry someone you truly loved, Prince Matthias. Congratulations,” the next person in line told him, making him blink. He knew her as one of his most resilient pursuers, a woman who was honestly rather frightening in her single-mindedness when it came to marriage. Even now her eyes held a sharp glint. He wanted to laugh. If I could marry someone I truly loved, I would have done it years ago and it definitely wouldn’t have been you or this brick wall beside me. His thoughts were kept hidden as he smiled and thanked her, attempting to shoo her away. It was too late, she had already turned to Irene to speak, a nasty tone in her voice. He sighed internally. Even he could barely handle Irene, this little girlie didn’t stand a chance.
So when Irene had tensed up at the sight of the buzzing Throne Room, he had simply tightened his grip and pulled her onward, accepting the bows and greetings of everyone they walked past. It was only when she had spat out those words, nearly shaking with rage, luckily unheard by anyone else, that he had paused to look at her.
This? If by ‘This’ she meant the banquet, wasn’t she already aware that she was going to be introduced to the Vaelan nobility when she had came? Or was she perhaps, for all the precious resources he had spent on her lessons, unaware that when nobility referred to “the Court”, outside political topics, they were referring to the all of the Vaelan Noble Houses and its members? When he said he would reveal her existence today, wasn’t this naturally what it entailed? He thought she would have at least figured out that much on her own but it seemed even this was more than he could expect from her.
Even then, why was she more angry than simply surprised? This banquet was an unavoidable thing. For one, the Vaelan Court had an extensive network of information. Hiding anything from anyone was a tough process and trying to control the spread of any secret once it was revealed was practically impossible. If she was going to be revealed anyway, then it was best to do it on their own terms. Also, she couldn’t possibly have expected him to marry someone who had never shown herself in public, could she? He was a Prince. Foreign royalty or not, he couldn’t marry an unknown figure without basically handing out pieces of his broken reputation to his enemies on a silver platter.
Feeling her wrath clearly in his aching hand, Matthias felt his own irritation grow. Here she was, once again, playing the victim when he should be the one feeling wronged. It was hardly his fault that she was a fool. Even a six year old child from a Noble House could have connected the dots and understood his lack of choice in this situation. He didn’t believe she had less mental capacity than a six year old, therefore the only remaining explanation for her shock and anger here was that she didn’t even try.
She never stopped to consider what kind of complications her own proposal would bring, much less how to solve them. She had thrown her burden in his face and ran off to pretend she was still a free woman, acting as if his every attempt to help her step into her new, harsh world was a villainous act. She was a dragon rolling itself in mud as if that would make it a horse instead, as if pretending her own claws and wings didn’t exist could make others stop hunting her for it.
As they bowed together to the Emperor, Matthias looked up at the Throne and reminded himself what all of this was for. She was his best, easiest way to that seat and so he would be her protector, even if it meant babysitting a stubborn fool. By the time they rose from their bow, he had managed to stuff his anger away and focus on his purpose. Emperor Jan sat with a stony face, displeasure obvious at Irene’s lack of introduction of herself. The Empress looked on from the side, a predatory grin starting to form at the side of her lips. Matthias caught her eyes and he flashed her an equally sinister smile, taking glee in watching her face crumble just the slightest bit.
“Father,” he greeted, instead of the elderly man’s title. The Throne Room seemed to freeze, their honed instincts sensing a play about to take place. “There is something else I have neglected to tell you, that I find fitting to say now, with all of the esteemed Noble Houses present,” he begun smoothly, knowing that he had every single pair of ears perking up while maintaining his gaze on the Emperor.
“The Gods have been kind to Izmar, that their future Queen should be someone so benevolent and brave as Irene. She wishes to save Izmar and help it move away from the restrictions that ancient traditions have places on its people, so that her people may prosper. I, too, wish to see the rise of nations, both mine and hers,” he was practically beaming as he held up his and Irene’s joined hands. “We are of one heart and one mind, father. No one has understood me better than you and I hope you can see my true feelings as you have always done. I wish to take the hand of this woman to walk with for the rest of my life. I have found my Princess and I would be delighted if you would give me your blessings to marry her.” He stopped there, bowing deeply once again, subtly pulling Irene down with him.
It was dramatic, overly romantic, a dialogue out of popular Lady’s books rather than reality. There was no mentions of her great beauty or enchanting voice, as his older brother had embarrassingly done, but what he said was enough to be as efficient as screaming “I love this woman!” to the Emperor’s face. While his face was hidden mid-bow, Matthias exhaled softly, feeling more exhausted from one speech than everything else he had done the rest of the day combined. He honestly wanted to be anywhere but here, doing this, if it hadn’t been absolutely necessary. There was no one in the Court who would believe this so easily but his speech had left them with no opportunity to throw dirt on either of their reputation.
A meeting as if by fate, a love between two dragons amongst men who only understand each other, standing above the united countries that they built up hand-in-hand, what love story is more epic than this? Glancing at Irene, eyes blank and with as much energy in her body as a dead man, Matthias fought down the urge to scoff. Her current state wouldn’t convince a dog that she wanted to marry him. No matter, he supposed, as long as she didn’t speak much, he could cover for her.
As they took their seats, a chair being brought in for Irene beside his own, many swarmed them with empty words of congratulations. He tried his best to keep as much attention of his half-dead fiancee as he could but it grew harder with every passing guest, not the least because Irene’s expression kept getting worse.
It was fortunate that due to the arrangements of their seats, his so-called family had no chance to come speak with them. For nobility to have to leave their own seats to even speak to an Imperial Family member was having them admit they were less important. None of his brothers and especially not the Empress would put themselves below him so outrightly. Matthias’s thoughts flickered to a cheerful, bright eyed boy and his gaze travelled to Faean, chin in hand, trying but failing to be subtle about staring straight at him. ‘Such a shame’ were the words that came to mind but he locked out that thought before it could take root and turned away.
The stream of people who had come to congratulate them never seemed to run out. He was feeling as lifeless as Irene looked, drained from the sheer number of times he’s had to say “Thank you. Yes, my Princess is indeed amazing. No, she’s just tired. The wedding isn’t confirmed. Of course, have a nice evening.” It was the same thing every time, in the same order, same tone. He looked to Irene beside him and wondered if she was keeping her face this sour just to have a kick out of making him suffer by cooking up excuse after excuse for her.
The food had been brought, the music had started to escalate, and there were couples already on the dance floor. Everyone had asked if he and Irene would dance but he had refused saying that Irene was tired and unfamiliar with Vaelan dances. He knew she was good at dancing from her teachers. However, with her dark expression, he wouldn’t be able to guarantee the safety of his feet or, more importantly, the whole charade he had exhausted himself to put up this evening.
“I always hoped that you would finally marry someone you truly loved, Prince Matthias. Congratulations,” the next person in line told him, making him blink. He knew her as one of his most resilient pursuers, a woman who was honestly rather frightening in her single-mindedness when it came to marriage. Even now her eyes held a sharp glint. He wanted to laugh. If I could marry someone I truly loved, I would have done it years ago and it definitely wouldn’t have been you or this brick wall beside me. His thoughts were kept hidden as he smiled and thanked her, attempting to shoo her away. It was too late, she had already turned to Irene to speak, a nasty tone in her voice. He sighed internally. Even he could barely handle Irene, this little girlie didn’t stand a chance.
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