Fantasy Til Death Do Us Part

[Lenaara]

Reduced by anger to a state of a puppet, Irene let her mind detach from body. Told to stand and bow, to sit down and remain silent, her body obeyed without hesitation. But Irene could not cling to fury for long and with each word spoken by the man at her side as he addressed his Emperor and his Court, her anger gave way to another, much worse feeling.

Cold, paralyzing fear.

The speech served as a reminder. It was Irene who came to the Prince, seeking refuge and a husband to take away the responsibility from which she could no longer run. Out of selfishness and sheer belief that anyone but her was better for this position, Irene resigned herself to a peaceful existence without considering even for a moment that it was impossible. A caged bird is still a bird. It will crave the freedom of flight no matter how gilded the cage or how thoroughly it was trained to obey.

What Irene expected to be shared only with the council and the imperial family, was instead shouted for all the world to hear. No more was their agreement a secret they knew. It was announced to the Court of Vaela in a speech that stripped Irene of safety of anonymity. The news will reach Izmar within a day, Riverside in a week. Akin to wildfire it would spread, uncontained, alerting every enemy out there beyond the palace walls where the current heir of Izmar was. It may as well have been an invitation for anyone to try their luck at stopping the upcoming wedding.

Or, did the world already know? Had Matthias shared this information weeks ago and all of this was but a play, a carefully orchestrated act?

Suddenly, Irene felt that she was suffocating. There wasn’t enough space to breathe, to move. Backed into the chair, Irene pressed hard against its back and dug her nails into the arms shaped like a lion’s paw. Too many people came to them in an endless flow of faces with gleaming, curious eyes.

It was impossible to tell if the shock that rippled through the Court at the announcement was genuine or fake. Dread gripped Irene’s heart and twisted her stomach into a knot. Nauseous, she had to look away and focus on breathing. Years of working under a constant threat of death had given her an invaluable ability to stay calm and composed no matter the situation. Yet, Irene felt that she was breaking at the seams. With the burden of an entire kingdom on her shoulders, Irene had to worry about her own safety for the first time in her life.

Thankfully, the Prince kept the conversation directed away from his fiancée. Irene did not think she was capable of speech anymore. Every noble was equally ignored, their congratulations discarded as just another lie. Feeling naked without any means of defence, Irene could only stop herself from flinching whenever her fragile mind alerted her to someone who had a weapon on their person.

A flash of silver in the darkness, quick and precise. Galloping hooves do not stop even as the rider doubles over, an arm around a slashed open stomach. Red spills over the saddle through clenched fingers. Another hiss of a blade against flesh is sickeningly wet and long, deep in the mare’s belly. The horse shrieks from agony and trips, numbed by primal fear of death and poison that is killing it and the rider. They fall—

Breathe

The line had gotten quite shorter by the time Irene opened her eyes. It became easier to breathe, the air just as perfumed as before but no longer stifling. The chair’s arms must have angry half-moons left behind by the time Irene unclenched her fingers and let her hands fall on her lap. The gloves are hot; she wished she could take them off.

Another noble came to greet them. The congratulatory wishes from earlier were nothing but faint sound that Irene, drowned by sudden panic, couldn’t comprehend. Her mind struggled, pulled into two separate directions by lives that were colliding. A bodyguard who knew danger and death and was afraid of it, so afraid that once escaping its clutches she became wary of everyone and everything. And a woman in transition to become something more – a wife to a Prince, a Queen a people, an Empress to a nation. Irene was still struggling to deal with the old trauma. To accept another was too soon.

Unlike the others, the noblewoman did not leave after speaking to the Prince. Perhaps grasping the opportunity to speak to the Princess of Izmar that no longer looked to be on the verge of throwing up, the woman sunk into a bow of mocked respect when Irene turned to look at her.

“It is fortuitous your Highness met such a great match,” the woman began, her lips curved into a smile, but her words were soaked with sugared venom, “at your age.”

Irene raised a brow, the only change in her expression since she’d entered the Throne room. “Yes,” she drawled, “a pity the Prince did not find someone more suitable at Vaelan Court.”

The noblewoman’s smile faltered, the mask slipping just a fraction as her eyes were lit ablaze by fury. She bowed once more and wished the couple a happy marriage, dismissing herself. Irene meant to resume staring at the wall to focus on the present when she froze, looking instead at the nobleman who stepped towards them.

It was a flash of pale green at first, a blur of colour that reminded her of the sea outside her chambers. Unlike other men in the Throne room, he wore a leather vest lined with fur, tucked over a tunic of seafoam green and pastel blue. Light from hundreds of torches around the Throne room fell upon the crest sewn into his vest in silver thread – half a sun rising above waves of the sea.

Irene knew the man. And he recognized her too as his eyes were locked on hers, never wavering, not even when he sunk into a graceful bow.

Inwardly, Irene cursed vividly and considered her options. Running was impossible, considering the venue. Acting like a fool? Lying? Out of the question. The Prince was going to see straight through her.

“Greetings, my Prince,” the man said, his voice calm and strangely pleasant. “The Darnell family congratulates you both on such a fine occasion.” Leather of his tunic squeaked as he rose and smiled. “Given the sudden news, I am afraid I have little to offer in terms of gifts. Though I suppose it is unnecessary. There is talk that you’ve received quite a dowry from your bride.”

Ammon, damn you to the Depths.

Perhaps sensing Irene’s reluctance to speak, Ammon looked at her while maintaining the easy smile that she remembered too well. “It is pleasant to see an old friend.”

“You are hardly a friend, Ammon” Irene said.

“Perhaps not anymore, your Highness.” A corner of his lips turned up just a fraction. He cocked his head and looked at Irene with a slight crinkle to his brow. “It has been years, yet I remember you not as thin as you are now. A pity, truly. Those purple robes would have appeared to be a jester’s attire on most. I must admit, red suits your complexion.”

“I see you changed your rags. I never thought you to be a Vaelan nobleman. You lacked the pompous armour last we met,” she said and jerked her chin at the silver thread decorating Ammon’s leather west.

“Ah, indeed, your Highness. Last we met, I was no more than a commoner in my appearance. My attire then has been a touch more modest. Those parts do not take kindly to people of our social status.” The music changed behind them and couples were spun into dance anew. Ammon was the last one in line to Irene and the Prince. Irene suspected he approached them last on purpose. “Perhaps your Highnesses would prefer to speak somewhere private? The Princess would enjoy the palace gardens. I fear she has been overwhelmed by everyone’s attention.”

 

[GetThree]

As the line came to an end, finally, after nearly an hour of responding to the same congratulations over and over, relief flooded Matthias. It had been starting to require herculean effort to keep his expression amiable and voice cheerful. The last man came to greet them, donning unusual attire for a banquet, namely a fur-lined leather vest often seen in hunting trips instead.

Irene, from the corner of his vision, looked tensed and ready to bolt. Just one guest ago, she had been bored and lost in her own head. Someone she knew? No. His informants were nothing but meticulous. If she had been in contact with any Vaelan nobility, he would already have been made aware. Matthias’s gaze sharpened by an unnoticeable fraction as he observed the man in green standing in front of them.

‘Ammon Darnell. Late 30s. Lord. One Seat. Andrew’s Vassal. Dragon Rider.’ As these words flashed across Matthias’s mind in a second, the man bowed, his tone collected and agreeable as he gave his congratulations. He chose to ignore the jab at the “dowry” he would receive, a dozen other old men had already made the same remark. What had rung bells in his mind was what Ammon had addressed him as.

This man was no stranger to the workings of the Vaelan Court, how every single word mattered, the extent to which subtle differences like using “my”, “the” or “your” as a prefix to the same word could change its meaning. To Lord Katharos, for example, his brothers were “Your Highness”, only Matthias was “my Prince”. Matthias’s intrigue was raised and his posture straightened but the slightest bit, but he still merely smiled and gave a short thanks as he had done to every other guest that had come by.

His pleasant attitude did not slip even as the man continued to speak to Irene familiarly, revealing a situation he had been dreading most. There was someone in Court who knew of Irene’s mercenary past. Ringing bells turned into warning sirens. The same face, the same smile but his aura shifted, a sleeping beast raising its head, eyes narrowed into slits, looming like a shadow behind a gentle facade, growling at the man who woke it, low, soft, warning.

“I never knew you were familiar with my Princess, Lord Darnell,” Matthias finally spoke, after having listened wordlessly to their conversation. “If I had, I would have asked you to my residence long ago,” Who knows if you would have left? Their gazes met as the two men levelled each other, the unspoken words hanging between them. Information was a dangerous, double-edged sword. If this knowledge ended up in the hands of someone like Andrew, it would be a metal chain hanging loose around his throat and all it would take was a tug to hang him.

Ammon Darnell was a smart man. With just a single “my”, he effectively held off his opponent from making a decisive blow. Taming beasts a thousand times more powerful than himself was this man’s specialty, after all, Matthias recalled with some amusement. Dragon riding was a dangerous profession, however, one could never know when one might lose a limb or a life.

A few beats passed in a silent staring contest before Matthias stood, chuckling as he straightened out his clothes. “No matter, since we have this opportunity now, let us take your suggestion,” he agreed, taking Irene’s hand as naturally as if he had done it a thousand times, gesturing for Lord Darnell to lead the way.

Matthias walked on the right of Irene, blocking her stiff, graceless posture in the heavy ornate robes from the view of the rest of the Throne Room. They made their way out without much ceremony, navigating the torch-lit paths to the Imperial Gardens. The Gardens were a masterpiece of architecture and horticulture combined with rare, gorgeous flowers blooming in every nook and corner, vines making an arched shelter along the main pathways with seemingly no support.

Matthias, however, could not enjoy any of the beauty, slight nausea building up. Let me out. Make it stop. I don’t want to. Stop. Stop it. Please. Please. Please please please. His grip on Irene’s hand tightened without meaning to. He loosened his hold, a slight frown on his face that was lost in the darkness of the moonless night. A decade already and he was still trembling like a fool. Childish. Weakling. Idiot. You should’ve screamed. You should’ve fought- Stop it. Focus. Leading them subtly away from the green-covered Labyrinth in the middle of the the Garden, despite it having the most private areas of the entire Palace, they stopped at an isolated pavillion to talk.

He sat across from the Lord Darnell, his eyes boring into the other’s, both men refusing to move their gaze away first. Matthias offhandedly noted that the older male was rather attractive, all sharp lines and eyes that smoldered even when the man himself wasn’t. Irene was basically ignored in favor of this interesting, potentially venomous new specimen. There was the possibility that Irene, despite knowing that the Lord would be in the Vaelan Court, had neglected to inform him of this complication, whether on purpose or by sheer ignorance. So far it didn’t seem to be the case, considering her genuine shock to see Lord Darnell, but he could deal with that issue later.

“To meet someone who knows Irene’s past is fascinating, I must admit. I had thought it her and my little secret,” he begun the talk with a small laugh, sounding sheepish on the surface. A lot of this Lord’s future would depend on how well, how carefully he spoke today. His spies in Andrew’s party were currently lacking, something Lord Darnell probably knew. However, there was nobody more unforgiving then Matthias in the face of a threat. Both parties were acutely aware of these facts, weighing each word down to the smallest decimals.

 

[Lenaara]

Fresh air was a welcome change. Once they passed the double doors and stepped outside the pool of orange torchlight, Irene breathed in slowly and deeply. Mixture of pungent perfumes was left behind along with the nobility that watched their departure with obvious curiosity. With the Prince between her and the crowd, Irene felt safer, but it was not until the Throne room was far behind them that remaining tension left her muscles. Yet, the feeling of being watched remained, a constant prod against her senses, it demanded attention. She glanced behind her shoulder often, expecting to spot a darting shadow of an eavesdropper but there was nothing. In the too dim light of distant torches it was impossible to see anyone lurking in the shadows.

A tightened grip on her hand shifted Irene’s attention to the Prince. In the darkness it was impossible to see his features though Irene suspected that had it been broad daylight, the Prince would remain as calm as ever. Always smiling and well-mannered, the man had displayed a different sort of emotion only once - on the day of the blood ritual. Whether what she’d seen on that day was real or a figment of her imagination, a side effect of the concussion, Irene was still unsure.

Not for the first time she wished to know what was going on inside his mind. She wondered if he was as shocked as she was to find a man from her past life.

To see Ammon at Vaelan Court was completely unexpected. Foolish to have even acknowledged that they know each other, Irene regretted opening her mouth to speak at all. She should have excused herself, slipped through the crowd and then disappeared.

Where?

Vaelan Court did not span nations. Irene could not run far, hiding from a man who might not even have remembered her. Yet, he did, and Irene willed herself not to tap impatiently on the chair’s arm in annoyance at her own stupidity as the conversation continued. The agreement between her and the Prince was going to be void because an old acquaintance had suddenly resurfaced. The Prince knew only what Irene told him of her past, and it was precious little, enough to get a general impression that she had left Izmar and became a mercenary. Ammon was no different. But Ammon saw something that her soon-to-be husband was not allowed to know of yet.

At the time, it did not seem like a bad idea. But it was. Maybe all those years ago Ammon did not know what the ink on Irene’s chest meant. He never bothered asking for more detail after she’d claimed it was “Just a memento from my homeland.” They only knew each other’s names. It was enough. They needed nothing more, content with remaining strangers after their passion ran out. Now, Irene could only guess as to whether Ammon had found out the Mark’s true purpose.

And if he shared this information with the Prince…

Irene felt a shiver run down her spine on spidery legs. Preferring to be doing anything but sitting still, she was standing with her back to the two men, arms folded across her chest. The sensation of someone’s eyes upon them remained with her all the way to the pavilion and Irene kept staring into the shadows but listening intently to the conversation behind her.

Ammon leaned in on his elbows, hands folded and a small smile playing on his lips. “Ah, I heard all sorts of tales about Irina’s talents.”

Irene glanced at Ammon front the corner of her eye and willed her fingers to loosen the hold on her forearm. The situation was dangling on a thin thread, ready to snap at a wrong lie or comment coming from either of these two silver tongued men. “They were exaggerated,” Irene said as she tapped on her arm.

“Only for the best effect, I am sure, your Highness,” Ammon cooed and shifted his turquoise eyes back to the Prince. “Do not worry, my Prince. Our meeting was purely coincidental and brief. The circumstances, however, are quite intriguing. Coin was what we needed at the time. Well,” he laughed, the sound bright and cheerful, “she was in it for the gold. I, in my younger years, wished nothing more than a warrior’s fame and more kindling to my ego. In the end, I received this,” he gestured at the scar across the bridge of his nose and the faint line below right cheekbone, “and Irina left with the winnings.”

Ammon glanced at Irene, perhaps expecting some sort of a reaction or added details from her part, but Irene remained still and silent. When it was obvious she had nothing more to say, he continued, “It is unlikely anyone recognizes your dearest bride as someone of low birth. The secret can remain between the three of us. Unless,” Ammon lifted a shoulder in a nonchalant shrug, “my Prince wishes to share the tale with the Court? They will find it quite amusing, I am sure.”

 

[GetThree]

Trying to go all in from the start, so brazenly throwing a threat into their conversation. Did the Lord Darnell think him only as dangerous as his dragons? How very, very wrong he would be if this were so.

Now, courage was a quality that should be had. To be daring, to be bold, to take risks. All things needed for success, all good things. Good, as long as they were done in moderation. Tact, after all, was also an important virtue. Too daring, too bold. Too many risks and, one day soon, you were bound to step on the lion’s tail. For Ammon Darnell, if he failed to see clearly the snarling beast in front of him, today could be that day.

The smug tone of the older man was subdued but not hidden, almost playful in its delivery. He knew that he hadn’t yet crossed beyond the point of no return. Instead, Darnell had, ever so bravely, taken one foot off the tightrope. It was yet to be seen whether he had enough skill to continue keeping his balance or would fall into the open jaws waiting below. He was playing a dangerous game, this man, and the odds were more against him than he perhaps realized.

A short chuckle was Matthias’s first response. He leaned back in his seat, hands clasped on his lap in a relaxed posture. He wouldn’t be a spoilsport. If the Lord wanted to play at war with words, he would naturally oblige. “Yes, it is quite the story, isn’t it? A commoner girl rising through the ashes of war, reborn as a Queen. Our dear friends in Court would love it. My second brother, particularly, would be delighted, I imagine,” he crooned, like an adult patronizing a child. A pinch of something sinister laced his saccharine words, the inexplicable bitter aftertaste when you’ve eaten something too sweet.

“All stories need a storyteller, though, don’t they? It’s such a shame, really. Imagine, how many epic tales through the ages have been buried with the last person who knew how to tell it?” He smiled at the man sitting opposite him, stripping off a layer of pleasantry such that the barbed wire underneath could just barely be seen.

 

[Lenaara]

Ammon’s ease suggested a gathering of friends indulging in some particular pleasure. Since recognizing the Princess of Izmar as the mercenary he met in the fighting pits of Qoram, Ammon had time to consider his situation, converse with his allies or, instead, consider new ones. The threat hung heavy between all three of them. Even Irene, who cared not for the subtlety of words and reaction, understood the severity of the situation. The full severity of it. Prince Matthias remained in ignorance about the only thing that could truly destroy his intentions of taking Izmar.

Shifting her weight from one foot to another, Irene considered speaking to Ammon in private. But it would be pointless. If asked about the Mark, Ammon would only be intrigued by the sudden question. Then, it was only a matter of time before he connected the dots. A strange tattoo on a woman who looked like a typical Izmarian? Ammon was one of the precious few who had seen the Mark. Irene was always careful. The ink on her chest was not something to be proud of and in the parts where she grew up, the Mark was but another form of foul magic that shouldn’t exist in this world. It remained safely hidden behind high collars except when it was impossible to keep a coat on.

Regardless, Matthias never let Irene out of his sight. But she was a bodyguard. She knew how to shake someone off her tail. The Prince could think anything of it. Their marriage wasn’t based on love, it mattered little if he suspected the two of them being close. Ammon was never her lover, only a fling. It was hardly scandalous. The entirety of Vaelan court indulge themselves in similar pleasures.

“Your Highness,” when Ammon spoke, Irene hadn’t realized he was addressing her instead of the Prince. “Worry not, there are no assassins lurking in the shadows.” Irene looked at him and noticed that his smile did not quite reach his eyes. “Not anyone I hired, at least.”

His reassurance rang hollow. Irene turned to have the Garden and the men at either of her sides, feeling safer watching the shadows and Ammon, whose intentions remained as mysterious as the darkness around them.

Ammon’s smile turned wry for a moment. He did not betray his awareness of the Prince’s threat by so much as an eye flicker. “Indeed. It is quite tragic when a source of any information ceases to exist. So very few find value in words and can truly appreciate their importance. The Second Prince, for instance, is not one such individual.” Ammon leaned back only a fraction and pulled out a pair of gloves from the inside of his vest. Wrapped in the ornate robes, Irene hadn’t even felt the chill in the air. “The Darnell family has always been close to the throne. We are traders, but I have always been an advocate for change. My Prince Andrew, however, seems reluctant to listen to my council on the matter. It is only fitting that I share my views with someone with a more progressive state of mind.”

It was the true essence of the courtier’s games. The dance of debt and consequence and double-spent loyalties which had been in any royal court for years. Irene watched the exchange with an impatience and fascination of someone who had never expected to be a part of the grand game. It would take time to adjust to her new role. She had always been the guard who watched for more immediate dangers. Now, she was to live a life when a wrong word could result in her beheading sometime in the future.

Just like her mother. If someone as adept as her mother at manipulating the power struggles of the court couldn’t win, how can Irene?

“My dearest sister, may she find peace in the Saints’ embrace, found his Imperial Highness quite enchanting. After a sickness took her life, my family has been keen on maintaining a close friendship with the Second Prince. It is only respectful to follow your elders’ instruction, yet I believe the times are changing. Your bride has altered the power balance at Court, unsurprisingly. Irina has always been quite a troublemaker.” When Irene scoffed, Ammon’s smile widened. “Ah, of course she would never admit it. I find myself fortunate to have met the Princess when she was but a fellow contender.”

If Ammon’s mind was as a whirlwind of thought as Irene’s, it was impossible to tell. He remained calm and gracefully confident. To all outward appearances, the three of them were having a pleasant conversation between old friends.

“I would be quite simpleminded to share a tale with someone who will not appreciate it, don’t you think so, my Prince?”

 

[GetThree]

The Gardens was not a place easily entered. If you weren’t a member of the Imperial Family, you required express permission from one, usually proven in the form of a Vaether seal. Even the guards stationed at the entrance were not allowed to go in as they wished. Well, those were the rules. But what were rules in the face of money?

Just a few minutes after they had settled down for their current conversation, Matthias had felt the faint, flickering presence of his “attendant” spark to life. A second later, the much more obvious aura of the servant that had been trying to listen in had faded. However, he was sure there had been two, equally inexperienced, spies when they had entered. Yet the other man had seemingly disappeared without any further movement from his own guard.

Darnell. Hidden guard, possibly an assassin. Connections? Who could it be? Skill level was high, commendable. Experience. Trained. Ah, the Metz Family. Elite mercenaries, rumored close relations with the House of Darnell.

Matthias’s eyes flashed in understanding of the Lord Darnell’s remarkable confidence as they were speaking. With that revelation came the acute awareness of the sword hanging on his belt. Mind, he would never resort to dirtying his own hands over such a minor matter. If Irene’s reputation was smeared, he would find a way to clear it or, at the very least, clear himself out of it. Instead, it was the animalistic instinct that accompanied many warriors, amplified tenfold by his own distrustful, merciless personality. It screamed out for him to eliminate the threat.

This instinct often came holding hands with the rapid yet detailed methodical dissection of the hypothetical fight. The suggested course of action for this particular situation? Kill the master to lure the servant, kill him too. Use enhancements, pile it on his speed. Then, considering the invisible man’s skill, switch to the paralysis technique, enough power for three or so seconds just to be safe. Back to speed, cut. Have someone dispose of the bodies. Anybody who saw them enter with a third man will forget it with a sword to their neck and the sight of a dangling coin pouch.

It was lucky, for both men, that Matthias had long learnt to control that bloodthirst before it could even fully register in his mind. For one, the proposal this man had just made was a rather interesting one, to say the least. He was switching sides, from Andrew to him, after watching the balance tilt to the opposite direction. This was a dangerous sort of ally, someone who could leave at the smallest sign that the winner could be another Prince instead. However, Matthias knew, and so did the older man, definitely, with how cunning he was showing himself to be, that even if he hadn’t yet reached the finish line, he was already a full lap ahead of his brothers.

“Oh? It seems you have more than one tale to tell, Lord Darnell,” he replied without a hitch, voice as casual as if the theme of their conversation was the weather and not the blunt betrayal of a sworn liege to one and a brother to the other. “I would love to hear more on a different day, perhaps in my residence, where it will certainly be more comfortable,” he said, speaking like a young man truly intrigued by a newly made friend, such a complete reversal from his previous, almost sneering warning, a change that had occurred across the span of two sentences, that if he had transitioned just a fraction less smoothly as he had, it might have given his audience whiplash.

He would have spoken further, if it weren’t for the sound of excited conversation streaming in from outside the Gardens and the quick steps of a servant rushing toward them. A young girl appeared outside the pavillion the trio were sitting, panting and bowing so deeply her long ponytail nearly swept the floor. “The Emperor wishes for the Third Prince and Princess Irene to attend dinner at the Dining Hall,” she announced importantly, as if relaying an Imperial Decree.

“Ah, well, it seems our conversation will have to come an end here, unfortunately. It was a pleasure, Lord Darnell.” Matthias rose from his seat, giving a hand for Irene to take and helping her up. “I will look forward to our next conversation, then,” he greeted, before he allowed their escort to lead them away.

As they passed by the entrance, Matthias caught the eye of a lean male in an attendant uniform standing by the gates as if he had never left. The man held up a single finger, low and unnoticeable. The First Prince. He gestured for the man to join them. They spoke as they walked, the man trailing behind Matthias, whispering to each other so softly that the servant in front did not even notice and even Irene beside him wouldn’t have been able to make out the words.

“The spy?” “Converted” “The second one?” “Unknown assailant. I couldn’t find him.” Silence. “My apologies, Prince.” “No, you did well.” The conversation stopped there as the small group continued deeper into the Castle, along twisting corridors, toward the dining hall reserved for the Imperial Family.

With that out of the way, Matthias allowed cold dread to flood him. He had hoped this inevitable family reunion would be happening another day. Irene had barely survived the nest of mere garden snakes. To have her face off against his family of vipers and cobras, with no warning or preparation, how could she last even a single second? He glanced at the woman, a previously acceptable pretense seeming more like a clown mask. In Court, she had only appeared slightly uncomfortable, her silence and posture passable as cold regality.

In the Vaether Family, the worst of them when it came to etiquette or charm was Marc. He lacked intensity and grandeur in his innate aura and, to make it worse, had a body built too much like an ox rather than a lion to possess the grace of his brothers. However, even he could stand out among any group of nobility for the right reasons. Irene, sitting in the middle of attention amongst them...it would take a miracle for her to seem even adequately Princess-like.

Irene had inborn charisma and poise, but she was raised a fighter and those traits of her had been moulded to suit a soldier more than nobility. Following the previous comparison, Marc would never be as good a General as her, for all his brute strength and experience as a commander. Though Irene, in his eyes, had more qualities of a born leader than his brother either way, she had spent three decades living a vastly different life than this one. Her total experience with how royalty lived and was supposed to act came to a couple tens of hours over one week.

His family, however, would not be concerned about whether her flaws could be blamed on her or not. They’d pounce on them, scratching holes into even Irene’s thick skin and rub salt into her wounds. She would not be a welcome addition to the family by a long shot.

Just as he was despairing over this, they had arrived at their destination. They were the last to arrive, with every other member of the family already seated along the ebony table. Although the room shared the same white and gold color scheme as the rest of the Castle, there were paintings hanging on the walls and hints of red in the decor, countering the otherwise sparkly background and making it more classy rather than lavish. In this room, there were no outsiders to intimidate, after all.

The Emperor sat at the head of the table, suspiciously regarding the woman soon to marry his son. On his left, the Empress sat, her clothing and general appearance even more refined usual, with a genial smile pasted on her pretty face, looking only about as old as her future daughter-in-law. Marc and Andrew followed after her, both looking much more relaxed than they were probably feeling about the latest development from their favorite younger brother’s side. The closest two seats to the Emperor’s right were left vacant, with a bored Cain and Faean beside them.

“You’re late, darling,” the Empress opened, her tone something between teasing and scolding. Matthias laughed slightly, bowing his head toward her as if in apology. He was calm, more laidback then he had ever been in the presence of Irene, as if he was truly comfortable, a young man finally alone with his family. “Perhaps, he had been busy showing his Princess around the Palace,” another teasing remark came, this time from the oldest Prince, as Matthias led Irene to their seats.

“You could’ve given her a map for that,” Cain scoffed, all of his usual decorum thrown to the wind, the only one not putting up an act in his comfort now that he was in front of only his family members. Naive little boy. “Having a map of the Palace is illegal, Cain,” Faean droned, his bored, matter-of-fact tone hiding his annoyance toward his older brother impressively well for being only twelve. He received a glare in return, only to promptly ignore it.

Their conversations seized as the servants started to bring in the dishes, a Vaelan seafood dish, shrimp-like creatures soaked in lime and spices, their soft shells still left on everything but their tail. An annoying appetizer that even Matthias had to put some effort into eating without looking like a fool.

“I arranged for the kitchen to prepare some of the most simple available dishes for since we have someone unfamiliar with Vaelan food dining with us,” his step-mother said, with all the gentleness of a gracious host, like what she had just said wasn’t a blunt lie the entire room but Irene was aware of. Matthias almost wanted to laugh. He would be lying if he said he had expected something like this to be her first attack. It was just like this wretched woman to deal out blows as low as this.

Before Irene could even think of trying to figure out the complicated art of eating this dish, Matthias placed a hand over her bowl, an apologetic expression on his face. “Really, mother, I would have told you if you had warned me about the dinner tonight. My Princess can’t have seafood, unfortunately, it makes her ill,” he spoke up, gesturing for an attendant to take it away. “Just a salad for her will do,” he specified to the girl preparing to leave for the kitchen, unwilling to risk another equally ridiculous dish.

The Empress’s sweet face did not sour by the slightest bit as she pretended to take note of his obviously fake excuse. Instead, she simply moved on to her second and way worse mode of waging war: words. “I was surprised to see that my darling would be marrying someone so...mature, if I can be honest,” she said, sounding genuinely distressed. She probably was, in truth, rather upset about his engagement, just not for the reason she was trying to imply. “I don’t doubt that you are a wonderful person, Irene, it’s just that,” she paused, eyes scanning Irene like the woman was a painting and she was finding it lacklustre, “your, well, situation makes me rather worried for my son.” She sniffed slightly, biting her lower lip, putting up such a good act someone should have handed her an award for it.

“You don’t need to worry, mother,” Matthias cut in, wanting to stop her before she could go into the dangerous territory she was clearly aiming at. He did not know Irene well enough to allow certain comments to pass. He had no idea what would rouse her as the ritual that day had. Unfortunately, the Empress had never been a force so easily restrained. “But I do worry, Matthias. A good wife is important for a man, you know that well, don’t you?” A jab at the part of his past she knew never failed to make him slip up. Bitch. His mind supplied but Matthias only let himself be seemingly coaxed.

It was ironic, truly. Here were five Princes of an Empire, to whom every person entering their sights were forced to bow, who stood above millions of people, revered from the moment they were born. Yet not a single one of them could freely, forthrightly counter this frail Lady, who was higher than them only in terms of useless titles. All she needed was to say a few words in a sad voice and all the traditions, etiquette and rules of Vaelan high society would pounce on them and sew their mouths shut.

“As I was saying, Irene...you weren’t raised in a proper family, were you, dear?” The blond woman crooned, like Irene was some injured wild animal to be pitied. No one here but Matthias knew about his fiancee’s mercenary past, for now, but everyone was aware that she had been no Princess. The room quietened even more than before. Tension was rolling off Irene in waves. He could no longer force himself into the conversation without being tactless when she had even taken an extra step and addressed her victim by name. All he could do was stand back and pray to the Saints that Irene would remain as stoic as she had unfailingly been most of this evening before now.

 

[Lenaara]

To avoid looking at either Matthias or Ammon, whose conversation made her feel uneasy, Irene focused on a rose bush wrapped around one of the pavilion’s pillars. With her brows furrowed and lips set into a thin line, Irene appeared not to have been paying to their conversation. But she was. It was impossible not to. The two men spoke of allegiances and betrayals; only a fool would not see the boldness with which Ammon declared his intentions of joining Matthias’s power base. Irene could only guess about his reasoning behind such a decision. That the Prince was marrying his one-day-long lover was a pleasant coincidence, sure, but Irene did not think herself to be so important as to have affected the power plays at Court.

Or, had she? A princess of a land rich with gemstones and ore, littered with mines decades from being depleted. A wife to a prince who, if Vladimir is to be believed, was the next in line for the Imperial throne. Irene was not going to amuse herself with thoughts that she could use her influence at Court to accumulate power. All those nobles that had greeted her must have seen her discomfort, her unease in their presence. If they were planning to do anything at all, it would be to manipulate the dim-witted wife of the future Emperor into gaining them favour.

Her silence was a precaution. Unfit to gracefully avoid the traps they set for her, Irene was prepared to do nothing at all. Once the marriage had been consummated and Izmar liberated, Irene did not care what happened afterwards.

Arrival of a servant interrupted Irene’s thoughts and she stifled a groan. Dinner. Already deciding to make up an excuse of suffering from a headache in case they were invited for a morning hunt the next day, Irene slid a hand into Matthias’s. It was slowly becoming a habit. She did not need help getting up nor walking, despite the stifling weight of her attire, but a favour was a favour. She promised him this.

And, though Irene refused to admit it even to herself, it was comforting to have someone beside her. If the Prince was the one who led her into the trap that was the Throne room, at least he dealt with her attitude masterfully. He shouldered all the conversation if not for her sake, then for the sake of his reputation. Instead of feeling guilty, Irene comforted herself with a simple thought – Matthias should have known.

“I do hope we meet in the future. Perhaps, share tales of Irina’s adventures,” Ammon said to the already turning couple and gave Irene a small smile that could have meant anything from I-wish-you-good-night to I-know-your-secret. Maybe Irene was being paranoid.

I forgot the last time I was not paranoid.

Maybe Irene was seeking fake expressions and veiled lies where there were none. Ammon had always been good at hiding his true thoughts and feelings, more so now than years ago when they’d met. Then, as much as now, the eternal calm gave him a certain charm. While his words held half-truths and never outward lies, for a nobleman (as she had suspected him to be) he was polite. For an aristocrat, he lacked the fury and gluttonous hunger for power and wealth.

That is how Ammon was to all outer appearances, in the very least. That is how he was years ago. Now, as the duel of words concluded with a draw, Irene questioned why Ammon wanted to speak to a woman who had scarred his face and humiliated him years ago.

“It was,” Awkward? A cruel twist of fate? Horrible? “nice to see you again, Ammon,” Irene bit out.

“We are to see each other again soon,” Ammon said and, as Irene furrowed her brow quizzically, added, “When I see the Prince.”

Somehow, it sounded like a threat.

Irene followed the Prince silently. When a servant came to speak to Matthias, Irene turned her face away from them to ignore their whispers. To her it did not matter who the man was nor what he told the Prince. It was simply another aspect of the Court life that she wanted to avoid. Listening to secrets was only acceptable when they were willingly shared.

The dinner was but a pale imitation of a family gathering. Every word said felt forced, aimed to hurt or scold, and each time Matthias addressed the Empress as mother Irene had to bite the inside of her cheek not to wince at the ice in his voice. He had changed the moment they stepped inside the dining room and Irene refused to believe even for a second that he felt at ease here. It was a nest of snakes. They hissed and coiled, deadly but elegant cobras. Every fibre of Irene’s being (spidey sense) screamed at her to turn around and leave but instead she was led, like a puppet that she reduced herself to, to a seat surrounded from all sides by royalty she so despised.

Rigid and with as much elegance as a tree stump, Irene planted herself into the chair and remained stoic. As the servants brought the dish, Irene looked at what was to be her family. It felt absurd.

The prince in front of her looked different from the rest. Broad shouldered and with kind eyes, Irene thought he could not possibly be the Empress’s son. Indeed, he appeared to be about the same age as Irene herself. Another, as the prince beside him, he did not share a single trait with her. Younger by a couple summers, he was attractive but that was to be expected from an aristocrat.

Two younger princes sat to her right. Though similar in age, Irene curiously noticed that they did not particularly enjoy each other’s company. They lacked the brotherly love Irene so often noticed in younger boys.

Then, there was the Emperor and Empress. Irene hadn’t heard the former speak all evening, but it appeared her hatred of the man did not go unnoticed. His dislike for her was obvious, either because his son was to marry a woman about the same age as his wife, or because he did not approve of his son’s choice. Whatever it was, Irene was content with the silent treatment.

Irene was about to reach for the appetizer when Matthias blocked her. She remained silent only as a favour to the Prince, swallowing down a protest. She did not have any dislike for seafood and it certainly did not make her sick. What did however, was what the attendant brought to her instead. Vegetables steamed to softness sparkled with nuts and crumbs of cheese. Irene pressed the heel of her shoe into Matthias’s foot. The bastard. Were the half-empty plates of food the servants took out of her rooms not enough of an indication that she hated this Mountain forsaken dish?

The Empress’s voice distracted Irene from the food. The woman inspired in Irene a mix of desire and dismay. Beautiful but cold, the Empress possessed a glittering charm of a glacier. Her words cut with an intensity of piercing cold.

Irene raised a brow at the mention of her age. It did not bother her and neither did the implication that there would be troubles conceiving a child. Two decades was enough time to come to accept the inevitable fact of being barren. Matthias was free to see other women, if he was not already, and Irene would only support him in his endeavours of siring an heir when the time has come. It was the least she could do after hiding her situation from him.

The first jab had not completely missed its mark. It grazed her, but it was just a flesh wound, a reminder of the terrible secret hidden beneath the ornate robes. The second remark, however, hit Irene square in the chest. Irene squared her shoulders and straightened in her seat.

“You are wrong, your Majesty,” Irene said coolly. “I was raised in a proper family. The only family I had at the time. The circumstances of my upbringing are irrelevant, however. My birth right remains the same.” Attendants bearing large clay decanters stepped towards the table and filled everyone’s jewelled silver goblets with spiced one. When a young servant boy leaned in to fill Irene’s, she stopped him by placing a hand over the top of hers.

Matthias reached for Irene’s hand under the table and covered it with his. When Irene tried to slide it free, his grip tightened and Irene, still under the Empress’s scrutinizing gaze, abandoned further attempts.

“As for my age,” she continued, bringing her eyes from the table to the Empress, “his–” Matthias squeezed her hand so tight it hurt, and Irene barely stopped herself from sucking in a breath, “my Prince, was aware of it. We will keep your worries in mind.” Shifting her gaze from the main cobra, Irene regarded the one she promised to marry.

Release me, brute, her eyes demanded of Matthias.

 

[GetThree]

Matthias felt like he was sitting on nails as he listened silently to the exchange between the two women. His hand on Irene’s was his only method of controlling what she said. Luckily for the both of them, she received his wordless message clearly. He ignored her heated glare, removing the fingers that had been wrapped around her wrist in a death grip under the table, unseen by the others.

“Age is but a number, mother. Are you not the perfect example?” Matthias added when Irene finished, dutifully backing her up such that this line of conversation could go no further. After all, the Empress was only a full decade older than him and over twice that amount younger than his father. If there were anyone to be criticizing age difference in marriage, it should be the older Princes, especially Marc who had to call a woman barely his senior “mother”.

The bowls in front of them were taken away, replaced by the soup. Only two courses in out of five. Matthias heaved a soft sigh, dreading the next hour or so to come. There was still a long night left to persist through.

***

Matthias Jan Vaether II, Matthias of Asta, the Third Prince of the Vaelan Empire. The people’s beloved Saint, the idol of Vaelan youth, the standing icon of brilliance. The bane of her existence.

Aria Neavis had always been a schemer. Her plans for the future, something she had decided on in her teenage years, had gone smoothly for fifteen years because of her meticulous nature. She had attracted the attention of the Emperor, had his child, had become Empress. All this done through less than moral means, but it had the effect she had wanted all the same. She had planned further than this, even. In a few years, her child would become the next Emperor and she the Dowager Empress, a figure standing above all others.

If only it weren’t for Matthias, perfect, pretty little Matthias with his perfect, pretty little words and endless stream of surprises. Just a few months back he had returned back victorious from war against the sudden flood of monster from the North and the only sign of him even having been in a fight were the praises being sung by the villages in that region. Now he had struck, yet again, with this darkly gorgeous woman all dolled up in red. The Princess of Izmar, the harbinger of a mountain full of precious resources, and he was going to marry her. She did not believe his words of love for a second. She saw it for what it was, just as everyone else sitting in this Dining Hall had the moment he had introduced this “Lady” Irene in Court. This was one, no many more steps taken toward the Throne. He was advancing too quickly, too strongly and there was nothing she could do to stop it.

She had put so much effort into crippling him as a child as well. What a waste. What a shame, too, that such a beautiful boy had become such a thorn in her side. If he had obediently stayed down, she would’ve let him live after she became Dowager Empress and kept him by her side.

Hearing his jab at her age made the sides of her lips twitch, her sweet facade coming dangerously close to slipping. She locked gazes with him, the sky meeting the sea. She had once thought her name fitting, the sky was endless, high atop others. She was only now finding out how treacherous deep waters could be.

It didn’t matter, however, because even if her opponent was a god, she had confidence she could find a way to defeat them. Nobody in this world was infallible.Matthias, for now, could still be held back by his older brothers. She had time to think of something. Besides, while Izmar was a great addition to his power, the Princess herself was a different matter.

Her eyes travelled to this so-called Princess, who had not touched a single leaf in her salad or drunk a drop of wine. “My apologies, dear, it was not meant to offend you,” she finally spoke, a hurt note in her voice as if she had been wrongfully accused. “Your talk of family does intrigue me, though. Where did you grow up, then?” An innocent sounding question but at the same time something that could either reveal much or corner her prey.

 

[Lenaara]

Of course, it does.

Irene did not bother arranging her expression to something more amiable. “No offense taken. Your Majesty couldn’t have known.”

Mountain, this was trying. The atmosphere was hardly sociable. At her sides, the princes were awkwardly silent, finding the food before them much more interesting than conversing with the new addition to their family. Matthias revoltingly bit out the word mother with such poison that Irene started to wonder if he wanted to wound the Empress with it. But she remained ice cold, beautiful and as rotten as everyone else in this lavish room.

The untouched salad was thankfully taken away and Irene forced herself to eat a mouthful of the soup. It tasted like ash. Slowly, Irene set down the spoon and reached for the goblet with water and drank from it to buy herself some time to think of what answer to give the Empress.

It was not an unexpected question. Almost every client she worked for wanted to know more about the Izmarian so far from home and a female warrior to boot. Everyone was curious to know about the young woman who spoke in multiple languages and wore strange purple clothes and had so many stories to tell, she could talk through the night if given the chance.

But that life belonged to a bodyguard Irene Dalaklis who had been hunted down and killed for her crime against God. It was a well-known tale that bards still sang in Riverside taverns. They sang of a female mercenary who sought shelter at a Jarl’s estate, for whom she worked some years before. The kind-hearted Jarl shared food and drink with the woman, gave her a room to rest at, and went to bed without a care in the world. When she was certain he was asleep, she snuck out and took his little girl and dragged the child into the mansion’s basement. The Jarl woke up to screams of terror and ran towards the sounds. He found only a torn body of his child at an altar dedicated to some pagan god. The mercenary was gone by then and Jarl’s men gave chase. They pursued the woman through the night and, finally, struck her down in vengeance.

She did not deserve a quick death, the folk said. Find and burn the body, the Church of the Blessed demanded. Let her rot in the swamp, the Jarl wept.

A horrifying tale that was, sadly, true. Irene did stay at the Jarl’s that night and the child was sacrificed but not by her. Regardless, people sought to put the blame on someone. They made the mercenary the scapegoat for the whole affair.

--the rider hits the ground first. Mud softens the fall and the impact is not as painful. Blood pours from the cut open stomach. The rider groans, struggles to get up but the mud sinks the body further into the ground. Horse falls next, a dead carcass crashing down on the rider’s legs. Bones crack as thunder shakes the skies. A scream pierces the night like a shooting star. Raindrops shower from above—

Irene set down the drained goblet and forced her fingers to release it. There was a small dent in the middle. She hadn’t realized how tightly she was gripping it when the flashback hit her like a wave.

“Everywhere,” she told the Empress with as steady a voice as she could muster. Her heart was hammering within her chest with the intensity of a hammer against an anvil. “My uncle enjoyed traveling. We did not stay in one place for long. He saw to my education and safety, however. It was a peaceful childhood.”

It was not a lie. In the first years of being in Leon’s care, Irene was often left alone with governesses to be taught the basics – how to read and write – and the art of conversation. Deciphering riddles of words that comprised the language of aristocracy made Irene’s head hurt when she was younger. It never interested her, and neither was she fond of being left alone for months at a time, waiting for her only family to return alive. Leon ignored her pleas to take her with him, for good reason, and going through a rebellious streak, Irene ran away. After that, Leon always brought her along even while working, to keep an eye on a child that was growing more troublesome by the day.

Yes, Irene supressed a smile that should not belong at a dinner table with the Imperial vipers, these are the memories I want to remember instead.

The soup was left unfinished. Irene managed to choke down several mouthfuls more of it to not give the Empress reason to be offended by their guest not enjoying their ‘family’ dinner. After she’d insulted a tribal chief this way, Irene was careful when dining with people of power. They always sought a chance to display it. In her mind, Irene chanted This is a favour like a mantra. All because of that damn towel.

 

[GetThree]

Apprehension wormed its way into Matthias’s heart as he watched Irene’s tight, shaking grip on her goblet make a shallow but obvious dent in the metal. She had been doing well so far. Surely, this question wouldn’t be the straw that broke the camel’s back? Words were already forming on the tip of his tongue, ready to cut in if it looked like Irene would say unnecessary or suspicious.

It seems his worries were unfounded, because her following reply was calm and simple, nothing that could point to an unusual lifestyle. The Empress, however, did not look the least satisfied, clearly having hoped for more. “That sounds lovely. Your uncle was…” she trailed off, ending her statement as a question. Matthias frowned visibly, his hand raising to cover Irene’s on the table rather than under, giving off a protective image. If he simply stopped her from furthering the questions, she or someone else would have found a way to ask it again, some other time. He needed to block out this topic of Irene’s family entirely from any future conversations and the easiest way to do that was to simply show outward disapproval. He would’ve said some words,too, just enough to halt her questions, when help came to them in an unlikely form.

“Give it a rest, mother. The Princess is unfamiliar with us and tired, I’m sure she’ll appreciate if you saved your questions for later,” Andrew remarked, sounding neither joking nor scolding, like he was simply stating a fact. The Empress opened her mouth, making to speak, but Matthias followed up before she could say a word with, “Irene hasn’t been feeling well and the evening’s banquet was taxing on her, it would be better to have this conversation on a different day.”

Flanked from both sides, the Empress had no choice but to relent. Matthias, as relieved as he was for having avoided a disaster, couldn’t help but be suspicious. He stared at Andrew with an incredulous shade in his otherwise clear eyes while the other steadily ignored him, keeping up a quiet facade. What was this man playing at now? Andrew was always playing at something, after all. This unexpected aid was definitely not out of the goodness of his heart. Was he, perhaps, aiming to obtain something for himself rather than destroying it in the hands of another? The start of an idea started to take form in the back of his mind.

The dinner proceeded without hiccups from then onward, the conversation shifting first to more political ones then later on to the progress of Cain and Faean’s studies. Matthias was not an active participant in either topic, answering fluently when the Emperor focused a question on him but otherwise not contributing to the talks. Finally, after nearly an hour of sitting and barely eating, the family reunion was over and they were set free at last.

Matthias stood up, once again taking Irene’s hand. As they neared the entrance, the Empress approached them, grabbing his elbow in a seemingly gentle but firm grip. Matthias tensed at her touch despite his best efforts to seem nonchalant. Leave me alone. He wanted to say but only kept on a indulging smile toward the woman. “You mustn’t be angry with me, Matthias. I only want the best for you,” she implored, sounding hurt even though it was her nails digging into his flesh. “Mother loves you most, after all,” she ended with a smile that, as genial as it was, looked like nothing but a predator’s grin in his eyes. Come here darling. Quiet. Good boy.

He jerked his hand out of her grasp, feeling like someone had slammed a hammer into his perfect mask. “Of course,” he concurred, bowing slightly to her as he practically dragged Irene away. He didn’t have the strength to muster up that wretched word. Mother. I called her mother. Maniacal laughter cutting through stuttered breaths. I called her mother.

Their pace was brisk as they left the Castle, neither of them wanting to stay here for long. His calm returned to him quickly but he knew Irene would have noticed the slip in his composure. He felt like he had shown an enemy an open wound. He was lucky it was Irene, who wouldn’t, couldn’t, stab into it like everyone else that surrounded him. They stepped into the courtyard, walking through it without looking any of the beautiful scenery. They had nearly reached the foyer when a voice called out to him.

Faean was jogging toward him, a book in hand. Though he tried to compose himself, his short breaths told Matthias he had ran. “The guide you lent me, I wanted to return it to you,” the boy said, beaming as he handed the thick volume to Matthias. “Your side notes helped a lot but there are still things I don’t understand, so-” Faean’s rapid fire words came to a screeching halt as his gaze travelled to Irene. “Would you be too...busy with your wi-wedding?”

Matthias felt a tug in his heart. A beat past in silence as he stared at the younger boy. Shame. That word came to him again. Shame that he had that hair, that face, that mother. Shame, someone with such a potential to become something, born with such dirty blood. Those thoughts were pushed away as he took the book and handed it to Jaime waiting beside them.

“Irene, this is my youngest brother, Faean,” he first introduced, the only member of his family he could do so without a following warning in private. “And, unfortunately, yes, I’ll be too busy the next few days. If you want further explanation, Professor Kay is an expert in this magic, you could go to him instead,” he replied, before greeting Faean and leaving without further words, like he didn’t notice a light die in the child’s eyes.

Shame. Matthias admired talent, admired people with potential or ability. Someone like Faean with an impressive grasp on magic at his young age and passion that made up for whatever else he lacked, there was nothing he wanted more than to keep the child at his side. There were times when he considered it, even. But it was too needlessly cruel, to both himself and Faean, to build warmth when a cold knife in the back would be all that was left in the end.

“The chair for the Princess has arrived,” a voice forced its way through his thoughts. Matthias let go of Irene’s hand and left her to his own horse. Finally, after such a tiring day, he could go back home.

 

[Lenaara]

Mountain, the evening seemed never ending.

The litter was as uncomfortable as before, but it offered Irene something she has been craving the entire evening – privacy. Safe from scrutinizing stares and pestering questions, Irene breathed deeply and pinched the bridge of her nose as she closed her eyes so tightly it hurt. It was but one evening. How was she to deal with more?

Irene propped an elbow on the chair’s arm and leaned against it, fingers in her hair as she rested her temple on the palm of her hand. The sedan chair rocked softly from side to side it was carried back to the Prince’s residence. Muffled voices came from the streets further into the city and occasionally horse hooves clopped against the cobblestones past the litter. Two men ahead carried lanterns to illuminate the darkness of the late evening and similar lanterns hung at the front of the litter, swinging ever so slightly on their hooks.

Inside the litter it was dark; four little orbs of yellow against the silken curtain was the only light that Irene could see. She focused on it, on the gentle rocking of the orbs in sync with the litter. The silence helped clear her mind, chase away the caution she felt in the presence of Ammon and the Empress and even Matthias.

Matthias.

The Prince whom she was supposed to fool. They barely spoke, and Irene knew of her future husband almost as much as he knew of her. He could be a gentleman or a calculating bastard, a fool or a genius. It was easier to ignore him as she ignored the nobility at the Imperial Palace. The less familiar they were to one another, the easier their relationship was going to be.

Pretending to be a loving wife was out of the question when both sought only selfish gains from their union. Romantic or not, the announcement of their engagement was nothing but a lie. An elaborate business deal, nothing more.

And yet…

Irene lowered her gaze towards the gloved left hand resting on her lap. The Prince’s touch still lingered from when he put his hand on hers. She did not fool herself with thoughts that it was a romantic gesture. Inept at court intrigue herself, Irene had to rely on the Prince to keep their image of a loving couple pristine. So long as she did not have to proclaim her undying love for the man, she was content with sitting still and letting him do what must be done.

But there was more behind a Prince madly in love with his bride. It was but a flicker of emotion, a crack in the indestructible diamond mask. Never had Irene seen the man so distressed before and she still could not truly comprehend what happened and why. Whatever it was, Irene was certain that spark of true human emotion was involuntary.

Matthias seemed a reasonable sort. Someone she could see herself respecting one day, at least enough not to automatically disapprove of his every decision.

Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Irene thought as she was helped off the litter. The two men who lit the road for the procession gestured for her to follow them into the palace. As usual the guards were vigilant at the entrance and bowed their heads as Irene passed them. When servants started to follow her into her chambers she stopped them and asked them to bring a meal. Pampered enough for one day, she wanted peace and solitude, freedom to take off her clothes without half a dozen attendants surrounding her from all sides.

The room was lit dimly by the fireplace. Tongues of fire flickered behind the iron bars and sent shadows dancing about the room. Irene headed for the vanity table and with great relief took off the heavy jewellery. Her earlobes were sore after having been pulled down by the heavy weight all day. The necklace followed and then the heavy robe, which she threw onto a nearby chair. Raising her arms above her head, Irene stretched the sore muscles of her back and neck, glad to finally be free of the constricting attire of a Princess.

Choosing to leave the ivory gossamer robes on for now, Irene headed towards the fireplace, in front of which was a soft rug piled with pillows of all shapes and sizes. Irene sat down and leaned against the mountain of pillows, sinking into their silken softness. As she gazed into the flames, her deft fingers released the end of her braid from the golden ornament the attendants used to hide the brittle, weather beaten ends.

It was said the Izmarian royalty could manipulate the flames. Yet no matter how often Irene stared into the fire, she could not ever imagine herself being able to wield it like a weapon. Refusing to dabble in magic or even learn the theory behind it, it was unsurprising that she could not summon even the faintest spark of power. The first time she tried was to sate the curiosity of a child. Nothing happened, of course, and Irene wanted to take it as a sign that perhaps she was not a bastard daughter of a betrayed King. Matthias’s ritual proved otherwise, however.

Irene’s thoughts flickered to the child, the half-elven boy who was left in Izmar. It was safer there, much safer than it would have been at Vaelan Court. A smart kid, Fess shared the same curious look in his eyes as Faean, the same thirst for knowledge. How strange it was to compare a non-human child to a prince of the Vaelan Empire.

The Imperial family surprised her, to say the least, the princes most of all.

 

[GetThree]

Alone in his room, Matthias stood in front of and stared at a wooden door for a long second. The door led to a short passage that connected his bedroom to Irene’s. Behind a stoic face, he was feeling rather conflicted.

As against his nature as it was, he couldn’t help but feel rather sorry for the ordeal he had put her through earlier that night. No one knew better than him how the Empress could make others feel, not just through her words Her stare, her smile, her everything just could somehow combine to make others uncomfortable. To send Irene into war against that woman was like making someone who had never even fought a goblin go up against an orc. She had fared better than expected but there was no doubt she had taken more than a few blows, despite the shortness of their exchange.

He pivoted on his heel away from the door, having come to a decision, and determinedly walked out his chambers. On his way out, he ordered a servant to bring over a meal to his Princess’s room, only to find out she had already apparently asked for. He compromised and told them just to add some snacks to the dishes. Neither of them had eaten much during the dinner, providing him with a convenient excuse to speak with her. He knocked on the door but did not wait for a response to enter, greeting the servants shortly and taking a seat at the table stationed in the middle of her lounge. He caught Mikas’s questioning eyes and lightly shrugged, almost helplessly. His only hidden message in there was ‘I have no idea what I’m doing either.’ Mikas raised his eyebrows in a mixture of surprise and amusement before going into Irene’s bedroom to inform her of his arrival.

He waited in silence until Irene stepped out, only nodding his greeting when she did. The servants coincidentally brought in their food at the same time, making the explanation for his presence much easier. “I was going to invite you to a meal, but since you already asked for one in your room, I thought I'd join you instead,” he clarified, faintly gesturing to the food.

The dishes prepared were light and actually simple dishes, one of the deserts being a rare, sweet treat called chocolate that had been imported from distant islands, available only to the richest of the rich with their standing price of over 100 gold coins for a single small box. Matthias himself was not overly fond of sweet things and had only bought that because Jaime’s sweetheart had been trying to sell that one box rather desperately.

He waited for Irene to start eating before he did, waiting for an opportunity to accomplish what he had originally came to do. The food seemed to put Irene in a rare good mood and Matthias watched her with some interest. Her hair was plain as always, her face bare and her attire modest. It was atypical for him to come across a woman who did not care about how she looked even when she had company.

“The banquet today was a favor,” he finally started, referencing that night in their shared bath. “But I…had not meant for it to be so taxing,” he excused vaguely, letting her interpret that as she wished. He heaved a small sigh as he drained the rest of his sweet tea, leaning back in his chair. He was not faking his exhaustion. Mornings spent debating with those obstinate old men were hard enough. To follow that with the events of their evening had drained him dry. “I believe owe you an apology for that.” he continued, pausing slightly before getting to the meat of his speech. “so if there’s anything you wish for, as long as I am capable, I will arrange for it,” he concluded. Irene was still a mysterious figure to him and Matthias was never one to leave mysteries unsolved. He was curious to know what she would ask for, if only to unravel another piece of the puzzle.

 

[Lenaara]

Irene considered not leaving her bedroom and go to bed hungry. She sunk further into the pillows, too comfortable and warm and placed an arm over her eyes as if it could hide her from the man who was waiting for her in the lounge. An entire day was spent with him already, sitting at his side, listening and suffering from the pointless conversation and then equally pointless dinner. Was that not enough?

A thought then wormed its way into her mind. Matthias was to be her husband. It was not out of the ordinary for even arranged marriages to have sex. Irene dreaded going to bed the first few nights of being in the Prince’s palace. Nothing stopped him from entering her room and declaring he was going to spend the night with her. And when Irene found out where the door in her bedroom led, her worries multiplied tenfold. It was such an absurd, ridiculous thought and normally Irene would not have cared. Men washed off. The Mark, however, did not and she had no ways to hide it except for clothes. Even if the first time they spent together she was allowed to remain dressed, Irene doubted he would not be suspicious the next time she demanded to keep her nightgown on.

But the Prince had shown nothing to indicate he was at all attracted to his future wife. Whatever he wanted from her was not intimacy. Irene suspected he was going to scold her or, worse, declare they were returning to Court tomorrow to meet some influential family or another.

Matthias remained quiet as they ate, and Irene thought that to be a good sign. She wondered if he was as tired as her and judging from his relaxed posture, he was exhausted. After not having eaten anything that did not taste like ash, Irene enjoyed the meal despite the company.

The apology had been so sudden Irene almost chocked on a piece of cheese. Clearing her throat, she stared at Matthias as if he declared he was truly in love with her. She thought the Prince threw her to the wolves intentionally. The speech and the audience must have been planned and she was still angry at him for not understanding the dangers of announcing her location to the world. But it never occurred to her that the evening did not go as he expected.

Freedom, was her first thought closely followed by, my spear. One impossible to gain, second already promised to be returned. Irene considered her options as she reached for the desert that had attracted her attention since it was brought in.

“I want to see Thean Gerith,” she decided and snapped off a piece of chocolate. It was thin and plain, with a warm bittersweet flavour. It has been years since the first and only time she had it. A bodyguard’s pay was hardly enough to buy normal, common food, let along exotic sweets. Unsurprisingly, the favoured Prince of Vaelan court had an entire bar of it. “Tomorrow, if possible. I’ve never seen the city before. They say it is beautiful.”

To her surprise, he agreed. And what felt like the first time in weeks, Irene smiled.

Beauty of the City of Nobles was not the true reason why Irene wanted to see it. It was an excuse to leave the Prince’s residence and be free from the escort of guards and the posse of attendants that watched her every step. Thean Gerith couldn’t be different from any other capital. Crowded streets buzzing with life even at night. Markets selling spices of all varieties. Food vendors swarmed with children and tourists wanting to try foreign to them cuisine. After the pristine beauty of the Imperial Palace and the elegant luxury of the residence where Irene lived, she wanted nothing more but to be surrounded by something real, something colourful and genuine.

The next day Irene woke up as usual, at dawn. Hours went by excruciatingly slow. At first, she thought to visit the barracks and kill time there, but instead spent the day pacing about her room like a caged animal, unable to distract herself with anything. She must have stared holes into the door, waiting for some attendant or another to bring her news that everything has been prepared for her departure.

It was late afternoon when a servant brought Irene a set of commoner clothes – light blue short-sleeved tunic and a pair of dark brown linen pants. Her usual red and white palette was out of the question, for even in Vaela it was the colours of royalty. Irene did not mind. Perhaps, she thought, it was easier to forget who she is now, if only for day, when there was nothing to remind her of her status. Instead of a cloak, an attendant brought her a scarf that Irene wrapped loosely around her neck. It was hardly a disguise. Vaelan people were fair-skinned and light-haired, a complete opposite to Irene’s complexion, and no scarf nor cloak could hide that fact.

“They are preparing a horse,” the attendant told her and bowed, gesturing for Irene to follow the girl outside towards the stables. When the servant turned around, Irene stifled a groan and ran a hand through her hair. She’d rather walk to Thean Gerith than ever climb on a horse again.

But what was her fear of horses compared to the excitement she felt of being just ‘Irene’ for a day?

 

[GetThree]

When Matthias had arrived back in his residence the next afternoon he had been prepared to fall into bed. It was only with Mikas’s chirpy voice reminding him that he had agreed to let Irene visit Thean Gerith that he had forced himself to get up and change into “commoner” clothing. Her request to go into town had not come as a huge surprise to him. In his entire massive residence, she limited herself to travelling back and forth between the barracks and her chambers. It was no wonder she would feel suffocated.

His attire for the evening was a white shirt and black pants, both made out of silk that no sane civilian would wear to town even if they could afford it, topped with a vest made from manticore leather. They were the least expensive things in his closet, something a starting merchant had gifted him in return for his sponsorship, and were, in Matthias’s eyes, completely average. Even though they were made out of good quality materials, surely, with an overall look as plain as this, it was fine? That notion was refuted immediately once he stepped out of his room to the incredulous gazes of Mikas and Jaime.

“I told you to let me help you buy clothing from the market. Is this seriously the least flashy you can be? You don’t look like a commoner at all. You look like a shining beacon for thieves.”

In the end, despite all the protests he faced, there was nothing he could do but to go out in his initial outfit anyway. Two horses were already saddled and waiting at the stables, the accompanying guards either intending to follow on foot or having gone on ahead to scout. His horse was his usual ride, a white steed that grew with him from his adolescent years. The one prepared for Irene was originally Jaime’s horse, often also referred to as his “child”. He hoped Irene knew how to ride well or Jaime was about to have his heart broken.

Matthias didn’t have to wait long before Irene arrived, looking more animated than he had seen her apart from her fight. Irene stopped dead in her tracks when she saw him and looked at him as understanding slowly dawned on her.

“Must you come with?” Irene sighed, frowning.

His greeting dying on his tongue, Matthias tilted his head slightly in a questioning gesture. “What made you think I wouldn’t?” He asked, his tone flat, indicating that he thought the answer to her enquiry obvious. “My Princess can’t be walking around in town alone, can she?” He said that like a conclusion, tugging on her horse’s reins as if telling her to get on.

As a former mercenary, Matthias naturally expected for Irene to be able to ride. The wary, reluctant look in her eyes as she studied the horse raised a doubt in him, however. “I’d rather walk,” she claimed after a pause, looking past the animal towards the guards preparing to leave with narrowed eyes as she added, “alone.” Even if she didn’t want him to follow along with the guards, clearly having a horse was better than walking all the way to the main town from the ports. Could she not ride after all? The horse prepared for her was a large, powerful steed, there was no way she would be able to ride on it with both parties left uninjured if she wasn’t proficient.

“Regardless, Your Highness is hardly inconspicuous. Thieves will mark you as a target the moment they see that vest. I want to see the city, not flee from it.” Irene continued, giving him the same kind of glance over that his friend had done. Matthias fought not to roll his eyes, taking off the vest these people seemed to hate so much and handing it to Mikas.

“There, now my Princess doesn’t have to worry,” he drawled, stepping toward his own mount, petting its head softly as he offered a hand toward Irene. “If you don’t want to ride your own horse, you can follow on mine,” he suggested, continuing in a slightly taunting tone, “I would have to be barbaric to let a Lady walk alone all the way to town, after all.”

Taking a deep breath, Irene’s hands reach to unwrap the shawl around her shoulder. “Careful, Prince. You are starting to believe your own lies,” she replied, making Matthias remember that moment in his office when Jaime had slammed her head into the floor. He would have replied if he wasn’t distracted by the cloth placed in his outstretched hand. He looked up at Irene, raising an eyebrow in question.

“Wrap this around your head and shoulders, your Highness. Your looks alone attract attention,” the woman explained, practically jumping onto Jaime’s horse in a smooth, fluid motion, one hand braced on the saddle and the other reaching for the reins. Matthias regarded his odd partner curiously. Her words and actions failed to match up, first with her compliment that was given like an insult and then with her clear expertise in horse riding that made her previous argument against their mode of transportation rather redundant. She sat tall on the stallion, looking comfortable if not for the needlessly tight grip on the reins.

“Order your guards to remain behind. I was a bodyguard, in case Your Highness has forgotten. I will protect you if a thief goes after your belongings.” She sounded mildly amused, teasing. ‘I can protect myself, Princess.’ Matthias wanted to say but chose to ignore her words with some exasperation as he climbed onto his own mount with equal finesse, throwing the shawl in his hand over to a random guard in the vicinity. He raised a hand at the squad, a common sign to stay but actually a signal for them to follow the plan as per prior instructions, namely follow after they leave and stay hidden. He did not worry about Irene finding them and getting upset, considering they were specially trained.

“Am I allowed a weapon?” Her question made him turn and level an unimpressed look at her.

“No,” was his curt reply as he started his horse on a slow trot, heading toward the entrance. “Now, if Miss Bodyguard would kindly lead the way,” he said with a shake of his head to point toward their direction. This was going to either be a very long or interesting evening.

 

[Lenaara]

Irene remained quiet during the journey. Her gaze was trained to the city, watching it from a distance, but when she looked to the side and Matthias could see her face, Irene’s expression was as blank as were her eyes.

When they had just left the residence, Irene looked towards the horizon where the port met the sea. She could leave. The thought was so tempting that Irene gripped the reins and the horse obediently turned, silent and docile beneath her. Much unlike her previous mare, whose ripped carcass remained at the back of her mind, floating with the memory of the swamp and a crushed leg.

Looking over her shoulder, Irene watched Matthias mount his horse. She looked back at the port, gripping the reins so tightly the leather strip scrunched in her hands and bit into the palms painfully. Window of opportunity was passing her by and…

It was not a life Irene imagined for herself. Long ago had she resigned herself to die in battle. It was a worthy death, she thought, worthy of memory. Without anything but her deeds to leave behind in this world, Irene committed to a naïve and silly idea of being a kind mercenary. A forgiving blade for hire, that did not strike to kill but to maim. Lives had been spared and only some returned to seek vengeance for the humiliation she had caused them. It was a mark Irene chose to leave on the world, a small mark but a mark nonetheless. Out of selfishness and sheer belief that fate brought her an opportunity to do something more than fight, Irene chose to embrace her birth right. Whether that was a mistake remained to be seen, but the more she thought on it, the more she wanted out.

Raising a hand to her eyes, Irene rubbed them and breathed in deeply. The city felt stifling with the Prince trailing behind her. He did not listen to her advice and refused to give her a weapon. The life of a free bodyguard may as well have been a dream. Now, she was nothing but the Prince’s woman, told what to wear and eat and say, forbidden from leaving the grounds without an armed escort and a jailer to accompany her. It angered her. She could take down any of the guards in Matthias’s residence and had over a decade of experience in her trade. And Matthias may as well have laughed in her face.

Miss Bodyguard.

Princess.

Lady.

Irene wanted to go back to the normality of her life. Away from politics and men with enough power to rival that of God.

She felt like she was trying to balance two lives at once, neither of which could truly accept her. A red and white jewelled attire of a Princess felt as uncomfortable and wrong as the commoner clothes Irene was wearing. An imposter no matter what.

Hooves clopped against the cobblestones and kicked up sand into the air. Irene’s horse snorted loudly from time to time, seemingly agitated at having to go at such a slow pace. It shook its head, its ears fluttering. They entered the streets side by side but had to move in a line as the roads narrowed and crowds of people slowed their pace further. But the good weather made the slow walk bearable. Sun kissed the riders with rays of warm light and not a cloud was in the sky. Once they passed the main port area and entered the city, across which the main road stretched towards the horizon, with tall limestone buildings framing it, Irene remained walking in front of Matthias.

They kept to the side of the road, away from the carriages that came towards them. At times, Irene slowed the horse’s pace or stopped when a group of guards rushed by then, screaming at the pedestrians to flee the road not to get run over. In those moments Irene froze in the saddle and held the reins tightly. They were wound around her hands to shorten the length as if she was afraid of falling and accidentally letting go.

They had entered the gates of Thean Gerith without incident. A large public stable was just further down the road and Irene dismounted and headed there. People walked by and cast curious glances at Matthias and the two thoroughbred horses. When a stable boy came out to greet Irene, he looked at her first and then his attention shifted immediately to Matthias and his eyes widened in shock. He sunk into a bow and Irene’s heart skipped a beat, worried that they have been discovered and they haven’t even entered the city proper yet.

“Greetings, my Lord,” the boy said while still bent in a clumsy bow. “This is the finest stable in Thean Gerith, my Lord. Your horses will be well taken care of. Saint Matthias himself, may the Saints watch over him, visits us often.” He couldn’t have been more than fifteen, his sun-kissed skin freckled and his straw blond hair cut short. He took Irene’s horse first and patted its neck gently, brushed its mane with his fingers and watched Matthias with an equal mix of curiosity and astonishment, as if he had stepped from the pages of some legend he’d heard as a child.

Irene gave Matthias a look that said I told you so and left the stables to let the Prince arrange everything. Without a weapon and a single coin on her person, Irene wondered if Matthias suspected her of wanting to run away. A little late for that, she thought bitterly. Even if she did lose him in the city, the entire Court if not the Empire knew the Third Prince was getting married to an Izmarian woman. Finding her would be a matter of days, if not hours.

The City of Nobles was truly beautiful. It was different from the outskirts that they passed on the way from the port. There, miniature clusters of markets were lively and colourful but set up by the local families to sell fresh grown produce and homemade linen. At times there were merchants selling trinkets and other wares from overseas, but most travelled further into Thean Gerith to trade. Irene watched large carts pulled by cattle pass her by carrying large baskets with aromatic spices and herbs. Rolls of silk glimmered in the rays of sun in another cart. All travelled towards the market square which was but a splash of colour at this distance.

Further in the distance Irene could see high triangular rooftops of temples with gilded statues perched on the very top, depicting some Saint or another that the temple was dedicated to. Similar statues were placed at nearly every corner in the street, their delicate curves masterfully crafted in the image of a perfect body. Cypress and palm trees shifted slowly in the wind, bright green against the backdrop of marble and limestone architecture painted in crème and brick-red.

It stank of manure and hay and horse sweat, but Irene barely noticed. It was but a scent that she was used to after years of travel. Arms crossed over her chest, she waited for Matthias and watched the passersby. Each fair skinned with light hair and dressed in plain clothes similar to her own – both men and women wore robes and dresses with shawls wrapped around their bodies to ward off the chill that would start settling in once evening came. None gave Irene a second glance for which she was grateful. It was a welcome change to the palace, to that pristine cleanliness absent of colour.

The crowd scattered from the street when two young men came racing down the road, laughing, their tunics flapping about their bare legs in the wind. They called out to each other, but their voices were drowned by the loud clopping of hooves and soon they were gone, beyond the gate, racing into the open green fields. Their laughter was carried by the wind even as their frames were lost in the tall grasses.

People muttered their displeasure and continued about their own business. Irene watched them, the young children and the couples locked at the elbow, and envied them.

 

[GetThree]

It was a strange feeling for Matthias when he dismounted from his horse and walked after they passed the gates of the city. This was a place he had passed many times, straight down this very road all the way through the town, but he had always rode through it. Never before had he been around this town on foot, a part of the lively, cheerful atmosphere. He had always been separated from the masses even as they cheered for him, alone on an island no one else could reach.

Even now, as he dulled himself down and tried to fit in, this gap between him and the crowd was obvious. Their pace was brisk as they headed to the nearest public stable, drawing quite a few gazes with their stallions, clear standouts from the rest of the mules and mares seen around town. The attitude of the stable boy as he welcomed them was as if he couldn’t believe his eyes and Matthias was once again reminded of how horribly he had failed to be “common”.

Despite the fact that he had never once been to this or any other public stable, Matthias indulged the boy with a smile, an “Is that so?” and a generous tip, leaving the horses behind to catch up with Irene. He was not worried about the steeds being stolen. Both were trained war horses and would never obey anyone but him or Jaime. That was also the reason why he had given it to Irene with such ease. A whistle was all it took to get them charging back.

He reached Irene, who stood at the side of the street gazing at the scene around her with such melancholy that it made him pause in his steps for a second. His eyes followed hers, to the laughing youth, to the mothers and the children, to all these people who were free and happy. She misses this. It was nothing he couldn’t already guess at, yet, seeing her there, alone in a sea of people, her wanting almost tangible in the air, it felt like a sudden, hard realization. As she stared at them, he stared at her. As she envied the people who still had their freedom, he envied her who had once tasted it.

“Irene,” he called, softly, dissolving the strange spell being woven about them, “this way.”

He did not take her hand or pull her along, letting her lead the way and explore as she wished, some kind of small apology for the mercy he could not give her. Some of the sights around were things as new to him as they were to her. He suspected that once they reached the marketplace, it would be a fresher experience for him than her.

The Thean Gerith Market was like a small world in itself, a gorgeous picture when seen from afar. Cloth hung overhead across lines of stalls selling various goods, crowds of people swimming through the narrow spaces, a loud but oddly pleasant buzz made from the combined calls of sellers inviting customers to their stores. Everything came together to make a warm and welcoming view.

As they entered that little world, the blurred lines started to sharpen. Bartering customers at every shop, each of them selling something different, from sweet smelling soaps and perfumes to beautifully embroidered dresses hanging by the dozens on makeshift walls. Steam rose in clouds from stalls selling street foods, the fragrance of various meats and deserts flowing from their shops in waves, filling the air.

The less savory parts of the marketplace begun to show themselves in the form of dirty, isolated alleyways and brothels with scantily dressed girls standing outside, flirting with every stranger that walked by. But, somehow, this only seemed to add a layer to the strange, rough beauty of the market rather than take away from it.

From the corner of his eyes he saw a shop selling Vaelan souvenirs and found that there were many goods dedicated to himself, much to his amusement. The number of times that the words “Saint Matthias” dotted amongst the seller’s calls was not few either. He was almost shocked at his own popularity. His gaze travelled to the brunette walking beside him, lips quirking up at the sides. She was the person he was going to marry but also, by some weird twist of fate, the one person in this crowded place who didn’t like him.

“Pretty Miss! Look at these pearl rings! They’re lucky charms to find a good man,” a jewelry shop owner called to Irene, grinning so widely it looked like his lips might split. He stepped around a small child to catch up to her, scoffing when he did at the sight of the pebbles the man called pearls. The man’s sharp eyes travelled from Irene to the looming figure of Matthias staring at him from behind her with an unsmiling face and his face turned sheepish.

“Ah.. it seems you already have a ric-good man, a very good man. For a young couple, how about these jade bracelets instead?” The man offered, pulling out a matching pair of shiny stone bracelets as if out of thin air.

“It’s rare white jade, even Saint Matthias bought three pairs of earrings made from this same ore! I’ll sell it to you cheap because of how handsome a couple you are, 30 silver coins for each?” The shop owner offered, making it sound like an extremely generous price. The passersby shook their head at the greedy seller, some apparently used to his antics, feeling sorry for the assumably wealthy but naive pair. Real white jade would cost at least 30 gold for a ring, much less a bracelet...and I only have my left ear pierced, why would I need so many pairs? Matthias fought not to scoff again as he listened, keeping silent to see what Irene would do.

 

[Lenaara]

It was pleasantly cool in the shadows. They stood beneath the awnings stretched from building to building across the narrow paths between vendor stalls. The sun passed through the colourful fabrics and tinted the ground in bright oranges and reds and blues with stripes of sunlight passing through the gaps and holes in beams of light. Scent of spices and perfumes mixed together in the air, overpowering the sweat, which shone in beads on merchants’ skin. They dabbed it away, but their skin still glistened from the heat of the afternoon sun.

Irene took one of the bracelets from the vendor and he beamed at her. She stepped towards a stray ray of sunlight and lifted the jade towards the sun. The stone changed colour to a murky grey, reflecting the sun against its polished edges, but for all its splendid beauty even Irene could tell it was a fake. Regardless, she was never much a fan of jewellery. Had the stone been real, it would have been a good gift for Mikas.

“Who is this Saint that I keep hearing about?” Irene inquired as she returned the bracelet to the man, whose smile faltered but since the handsome couple did not walk away yet, he looked hopeful. “I thought you honoured Saints after their passing.”

Vaelan traditions were intriguing but Irene knew little of them yet. Her ignorance was evident, judging from the merchant’s shock. “Not from around here, are you, pretty miss?” He started to turn towards his shop, one arm reaching for Irene’s waist to guide her there but after casting a quick glance at Matthias, the vendor thought otherwise and instead his hand hovered inches from Irene’s back.

Though he gestured for the little shop nested in the corner of a nearby building, Irene did not move and folded her arms across her chest. “You can say that,” she told the merchant.

“Oh? Come, see to my shop. Jade bracelet not to your liking? No worries, pretty miss. Amber beads will shine on your neck,” the merchant urged the couple, looking back and forth from Irene to Matthias.

“Julius, can’t you see the miss isn’t interested?” A woman called from a nearby stall. She was perched on a stool, chin in hand, selling baskets of deep red pomegranates. “Come here instead, miss. Saint Matthias hasn’t stepped foot into that shop. They say,” she lowered her voice and waved Irene over, “he made the royal jeweller craft him a crown to rival the Emperor’s.”

Irene rose her brows, still confused as to who this Saint might be. A boy carrying a crate of fruit stopped by the stall and said, “I hear his wedding is going to last seven days and seven nights. Son of my third uncle’s cousin told me, he did. It will be grander than the First Prince’s, he said.”

“Lies!” a vendor of a stall across pitched in. He was in the process of cleaning a fox fur when he overheard the conversation and now was shaking the pelt as he spoke. “Saint Matthias is a humble man. It will be a small affair, I tell you.”

“Have you heard of his bride?” The pomegranate woman scoffed. “Long lost Princess of Izmar,” she spoke in a mocking tone and Irene raised a brow, lips parting in mute shock. “A courtier’s servant shops here, see. Now, she told me this princess is one greedy woman. She only wears the finest silk and the rarest jewels. Oh!” If the woman leaned in any further, she’d fall off her stool. She looked at Irene closely and snapped her fingers. “You are from there, no? Izmar? You must know this princess, miss.”

Irene was saved from answering as a youth selling rolls of parchment droned, “No one knows her, Helena.”

The pomegranate woman waved a dismissive hand at the youth. “Only a beauty could have seduced our Saint Matthias so quickly.”

Glancing over her shoulder at Matthias, Irene raised her brows in a silent question. Confusion was clearly written across her features. She thought it was by pure coincidence that her husband-to-be shared the same name with a supposedly beloved Saint.

“Hair as soft as silk and skin as smooth as a pearl’s, I heard,” the jewellery vendor – Julius, Irene’s memory provided – sighed as if admiring the picture his imagination must have painted. “With full breasts and a wasp’s waist.” He raised his hands to display an hourglass figure. Irene watched it all in stunned silence, not quite sure if her ears were deceiving her.

A fur was nearly slammed into the wooden stall as the pelt merchant roared, “Honestly. Are you hearing yourselves? Our Prince will never marry someone only for their looks.”

“Really, now?” Helena scoffed. “What have you heard, then?”

“That—” the fur merchant sat back down and resumed brushing the pelt carefully, as if apologizing for smashing it into his stall earlier. Helena waved an impatient hand, urging the man on. “That she is ugly. No one’s seen her, yeah? Why else would she be hiding? Saint Matthias took pity on the girl out of kindness. He is a good man, he is.”

Before the merchants got further carried away, Irene interrupted their conversation. “Wait a moment,” she said, “do you mean the Third Prince?”

Helena grinned at Irene and nodded. “Why yes, of course. May the Saints bless him with health and a long life.” The other merchants hummed in agreement, showering their benevolent Saint Matthias with all the blessings under the sun. None suspected that the Saint they so adored was just before them, standing beside his Princess of Izmar, who could barely keep herself from laughing.

Irene nodded for Matthias to follow her and they proceeded further into the market. Once the merchants they spoke to were behind them, Irene could no longer supress a smile. A topless woman waved at Matthias, beckoning him to come closer. Only a skirt was wrapped about her hips and her hair fell in a wavy curtain over her soft breasts. She stood before a building painted red with tall, open windows and terraces where gossamer curtains of the same red colour floated in the breeze. Laughter came from within and men and women of different ages were lounging on the pillows in an open terrace, drinking wine as it was poured by the courtesans.

“Come, my sweet,” the woman purred, “let me show you what Saint Matthias likes.”

“Does he visit you often?” Irene chuckled, unperturbed by the attention her Prince was getting.

“He is quite the lover,” the prostitute winked and reached to take Matthias’s hand, bending closer to him so that her breasts were pushed together and up. “Let me show you, sweet.”

 

[GetThree]

The stores that used his name to sell their products did not really bother Matthias, their claims of him having bought this or that as a marketing strategy only serving to amuse him. However, he had no idea that “Saint Matthias” would be used to advertise even brothels.

He looked down at the voluptuous woman clinging onto his arm, her straw-colored hair coming to rest on his forearms as she stared up at him with hooded eyes. Barely arching an eyebrow in response to her advances, his hand came up to wrap around her soft arm. “So this is the kind of beautiful woman Prince Matthias likes?” He cooed back and the prostitute’s eyes lit up with something he didn’t want to even begin to decipher.

The grip around her arms tightened slightly as he pushed her away from him, continuing in the same smooth drawl, “It seems he and I don’t share tastes.” The woman looked taken aback for a moment and made to speak, however she was interrupted by another woman, this one the polar opposite of the first with dark skin and brown hair.

“She’s a liar, Saint Matthias never visited her. Look at who he’s marrying, she’s obviously not his type,” she begun with a mocking smile before turning her attention on the duo, “he did visit this brothel though, you should come in to see, we have the best of the best.” Her ending was with a flourishing gesture to the building behind them as she walked toward him. She placed a hand on his chest, a flirtatious tone in her expression as she pretended to study him up close.

“You look rather like him, the Saint, tall, strong, handsome,” she spoke, so close to him that he could actually feel her breath on his neck. Matthias had never visited a brothel in his life, having neither the time nor the need to. He was not particularly keen to break that record, if these scantily dressed, heavily made up and honestly rather scary women were all that they had to offer.

“Not at all, I’m sure I can’t compare to him. It’ll be too pressuring to meet women who’ve had a taste of the Saint himself, after all,” he replied, the sarcasm in his voice about as subtle as a sledgehammer. He was feeling increasingly desperate to escape this situation and looked to Irene for help. He should have known that was were help was least likely to come from. The whore leaning on him looked like she would argue when, damn the Saints, a third, equally sultry voice sounded from the back.

“Looks like you got yourself a popular man, Miss,” Number Three spoke to Irene, in a deeper tone than he expected, with laughter in his voice as he crossed the road toward him and Irene. He turned to look and the sight that entered was the first person, amongst many, in a long time that made him pause and stare. The man, or the boy, dressed in translucent silks that failed to hide the lines of a slim figure, was only about as tall as Irene, with fair skin, wavy black hair and wide eyes that seemed to reflect his own shade of blue.

Having noticed Matthias’s perked interest, the male courtesan gained something like a triumphant look on his face as he passed Irene whom he was initially heading to. “My Lord seems to like me? Then why not give me a try? I’ll be good,” he offered, ignoring the sharp glares being sent his way by the two women by his target’s side. Matthias was surprised to find such a stunning face hidden in the dirty alleys of Thean Gerith. It would be such a waste to leave him here. Unfortunately, the reason for his visit here was Irene and not this pretty thing.

“It’s too bad, really, to disappoint all of you, but I have my princess here to attend to tonight,” Matthias said, hurriedly weaving through all three prostitutes to grab Irene’s hand. His eyes lingered for a beat on the boy and, as expected of a courtesan, that was taken advantage of immediately. The male grabbed his free hand with a bold smile and came close to whisper in his ears, “My name’s Rafael. Once you’re done with your princess, come back here and I’ll make you feel like a prince.”

A chuckle escaped Matthias’s lips, a teasing glint coming into his eyes as he crooned back softly with a, “No, darling, it’ll be the other way round.” He left with that, dragging Irene back into the main street of the market. She probably heard his last sentence to the man, which he himself wasn’t sure if he had meant or not, but with her lack of effort to save him from the attacks of the first two, he figured that she didn’t really care.

 

[Lenaara]

Irene watched it all with mild amusement. Arms folded across her chest, she remained quiet and watched, smiling, as her fiancé was invited to a brothel that he supposedly visited before. Not at all jealous of her future husband’s popularity with the prostitutes, Irene hoped Matthias was going to take up their offer and go inside. Free to do what she wanted without the Prince trailing behind her like a shadow, now that she wanted more than his loyalty to her.

Loyalty. Was there ever such a thing in an arranged marriage, anyway?

Sadly, Matthias did not take up the offer even when he had shown interest in one of the courtesans. A younger male, beautiful but otherwise unremarkable, yet much more tempting than the women who were drawn to Matthias like bees to a flower. They buzzed about him, touched him, and he wanted none of it, except to pause and offer a rather indecent promise to the boy. Irene couldn’t hide her surprise at it, never expecting Matthias to be so daring, and when he dragged her away from the brothel she laughed.

It was a bright, cheerful sound, genuine and alive. She did not let go of Matthias’s hand but stopped, unable to contain herself any longer. Mountain, was the Prince the smooth talker. Saint Matthias. Saint Matthias. Her future husband and her Prince who supposedly bought half the wares from the Thean Gerith Market and even spent time at the brothel. Wyrm take her, this was absurd and ridiculous and just so hilarious that Irene raised a hand to wipe away the tears that started forming at her eyes.

All those days of melancholy bottled up the emotions and memories and thoughts that now were overflowing. Perhaps it was the fresh air and the familiar setting or even the ridiculousness of what had happened, Irene did not care. She laughed and laughed as if she did not have a care in the world.

“I apologize,” she managed to say between the fits of laughter. Her cheeks were hurting and the blooming bruise on her ribs from yesterday’s spar in the sand rings reminded of its existence with a painful jab. Irene pressed a hand to it and pain stabbed her further and she laughed more for some strange reason. “This is just too funny.”

Tears were sliding down her cheeks faster than she could wipe them and when her laughter ceased, Irene still smiled though her face hurt from grinning from ear to ear. It felt like years since she laughed like this. Perhaps, Irene realized, it has been years. When her life turned upside down a little over a year ago, there was no more time for laughter or happiness. Since then, every day was overcast with worries of what the future held and what fate had in store for her. There was no occasion for laughter even when Rael was nearby, the only ray of sunlight that kept her wanting to return to him to feel it on her skin. And Ellenia, strong and brave Ellenia, was always a steady pillar for Irene to lean against and take a breather. They were all left behind, abandoned and forgotten for their own safety. Irene felt as if she’d stepped into the darkness and started falling into the void, only to be caught by a hand of a boy who became a reason to move on. With him left behind in Izmar, Irene returned to the comfort of empty darkness.

But it surrounded her no longer. She was outside, around people who had no idea who she was and why she was laughing as if she was the happiest person in the world, as if the universe decided to grant her every wish, and in a way, it did. For she was free from the confines of her stifling chambers. Freedom. Oh, how sweet it tasted.

Irene looked at Matthias and cocked her head in a bird-like gesture. “Attending to your princess, are you?” She mused. “Well, what are you waiting for?” Brushing back the few stray strands that escaped her braid, Irene wiped at her cheeks for one last time to dispel the feeling of tears that ghosted on her skin. “Ah, if only my husband was Saint Matthias. Such a generous, kind man he is, and richer than God it seems. Good with women too, I’ll wager.”

Nearby a merchant boomed, “Silks! Finest silks here!” and Irene would have ignored him as she did the others if he did not add, “Saint Matthias himself wears this at the palace.” And Matthias was being pulled by Irene, who still held his hand in hers, towards the stall.

It was set up to display racks of clothing. Rolls of silk were stacked neatly before the merchant at the front of the stall and at the back in triangular shelves. At the sides, paper screens were arranged neatly, and robes of all colour combinations hung over them. Irene reached for the first one that caught her attention – a bright yellow silk decorated with pastel pink embroidery of poor quality. Blue gems were woven at the collar asymmetrically and clasps of bloated gold along the middle of the robe were forged in likeness of a claw.

Irene pulled the robe to rest against Matthias’s arm. When put against his fair skin, the robe turned his fair complexion a sickly pallor. It almost made her laugh again.

“Would Saint Matthias wear this, friend?” Irene called to the merchant.

“But of course. Our beloved prince has the best taste at Court,” he told her in all seriousness.

Irene chuckled and told Matthias. “The stones match your eyes. I quite like it.”

 

[GetThree]

The Prince that Irene knew and the one these people loved were very different people. Although she did not not the true extent to which he diverged from his benevolent image, Irene was well aware that Matthias was no angel and hardly fit the rampant, over-the-top image of Saint Matthias. However, she really did not need to laugh that hard about it.

It was fascinating to see Irene looking so alive and happy, the opposite of what he had seen of her before now. He was suddenly reminded of that day, in the ring, sand rising from the ground like a cloud and Irene standing there above her opponent, eyes ablaze, the eye of the storm. So free and bright was her laughter that he found himself grinning as well.

The passersby stared at them, some older ones muttering words of disapproval while others smiled along. He didn’t really care either way. It was a weird feeling, something he couldn’t quite describe with a word. Even as his smile died down, that feeling did not.

Distracted by her infectious happiness, he let himself be dragged off to a nearby cloth shop. On hearing the exchange, he wasn’t sure whether he should be more offended that the merchant thought that catastrophe was the extent of his fashion or that Irene would think any part of that gaudy shirt matched him. He gave her the most scathing look he could muster before, grabbing a shirt at the side. It was the sickliest green he had ever seen and a shade brown which could only be described as the color of horse manure, he handed it to Irene.

“If that suits me, then surely this is perfect for you,” he said, tone sweet. Just as the merchant started to gain a hopeful look in their eyes, he scoffed, shook his head and left Irene standing there, looking like a fool with two painfully ugly shirts in her arms. He had a sinking feeling that Irene was going to use this Saint Matthias against him as much as she was able, with how hilarious she seemed to find the idea.

Other than food and goods, another type of shop found in the market was fortune-telling. Suspicious looking old woman calling themselves Oracles, sitting hidden in the nooks and crannies of the streets neared a dozen. Out of them, there was only one who looked even a little real, a dark, shadowy building in the corner of an alley, its entrance covered with beaded curtains. The only decoration on it were the words “Madame Geneva” written in silver paint on above the entrance and a small black cat statue sitting at the side.

This store was the one he happened to be looking at while waiting for Irene to catch up with him. It seemed to be quite popular, a few customers having just exited the building with smiles on their faces. He had heard a few girls mention the name in passing as well. Matthias didn’t believe in things like this, the reading of palms and stars. Even if fate was real, he did not think mere humans could endeavour to understand it. He looked to Irene walking up beside him and took her hand again, intending to move on along the street. But, of course, Irene did not share that intention.

If Matthias had to demonstrate the art of fake fortune-telling, he would say that the stars have whispered to him and foretold that he and Irene would share very little similar opinions.

 

[Lenaara]

Caught up with Matthias, Irene pointed a thumb over her shoulder at the silk shop they were just at. “I’d wear that if you did,” she smiled and looked over his shoulder at the building behind him. Her gaze noticed the sign, Madame Geneva. “Let’s go in.”

It was a dark little shop. The beaded curtains blocked out any sunlight that passed through the awnings outside. It had only one window and it was covered by curtains of the darkest shade of blue, so deep it was that Irene would’ve thought it was black had a stray ray of sunlight not been shining through the fabric. Dust twisted and danced in the light, glimmering like stardust.

Smoke curled above sticks of lit incense in little pots around the room. Trinkets and charms of all varieties hung on the walls and off the ceiling. The entirety of the back wall was decorated with dreamcatchers of different sizes and colours, simple and intricate, with feathers of common eagles to plumes of exotic birds.

In the middle of the room was a worn rug with pillows piled on top and a hookah in the corner along with bowls of silver, all empty except for one. That one was round and placed exactly in the centre, filled with what Irene assumed was water.

“Welcome,” a voice came from the back and a woman came into view. She emerged from behind a doorway covered with beaded curtains, wiping her hands with a cloth. “Incense and charms are all for sale, but I see that you are here for another reason. Sit, please.” The woman, who Irene assumed was Madam Geneva, gestured to the rug with a delicate hand.

Irene slipped her hand out of Matthias’s and headed towards the indicated spot and sat down cross-legged before the bowl. From there, she watched Madam Geneva with curiosity bordering on awe. Geneva was a dark woman of an unidentifiable age, for her face was entirely covered by a purple gossamer shawl. A circlet of gold on her brow held it in place over a cloth wrapped tightly over her hair and eyes, covering them completely, and through the semi-transparent fabric Irene could see faint lines of scars just below the cloth. The shawl trailed behind Geneva softly, lifted up into the air by the smallest of movements.

She wore a loose fitted top and trousers that exposed her midriff and her feet were bare. Thin chains with small bold bells wound around the oracle’s arms and ankles and waist, chiming ever so softly as she sat down in front of Irene and extended her hands towards her customer.

White henna trailed along Geneva’s fingers, bright against her chocolate skin. It seemed to glow in the dim darkness, swirls of patterns impossibly intricate and mesmerizing. When Irene allowed the oracle to take her hands, she couldn’t help but notice how smooth the other woman’s skin was.

“Before I tell you what awaits you,” Geneva began, her thumb rubbing softly against the back of Irene’s hand, “I must see you.”

To see fate was a gift few possessed. Irene never truly believed any mortal, or even non-human, had the ability to read the stars and predict future that only gods knew. But there were some who could see the threads of fate and interpret them, give them meaning in a mortal language that was not suited for such things. Mere words were too simple to describe the workings of fate, a force so strong and primal that to understand it was to transcend the mortal’s understanding of…everything.

Madam Geneva leaned closer to Irene and her shawl traced the edges of the bowl between them. Bells chimed. Irene watched the woman with fascination as she traced her fingers up Irene’s arms towards her face and cupped it, looking at Irene with eyes that she could not see.

“Water,” she finally said, her voice a hushed whisper, “you are like water. An endless, flowing stream of water. There is never too much of you and yet, never enough. You are transparent, in emotion and morals, in principles that you live by. But I see murkiness in you. One that no one can look through, never, not until you let them and clear the surface enough to let others look deep inside and find out more of who you truly are. What makes you work as you do?” Geneva let go of the stunned Irene and lifted a finger to point at Matthias. “He is curios too. You are an enigma.”

Irene felt frozen in her place but not out of fear or caution. Madam Geneva’s hands were cool against her skin that now felt fever hot.

“You are a reflection. Even your movements are fluid, like a mountain spring. You go around your obstacles so flawlessly, so beautifully and gracefully that those who watch desire more. As if they thirst for it like they thirst for rain in the desert. You do not waste energy on movement. You are movement. You twist and turn as the situation permits you, moving just enough to achieve what you desire. Do you see?”

The oracles voice dropped to a sound quitter than a whisper. It was meant only for Irene to hear and yet, it echoed through the room like dry leaves in autumn, like rustle of wind through a forest canopy. Madam Geneva was quiet and statue still for a long moment, but Irene dared not move, dared not breathe. A realization occurred to her in a chilling afterthought – the shop was dead silent, not a single sound came from the market square outside.

“There is more. Something…yes, there. A spark deep inside of you. A fire that gives you the will to live, that fuels your bravery. The spark does not permit you to fall on your knees and—” The oracle’s lips trembled. “You know now. But you were never told. Never wanted to be told. You suspected, yes. And then you buried the worries so deep that you forgot. But you remember now. Never let that fire destroy you. You are water. The spark will burn fiercely if you give it reason, and you will, until it consumes you whole. But never forget the stream that is your will.”

Suddenly, Geneva’s hands tightened on Irene’s face and she brought herself so close to Irene that she could feel the other woman’s breath on her lips when she spoke. “Beware the seat of blood.”

It was such an ominous warning that Irene broke free from the spell and recoiled, pale as parchment. The oracle returned to her seat and started washing her hands in the basin. “I will be honoured to tell a Saint’s destiny,” the oracle said, her voice normal once again, “if you permit me. Your futures are intertwined. One cannot exist without the other.”

 

[GetThree]

As they walked into the shop, there was a box at the side with a slit at the top for coins. ‘35 Silver Per Person’', the board beside it wrote in the same flowing font as the one that appeared at the front of the store. Matthias dropped a gold coin into the box, unable to bother counting that many coins. He followed Irene in, watching her interact with this Madame Geneva in silence.

That she covered her face disturbed him. He liked to have a grasp of everything in his surroundings, liked to know who and what were near him at what time. He could describe in perfect detail how Julius, the jewelry seller, looked like or recount what kind of horses were in the public stable when he had left it. Not being able to see Geneva beyond the little that she allowed discomforted him. When she spoke, that feeling of unease multiplied a hundredfold.

He stepped forward, unwilling to believe but at the same time unable to ignore that odd spark of magic he could feel from the self-titled Oracle. She gestured for him to sit and give his hand. He hesitated for a split-second before doing as Irene had and following her instruction. His eyes were narrowed, suspicious, searching for the magic that she had used. He had not needed to search, when he touched her, he could feel her magic rolling off her in waves, dark but soothing. It seems that she, too, could sense his own magic because her hands trembled and she jerked back just the slightest bit.

“You are,” she started, only to pause, as if suddenly realizing something. When she spoke again, her voice did not change and, yet, Matthias felt that it no longer sounded like her. “Beloved.” He thought to the people chanting his name and throwing him flowers on the streets. This was no great reveal. Yet, somehow, he felt almost like she was calling him by name.

“You were gifted power because you are loved and they were gifted you because they are loved. They were gifted and yet,” another pregnant pause, the whole world seemed to hold their breath, “they have sinned. They have tainted, maimed, destroyed.” Geneva stopped and, even underneath the fabric that hid her eyes he could feel her stare piercing through him.

“You have changed, fallen, darkened. You were once beautiful like a summer day, you comforted, charmed and captivated. Now you are a winter night, luring, enchanting, beguiling. When they see, they have always wanted, will always want to touch. Humans always want what they are not allowed. You are like porcelain. When they broke you, you became sharp. And yet,” she stopped, giving Matthias a short break from his reverie. It only when words fell from her lips again, a force behind them that resembled determination, that he noticed how sad she had sounded before.

“They will embrace you, even though it is painful. You have fallen but you will rise. You are beloved.” She halted. Then she switched, suddenly, back to the Geneva she had been when they had entered. “You became ice to survive, my Prince, but remember that your best lies in water.”

Matthias rose without a word, leaving the room with Irene in tow. Your best lies in water. He looked at Irene. This was referring to Izmar, perhaps? He did not think on it, or any other part of what had happened, for long. “Forget about what you heard, it isn’t real,” he told Irene, sounding like he was trying to convince himself instead. He felt almost embarrassed that Irene had been there to listen, like his life had been painted out before her eyes. Shaking the ominous feelings off, they once again joined the stream of people walking down the main road.

“It’s already late,” he noticed, looking up at the dark sky. His eyes traveled to a stall nearly, selling something that smelt amazing. Fried squid. His favorite food, though he would never admit it. “Are you hungry?” He asked Irene, gesturing to the stall. Though he had asked a question, his expression said clearly that he was making a statement, specifically ‘I want to eat this’.

 

[Lenaara]

The question did not register in Irene’s mind for a moment. Though Madam Geneva’s little shop was behind them and they were free from the coiling incense and the cool touch of the oracle, Irene’s thoughts were still trapped there, listening the divination, her own and Matthias’s. Each word had been etched into her mind by that gift of prophecy. They were witnesses to each other’s fortune telling but Irene could not guess what the oracle meant when she spoke of Matthias. A prodigy child broken by aristocracy? An advice to focus on naval forces?

Irene ran a hand over her face to dispel the unwanted thoughts. That divination was not her own. No use analysing it. But one phrase could not leave Irene’s thoughts, a sentence spoken by Geneva just as Matthias and Irene turned to leave:

“You are the proof that he lived,” the oracle said, and Irene’s shoulders jerked as if she’d been stung.

The beaded curtains fell behind them at that moment and through them, Madam Geneva was little more than a blur of purple and gold, a wight beneath a shawl of sparkling gossamer.

You are the proof that I lived, echoed a memory in a warm deep baritone tinted with age. It has been years since she’s heard that voice.

“Yes,” Irene replied to the Prince’s question, not sure anymore if he even asked her one, and headed in the direction he pointed to.

With darkness came the crowds. People pushed from all sides as Irene and Matthias neared the food vendor’s stall. They got separated, Irene walking at the front, and when she noticed her companion’s absence at her side, she stopped and turned around towards him, an arm extended to take her hand. Something bumped into her leg in that moment and when Irene looked down, she smiled. A boy ran into her on accident and now looked terrified, little hands curling into the hem of her tunic, his eyes went wide as they locked on hers. A short of breath woman pushed through the crowd and picked the boy up, breathing an apology, and Irene watched them disappear into the crowd with a strange longing.

They had to stand in a line for the food. People congregated around the stall, pushing against each other without a care for personal space. Irene held onto Matt’s hand not to lose him in the crowd – he was the one with coin – and with the other pushed her way to the vendor’s cart. Once close enough to be heard, she called out to the vendor in a language that wasn’t Vael. They bartered for a short while and he appeared almost happy to speak to another who knew his native tongue. He handed Irene three fried squids instead of two, as she ordered, and patted her hand away when she wanted to return the third. She gave the Prince two, amusing herself with thought that he couldn’t stomach commoner food.

Time flew by quickly. The evening was filled with movement as Irene and Matthias walked with the crowd, weaving their way past the people towards one shop or another. Irene went to visit all the ones that advertised Saint Matthias did this, no matter how ridiculous it sounded. They went to try oranges that the Saint supposedly eats each breakfast and looked at parrots in gilded cages that the Prince bought for his fiancé as a wedding gift. For better or worse, no other brothel advertised the Prince’s title as that one did, so Irene and Matthias kept to the market square.

No background story was even ready to be given if the merchants asked who the two rich customers were. They assumed they were a couple and, in a way, they were, though not in the true sense of it. Irene held onto Matthias’s hand, acutely aware of its warmth at first, and it felt like the most natural thing to do. Once again, she fell back into her motto of ‘move first, think later’, or never, and distracted herself with the market and its wares not to let the oracle’s words remerge in her mind.

They were passing a small clothing stall when a flash blue caught Irene’s eye. She paused and beelined for the store, almost in a trance, and reached for the vest of the most beautiful azure she’d seen. It reminded her of the colour of the waves or the clearest sky, elegant and bright and so familiar. She held the soft fabric between her fingertips and thought that it was possibly the only item she’d want to buy. Not for herself, however.

“Do you like this?” Irene heard herself say and looked at Matthias. Never did she think she was going to choose clothes for a spouse, but here she was, imagining him wearing it. “It certainly is better than the one you wanted to wear today,” she added with a chuckle. “You must be cold.”

 

[GetThree]

Matthias ate in silence, letting Irene drag him along the street, his shaken heart appeased by the warmth of good food. If it wasn’t her fault for dragging him into that fortune-reading, or that it was uncharacteristically silly of him, he would have thanked her for the double serving of his favorite food.

She forced him into every shop that yelled his name just for the fun of it, like a little kid in a candy store. Oddly enough, it failed to annoy him as much as he would have thought. When a middle-aged man also being pulled around by a woman, assumably his wife, gave him a sympathetic look, Matthias felt the urge to burst into laughter. He never thought that the bored, indulgent lover was a role he would one day play.

He couldn’t stop a smile from showing as they entered the next shop, another clothing store but with much better taste. He looked down at the vest she was holding up, running a hand along the cool fabric. “It is...better than the other shirt you chose, at least,” he relented.

Irene raised a brow, pulling the vest off the rack and motioned a shop owner to come over. “Tell me,” she said, “did Saint Matthias visit this shop too?” Matthias rolled his eyes behind her, crossing his arms. She was having too much fun with this Saint business.

The owner, a plump woman with blonde hair pulled into a tight bun at the top of her head, was taken aback by the question and glanced from Irene to Matthias and then at the vest. “No,” the woman admitted reluctantly.

“Would he wear this?” Irene pointed at the vest and the owner nodded, confusion written across her face as plain as day. “Then we’ll take this.” Matthias did not argue and turned to pay for the vest, flashing the woman an apologetic smile for Irene’s absurdity. He had his back turned to Irene and, to his genuine surprise, he felt a soft touch on his back. Her arms stretched to his front, shaking the vest as if to signal to him to put it on. He raised his arms and let her slide the vest on. He felt hands smoothing out the fabric on his shoulders and back. The shop owner gave them a slightly disapproving yet amused look.

He turned around in her arms, his hand coming up to brush strands of hair back from her face. “Thanks, Princess,” he teased ,a faint smirk resting on his lips.

Irene was stunned for a moment, looking up at Matthias, their eyes locked for what felt like an eternity. Then, she raised a hand and brushed his hand away from her face. A corner of her lips curling into a small smile, she reached down and buttoned the newly bought vest at the waist.

“Careful, boy,” Irene snorted, “people might find us indecent.” Turning on her heel, she nodded towards the market square. “Come. I have yet to find you something the Saint bought once.”

After they left the cloth shop, they wandered for a short while before something caught Matthias’s eye. A jewelry store, looking out of place in the rest of the market with its glistening, real gems and comparatively sky high prices. Though many people looked at it as they walked past, only one man had walked in the entire time the shop had been in view and had left looking dejected. Though the gems available here were neither rare nor expensive, by his standards, they were still things most nobles would wear daily.

Seeing the store, his first thought was to Mikas. Though Matthias often tried to buy the younger male things that he himself wore, customized, pure materials, Mikas did not like to wear them, claiming it made him feel fake. At that, his thoughts traveled to the woman who he was with. She, too, did not seem like she would wear anything that was too costly or extravagant.

Matthias did not wear much decoration upon himself, other than his ostentatious sword and a single, often plain, earring. If he was going to play the indulging lover, he might as well play it well. His speech at Court had left an impression, if he left some sort of physical claim on Irene, it would solidify her place in his “heart” or, at least, his household. With just a gold collar, even when he couldn’t free Mikas from slavery, he had been able to protect the boy and force others to respect him. Nobles who saw that shining collar with an imprinted Vaether emblem never dared once to talk down to him, though he had been a mere slave, someone commonly seen otherwise as an object. With Irene, this effect could only be even further magnified.

While thinking this, he headed to the store with Irene, eyes scanning the walls. The shop attendant had straightened up immediately when they had entered and offered his assistance. Matthias however merely waved him away. Irene might not accept if he said to choose, so he merely looked around, gaze coming to rest on a silver bracelet that held a round pink quartz in the middle. ‘12 Gold’ wrote the board beside it. He took it off it’s display, meaning to gift it to Mikas, handing it casually over to the assistant and paying no attention to the man’s shocked expression.

“Pink quartz means healing and peace, did you know?” Matthias asked Irene, turning to look at her with a small smile. He reached out to a ring, also on display, a white-gold band with swirling patterns, fitted with a glittering sapphire. Beside it, in matching design, there was a black onyx ring holding a moonstone. “A moonstone means ambition and success and sapphire,” he paused, running a thumb over the gorgeous stone, “means freedom.”

“These suit us, don’t they?” He murmured, almost like he was musing to himself. “Wearing success and freedom, do you think it might perhaps attract them to us?”

 

[Lenaara]

Irene did not believe even for one moment that Matthias was attracted to her. Yet now, it felt like denial rather than absolute certainty. They rarely spoke but now, after a few hours together, they easily held hands and Irene felt more at ease than ever before in his presence. At Court he took her hand out of necessity to play the role of a happy couple about to marry. In the Thean Gerith Market, there was no need for pretending. She tried to tell herself that, otherwise, the Prince was going to get lost in the city. She didn’t believe herself yet.

Was it not, after all, her intention in the beginning? To wander the city alone, without him trailing her like a shadow?

Her thoughts were divided into two categories – Be careful and Why not?. Often, in her youth, she chose the latter, not having a care in the world for the consequences. Visiting Ammon’s room, for example. Why not? What bad can come of this? Nothing, at the time. But there were consequences for every decision, big and small, so as she became older and matured from dealing with all the consequences of bad decisions in her youth, Irene diverted to thoughts of the Be careful variety.

But sometimes, like when she slid on the vest onto her husband-to-be, Irene thought Why not?

And when the Prince turned around, standing so close to her that they almost embraced, and brushed a stray strand of hair from her face, Irene realized that the consequences of that decision were going to be the hardest to deal with.

The Mark was like a weight on her chest. A burning sensation, like an old wound, brushing against the tunic that suddenly felt too stifling and thin. They returned to the market square and Irene wanted to lose herself in the evening once more if only to forget the secret that could ruin Matthias.

The jewellery shop was a strange choice, but Irene followed Matthias without protest. Attendants prepared sets of clothes and matching jewellery for Irene to wear every day but she rejected most of their choices. After her ears were pierced, anything heavier than a droplet of gold was uncomfortable and the only time when Irene allowed the servants to dress her as they wished was when she was introduced to Court. As a result, entire chests of accessories were left untouched and Irene told Mikas to take anything he liked. He was the only attendant who spoke to her, after all, and did not look uncomfortable in her presence.

Irene was admiring the jewelled pommel of a sword when Matthias spoke to her. Shifting her gaze towards the rings, she managed to reply with, “I…suppose.”

Freedom? she thought bitterly, Whose?

Then, another thought, something she imagined often but refused to make a reality: I could run away. Freedom would be possible then. Once Izmar had been liberated and Matthias took control of the Vaelan throne, Irene had little reason to stay married to him. To fake one’s own death was so simple that she’d done it on accident in Riverside. Oh, how tempting this idea was. Irene thought much on it while entombed in her own chambers, watching the sea that she so feared and admired for its beauty, and then chastised herself for wanting to run again. Always running, always refusing to take responsibility.

She reached for the ring to look at it closely. It was good craftsmanship, she guessed, and the sapphire was elegantly cut. Nothing about this stone screamed ‘freedom’ to her, however. Irene returned it to Matthias.

“I know little of such things,” she told him and added, tone light, “I’ll wear it if you do.”

Though, perhaps, not on her finger. Rings were often caught by blades during battle and— Irene inwardly winced. Battle. There was no need for fighting anymore. Politics were rarely decided by a duel. So, unless one of the courtiers wanted to fight their beloved prince’s bride, Irene had nothing to fear. After all, Why not?

“Then, these too,” Matthias gestured to the shop assistant, slipping the black ring onto his finger. Noticing Irene’s eyes wandering, he asked, “Is there something you want?”

Irene looked around. Jewels of all sizes and colours sparkled in the candlelight and precious metals gleamed, inviting one to look at the intricate craftsmanship. None of it even remotely interested Irene. All of it was beautiful but otherwise useless; she was not sure Mikas needed anything sold here.

She shrugged, eyes still searching for an item that might pique her interest. “Something for Mikas,” Irene told Matthias.

In the end, they chose a jewelled belt. It seemed the least useless thing and did more than look pretty. As every other item in the store, it was expensive, and Irene was about to voice a protest when Matthias paid for all their purchases without so much as giving the price a second glance. The rings they could wear now but the belt and the bracelet Matthias requested to be sent to his residence. Irene watched with a mixture of pity and amusement as the shop keepers paled after hearing the location for the delivery and immediately sunk into a bow, muttering blessings to the Prince who graced their shop with his presence. Their shocked stares travelled to Irene, who turned around almost immediately and went out of the shop. Thean Gerith was already full of rumours about the Third Prince’s bride. She did not want these jewellery vendors to add to the rumour mill any more flowery, or unsavoury, descriptions.

The ring felt strange. She put it on her index finger and kept twisting it around, not quite sure whether the feeling of it being on was unpleasant.

A ruckus was coming from the far side of the square. Laughter alternating with someone cheering and urging one and all to come and try their luck. A small group of people had congregated around a table with three turned upside down clay bowls. A dark-skinned man was moving the bowls around so quickly their edges blurred, and the crowd of fascinating onlookers struggled to keep up with a coin that was hidden inside one of the bowls.

Irene and Matthias were passing the group when one of the men was pushed away and nearly crashed into Matthias. He was red in the face, almost shaking from anger, and yelled, “You damned con man! I want my coin back.”

The entertainer raised his hands palms up and shrugged. “You guessed wrong, friend. Care to try again?”

“You bloody—” The man reached for his short-sword and Irene put a hand on his shoulder, stilling his hand. He threw her a particularly nasty look and jerked away from her. “Stay out of this, woman.”

Irene’s brows twitched in mild irritation. “Calm down,” she told the man and he spat on the ground, turning away from her and glared back at the entertainer, who was throwing the bronze coin up into the air. It twirled and fell back into his hand only to be thrown again, taunting.

“The game ain’t rigged,” the entertainer said nonchalantly, and Irene could hear the amusement in his voice. She could see the lie in the curl his lip. “Maybe the happy couple wants to give it a try?” He put the coin onto the table and lifted a bowl to cover it, his eyes inviting and deceitfully honest.

Irene cast a glance at the man who was about to pounce on the entertainer. “Fine,” she said and moved to put herself between the angered man and the table. “One round.”

The entertainer grinned, showing a smile of several missing teeth and multiple golden ones, and lifted the coin for Irene to see before he put it under the middle bowl. At first the bowls moved slowly but as they gained speed, Irene found it hard to keep up with which one had the coin. By the end, the coin’s location was anyone’s guess, but she was positive it was in the bowl to the right. She pointed at it and when the bowl was lifted, the coin wasn’t there.

The man across from her turned his lips into a semblance of a pout and lifted the left bowl, revealing the coin. “Pity. Again?”