Lenaara
Dreaming of honey cakes.
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.”
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.”
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