Part One: Hopes of a KingdomChapter One - Shadows of ExpectationRaven

  "To all who dwell under sun and moon, from the humblest peasant to the proudest king, and even to the immortal gods who weave the fates of mortal kind. Hear these words and tremble. I am coming. You have taken all that was mine—my kin, my home, my hope. You have torn asunder the fabric of my life and left me adrift in the shadow of despair. But no longer shall I bear this weight in silence. No longer shall I bow to your decrees or endure your indifference. The fires of my wrath have been kindled, and they shall not be quenched. Like a storm unleashed from the farthest reaches of the sea, I shall come upon you, relentless and unyielding. You will know the depth of my loss, for it shall echo in the ruin I leave in my wake. I am coming."

  - As written on a stone tablet of a ruined statue in Thil’Ive.

  I y in the stillness of my chambers, the silence pressing in like a heavy bnket. It wasn’t the comforting quiet of peace but something sharper, an absence that felt deliberate. No birds sang their morning songs outside the window. The servants’ usual bustle—pots cnging, voices murmuring—was missing. Even the wagons, their creaking wheels marking the start of a new day, were silent. The emptiness was wrong.

  Unable to endure it any longer, I forced my eyes open. The gss of the window caught the faint light of my room, reflecting it back at me like a ghost. Beyond, the world was still shrouded in night. Anmar’s gift did not grace the sky, his golden light withheld as if the sun god himself lingered in contemption. The sun’s absence left the air heavy, a pause before the day’s inevitable momentum. I sighed and shifted under the covers, trying to will myself back into sleep. Mornings in Egrana were usually a gentle thing—a symphony of life easing into its rhythm. I’d often linger in bed, letting that rhythm coax me awake.

  But today felt different. Something vast loomed just beyond the horizon of my thoughts, elusive and unnamable. The silence felt unnatural, as though unseen forces had stilled the world. For a fleeting moment, I thought I felt something—a pulse, faint but insistent, like threads brushing against the edge of my thoughts. This unease had been with me for days now, shadowing my steps like a second self. Though I tried to dismiss it as nerves or the weight of my responsibilities, a deeper part of me knew better. The air carried a charge, like the moments before a storm—the kind of storm that could reshape a life forever.

  As I swung my legs over the side of the bed, my feet meeting the cold floor, I resolved to shake the feeling. Today was too important for indulgent introspection. The Summit was on the horizon, its promise both an opportunity and a threat. My father had been consumed by preparations, each passing day thickening the tension that already hung over the castle. My role was yet undefined—a shadowy figure caught between expectation and reality—but I would py my part when the time came.

  A flicker of determination ignited in me as I rose, brushing the lingering unease aside. This day would not define me; I would define it. The weight of expectation was heavy, but it was a burden I could bear.

  With a sigh, I reached for the igniter and mp on my nightstand. A spark, a flicker, and then light spilled across the room, harsh and sudden. I winced, shielding my eyes for a moment before letting them adjust. The glow revealed the familiar confines of my chambers—stone walls, sturdy furniture, and the wardrobe standing tall in the corner. This was my world, a pce that demanded poise and restraint.

  As I lingered by the wardrobe, I caught my reflection in the polished gss of its door. It wasn’t often that I truly looked at myself, but today I lingered. The girl staring back seemed at odds with the woman I was expected to become. My golden blonde hair, usually neat, fell loose in waves around my face, framing features that felt both too soft and too sharp. My eyes, so often described as piercing, betrayed the unease I carried within.

  I leaned closer, tracing a finger along the edge of the reflection. “Who are you trying to be today?” I whispered, the words barely audible over the silence. The girl in the mirror gave no answer, only stared back, her expression unreadable. I straightened and turned away, letting the question linger unspoken.

  Alexander’s words often came to mind during moments like these. “A true leader knows when to listen, when to act, and when to let go.”

  I lingered near the wardrobe, my thoughts still caught on the reflection I’d left behind. The polished wood gleamed faintly in the mplight, the faint smell of vender sachets wafting as I opened its doors to reveal the neatly arranged dresses within. My fingers trailed across the fabrics as I considered my options. A pin red sundress hung to one side, its soft cotton fabric and modest cut offering both comfort and practicality. Next to it was a pale blue silk slip, its delicate sheen and flowing design perfect for zy mornings spent indoors. Another caught my eye—a halter dress that faded from the blue of a clear sky to the golden hues of a setting sun, the intricate stitching along the hem giving it an almost ethereal quality. My mother’s favorite hung at the far end of the rack, a violet sheath dress with fine embroidery along the neckline, its fitted silhouette bold and unapologetic, accentuating every curve more than I’d usually prefer.

  “A dress to show off those curves you got from me,” She would say, her tone pyful yet pointed. I’d always suspected she hoped it would attract suitors, though I simply liked the color and the ease of wearing it.

  Setting the mp on the desk, I reached behind me to loosen the ties of my nightgown. A firm tug, a shrug of my shoulders, and the garment slipped free, pooling at my feet. For a moment, I stood there in the dim glow of the mp, my thoughts swirling like leaves caught in a cool Radah breeze. The day awaited, and with it, the unknown. Yet for now, there was only the quiet, the first step into whatever y ahead.

  I paused before the mirror that hung between my writing desk and the sturdy, carved wardrobe, letting my reflection hold my gaze. My hand rose, almost without thought, to smooth the pale gold strands of my hair. It shimmered faintly in the mplight, like a field of ripe wheat catching the st light of day. My face held a delicate symmetry, with high cheekbones that tapered into a gently pointed chin. My nose was straight, neither too sharp nor too soft, giving my profile a quiet elegance. My lips, full and naturally pink, pressed together as I regarded myself. Though my expression often seemed contemptive, there was a warmth to it that softened the sharpness of my features. The length had crept past the nape of my neck again, brushing against my colrbones in a way that told me it was time to seek a pair of scissors—or a skilled hand to wield them.

  The firelight flickered, casting its glow into my eyes. They caught the light and reflected it back, green and vibrant, like emeralds left to bask in the sun of a forest clearing. I tilted my head, studying them as though they belonged to someone else entirely. Again, for a fleeting moment, I thought I felt something else—a faint hum at the edge of my awareness, like threads brushing against my skin. It was gone as quickly as it came, leaving me wondering if it had been there at all.

  Straightening my posture, I let my gaze drift downward, tracing the gentle curve of my waist as it fred into the rounded shape of my hips. They had grown fuller over the years, lending my silhouette a subtle, natural grace that hadn’t been there before. My figure felt more defined now, each curve a quiet statement of maturity and strength, even as I searched for the changes that had crept in unnoticed.

  A year ago, I’d measured myself at five feet and three inches—modest, by any measure. But now? I felt taller. My stride seemed longer, my perspective slightly higher, though I had no ruler to confirm the suspicion. Growth wasn’t confined to height, either. My hand drifted downward, brushing against my chest. My form had filled out in ways that were both surprising and, if I were honest, a little inconvenient. My bosom, full and prominent, now filled out to a generous size, had grown to the point where my hand barely spanned its curve. The weight of it was unmistakable, and its presence could no longer be ignored—a fact I’d become increasingly aware of when my clothing strained to accommodate the change. I marveled at the way time worked, how it continued its subtle shaping of me even as I edged closer to twenty.

  A faint sigh escaped my lips as I considered my wardrobe. The seamstress would have her work cut out for her soon, adjusting dresses to accommodate my ever-shifting frame. Even with a corset, I doubted the fit of some garments could be salvaged without a few alterations. It was a strange, almost amusing problem to have.

  I ughed softly, shaking my head as I reached for the dress I’d chosen for the day. As I slipped it on, the memory of a conversation with my mother over dinner bubbled to the surface. Whenever I compined about these changes, she’d chuckle, shaking her head at me. "If mine weren’t so full," she’d say with a knowing grin, "your father never would have noticed me."

  At that point, my father had inevitably joined the conversation, his face flushing a deep crimson as he stumbled over a denial. He never succeeded, of course, and my mother always had the st ugh. Her teasing always carried a note of expectation, her eyes bright with the hope that I’d embrace the power my presence could command. The thought brought a smile to my lips as I fastened the final csp of my dress, smoothing the fabric over my waist.

  I turned back to the mirror, tilting my head as I studied my reflection one st time. The girl who stared back seemed almost familiar, though not entirely so. She was still changing, still becoming. And that was all right.

  After fastening my dress, I turned, my gaze settling on the piano in the corner of my room. It stood there like a silent companion, its polished surface catching the faint glow of my ntern. For a moment, I considered sitting down, letting my fingers find the keys. The thought stirred a flicker of warmth within me. As a child, I’d been captivated by the instrument when a traveling troupe had passed through Egrana, their music weaving spells that lingered long after they departed. Among them was Marr Sithiden, the renowned troubadour, whose songs seemed to carry the weight of entire lifetimes. Even as a child, I’d felt the pull of his magic—not just the music, but the way his illusions seemed to awaken something inside me, as though calling to threads I couldn’t yet understand. He had used The Weave to conjure illusions that danced and shimmered alongside his music, crafting visions so vivid they felt almost real. Whether it was a golden meadow swaying in an imagined breeze or the ghostly silhouette of a lost lover, his performances transformed simple melodies into unforgettable spectacles.

  The piano stood as it always had, a symbol of creativity and escape, but now it felt like a question waiting to be answered. Would I still find myself in its music, or had I drifted too far from its melody to return? Much like when the schors had tried to teach me how to draw upon the Weave, which I had tried as a child but quickly abandoned when progress didn’t come easily. My disinterest wasn’t avoidance but rather a realization that not every path was meant for me.

  But, even if I wanted to py, it was too early for music. The castle still slept, and I didn’t wish to disturb the fragile silence. Instead, I picked up my ntern, its fme flickering as I opened the door to my room and stepped into the hall.

  The corridors stretched out before me, cloaked in shadow and silence. The sconces along the walls remained unlit, leaving only my ntern’s light to illuminate the banners and portraits that adorned the stone. Each banner was rich with history, the deep crimson and gold threads forming the sigils of Egrana’s noble houses. Faded with time, they bore the scars of battles long past, their edges frayed and colors dulled, yet they hung proudly as testaments to resilience. The portraits, too, told stories of the past. Gilded frames encased stern visages and proud stances, the eyes of long-dead kings and queens seeming to follow me as I passed.

  The golden griffin of Egrana, its wings spread wide amidst a gale of wind, seemed to gleam even in the dimness, a constant reminder of the kingdom’s strength. My bare feet made little sound on the cold stone floor, though I winced with each step. The chill seeped through my skin, making me wish I’d taken the time to put on my sandals. But it was too te for regrets now.

  I reached the staircase and pushed open the door leading to it, the heavy wood creaking softly on its hinges. Just as I stepped forward, a deep voice broke the stillness.

  “Princess Raven? Awake at this hour? And in that dress, no less.” The voice dripped with pyful mischief, carrying the kind of familiarity that only came with years of knowing someone too well. “Don’t tell me you’re sneaking off to meet some secret suitor. If you are, might I suggest somewhere far from your father’s reach? The dungeons, I hear, are terribly drafty this time of year.”

  I turned toward the voice, already smiling. “Uncle Alexander! What a surprise to see you up this early. And for the record, no suitors tonight—secret or otherwise. I couldn’t sleep, so I thought I’d get ahead on my studies instead.”

  He stepped into the ntern’s glow, his features sharp yet kind, his graying hair a testament to the years of wisdom he carried. His lips quirked into a knowing smile. “I see. Well, I was heading to the library myself. Care for a little company? I promise I won’t give you too many pointers on your studies—unless you’re behind again.”

  I returned his smile, nodding. “I’d be honored, Uncle.”

  Holding the door open for him, I gestured for him to lead the way. Though he wasn’t my uncle by blood, Master Alexander Hethelbolt had been a constant presence in my life. He and my father had been inseparable since their youth, their bond forged first through reckless mischief, and ter tempered by the fires of battle. I’d grown up on tales of their exploits—stories of the trouble they’d caused as boys and the battles they’d fought as men.

  It had taken years of patient insistence to convince him to let me call him uncle. For the longest time, he’d insisted it wasn’t proper. “I’m your teacher, nothing more,” he’d say. “Why should the princess address me so informally?” But after a lengthy discussion with my father—and likely a few drinks shared between them—he’d relented. Now, though he pretended to grumble about it, I suspected he’d grown fond of the title.

  As we descended the staircase together, the castle began to stir faintly around us. The silence wasn’t so oppressive now, softened by the presence of someone who understood the weight of the crown, even if he didn’t wear it himself. For the first time that morning, I felt the faintest hint of ease.

  "Why are you up this early, Uncle?" I asked as we began descending the staircase, the faint glow of my ntern lighting our way.

  Alexander smiled faintly, a touch of amusement in his expression. "I usually am. I enjoy the quiet—it lets me get more reading done and pn my lessons better."

  "I see." I considered that for a moment, then added, "Speaking of lessons, what’s on your pns for me today?"

  "For you?" He gnced sideways at me, his brow quirking slightly. "Nothing, actually. Today, Master Atiquis has a lesson prepared for you. I’ll be busy greeting the recruits from the Knight Academy. Then again," he mused, "she may be there for a while as well."

  "Recruits again?" I sighed. It felt like barely any time had passed since the st group arrived. While the young ds were often capable, they were just that—young. Most of them were three or four years younger than me, boys who barely seemed ready to wield a sword. The Academy usually accepted boys at around twelve years of age, training them for five years to prepare them for knighthood. In the best of times, only one or two would become Knights of the kingdom.

  But these were not the best of times. The war against our northern neighbors had thrown the kingdom into desperation. The recruits had been coming earlier and earlier, many of them scarcely trained. Some weren’t boys at all—just men of various ages, hoping to serve. I still remembered the elderly farmer from the st group. He’d been nearly eighty Arcons, his body bent from years of tilling the nd. He’d been strong once, I was sure, but age had stripped him of that strength. He could barely hold a sword, let alone wield one. I doubted he sted long.

  "Anyone promising this time around?" I asked, the words slipping out with a resigned sigh.

  Alexander turned his head slightly, one brow raised in curiosity. "Not sure, Your Highness, but I’ll keep an eye out," he said, his tone measured. I nodded, but his words lingered. These recruits were the product of decisions made far from the front lines—decisions that I, one day, might be asked to make. The thought made my chest tighten, the weight of it heavier than I’d expected.

  He knew why I asked. How could he not? These recruits—these boys—would spend only a few weeks here at the castle, learning formations and the basics of fighting from the Knights stationed with us. Then they’d be sent to the front lines, where too many of them would meet their end. The thought weighed heavily on me. I hadn’t kept up with the reports as closely as I probably should, but the few I’d seen hadn’t mentioned high fatalities. Perhaps the situation wasn’t as grim as I feared.

  Or perhaps they simply weren’t reporting everything.

  We reached the base of the stairs, and Alexander stopped, turning to face me. "Well, this is where I leave you, Your Majesty," he said with a slight bow. “I need to gather my notes and prepare for the recruits. I’ll see if this batch holds any promise.”

  I gave him a small smile, though my heart felt heavy. "Thank you, Uncle. Good luck with them."

  He straightened, his expression softening for just a moment before he turned and strode away, his boots echoing faintly in the quiet corridor. As I watched him go, I couldn’t help but wonder how much longer we could keep sending boys to fight a war that seemed to have no end.

  While lost in thought, we arrived at the library. The towering double doors creaked as I pushed them open, revealing the grand expanse of the castle's rgest room. I smiled and stepped inside. The faint golden hues of dawn filtered through the gss-paneled eastern wall, but it wasn’t enough. I moved to the tall windows and began drawing back the heavy curtains, allowing the rising sun to flood the room with light.

  The library was enormous, easily twice the size of the throne room. The eastern wall was dominated by an ornate stained-gss mural depicting the Trinity—the three eldest gods of our world. Anamar, the Radiance of the Sun; Kirith, the Matron of Maternity; and Chronalis, the Lord of Time. They were the first children of Karag, the Creator, and the keep’s mages had enchanted the mural to transform with the day. At sunrise, the gss became vibrant, its colors sharpening to highlight every detail of the divine figures. For a moment, I thought I could feel the enchantment, like threads pulled taut across the gss, a faint hum that tickled the edges of my awareness. It vanished as quickly as it came, leaving me to wonder if I’d imagined it. As the sun rose higher, the enchantment faded, rendering the gss transparent to reveal the rolling pins and gentle hills stretching eastward from the castle.

  I paused, taking in the mural bathed in the morning light. The interpy of colors spread like a sea across the library floor, painting the shelves and furniture in a kaleidoscope of hues. A soft sigh escaped me as my thoughts drifted back to my restless night and the conversation with Alexander. Was that the reason I couldn't find peace in sleep? Perhaps. Yet dwelling on it now served no purpose. With a determined exhale, I turned toward my usual corner of the library.

  The table was just as I had left it, scattered with the books I’d been reading yesterday. I sank into the worn chair and reached for the nearest tome, picking up where I’d left off. The words pulled me into the history of Siganair's st great war—a conflict far removed from our current territorial skirmishes. It had unfolded two decades ago, when the earth itself tore open to birth Hell Gates. Demons and monsters poured forth, summoned by the seven Generals of the Hells—each a Lord of Sin. Though the gates had been sealed and the Generals banished, their legacy endured. Every conflict since felt like a shadow of their chaos, as though the world itself hadn’t fully healed from the scars they left behind.

  Bazorak strode the battlefield like a monarch surveying his domain, his towering frame encased in bck armor that gleamed as if polished by fmes themselves. As he raised his blood-red wings, a fearsome cry erupted from his Erinyes warriors, their discipline more akin to worship than loyalty. Nearby, an enemy commander fell, his final scream muffled by the cruel precision of an Erinyes bde. Bazorak ughed, his voice booming like thunder. “Witness the fate of those who defy me!” The battlefield was his stage, each death a stroke in the masterpiece of his unmatched Pride.

  The Erinyes were warriors as much as they were predators. Cd in dark, flowing robes woven from shadows, they wielded bdes that sang as they cut through air and flesh alike. On the battlefield, they did not merely kill—they executed their enemies with cruel precision, turning each death into a spectacle. Bazorak reveled in these victories, his voice booming across the camps and caves where his forces gathered. Prideful procmations of his triumphs echoed long after the battles had ended, a reminder to all demons of his unmatched dominance. His arrogance was as much a weapon as his bde, for it sowed fear and awe among his enemies and allies alike.

  Durzmar descended like a tempest, her whip of molten va cracking through the air as she led the charge. Fmes roared to life wherever her Pit Fiends trod, their colossal forms leaving the earth scorched and broken. One soldier barely raised his shield before Durzmar’s fiery sh tore it in two, the heat alone searing his skin. Her ughter was wild and unrestrained, echoing above the cacophony. "Burn them all!" she roared, her fury unrelenting as the enemy lines crumbled to ash.

  Fastm lumbered forward, his bloated form quivering with every step. His Lemures surged around him, their formless bodies dragging across the blood-soaked ground like sentient ooze. An enemy soldier swung his bde at one, only to watch in horror as it was consumed mid-strike. The Lemure’s gurgling maw widened, dragging him down into the mass. From his vantage, Fastm let out a guttural ugh. “Waste not,” he muttered, his eyes gleaming with twisted satisfaction as the battlefield was devoured piece by piece.

  Hemier floated above the battlefield, her corpulent form radiating an aura of oppressive lethargy. Soldiers stumbled mid-charge, their weapons slipping from their hands as if the will to fight had been stolen from them. One captain shouted an order, but his words faded into a yawn as he sank to his knees. The Paeliryons moved among the paralyzed, their gray hands reaching out to pull life and light from their victims. Hemier watched with disinterest, her voice a whisper that carried unnaturally far. "Why resist? It is easier to surrender."

  Jivaln stood in the shadows, her green eyes glinting as an Ifrit slipped into the guise of a fallen soldier. In the enemy camp, the disguised Ifrit whispered false orders, sending chaos rippling through the ranks. A commander turned on his lieutenant, suspicion fring into violence. Jivaln’s lips curled into a sly smile. "Let them destroy themselves," she murmured, her envy driving every calcuted move. Her Ifrits needed no weapons—their whispers alone tore armies apart from within.

  Lamven stood in his gilded tent, his horns adorned with golden ornaments that caught the flickering light of braziers. Across the table, a monstrous warlord knelt, trembling as the Viligor demon whispered promises of untold riches and power. Lamven’s cold gaze lingered on the warlord as he signed a blood pact. "Another pawn," Lamven said softly, his voice a bde of greed. He turned to his Viligor. "Ensure his loyalty... until he’s no longer useful." The demon’s silver tongue sealed fates without ever lifting a weapon.

  Enyo stepped into the grand hall, their shimmering garments flowing like liquid starlight. A nobleman approached, his eyes gzed with longing as he fell to his knees. "What would you have me do?" he whispered, entranced. Enyo leaned close, their voice a silken caress. "Anything," they purred, tracing a finger along his jaw. The nobleman would ter burn his own city in their name, driven mad by promises of a love that would never come. Enyo’s smile lingered long after the fmes consumed everything.

  Each of the Seven Generals of the Hells was a force to be reckoned with, their sins shaping their tactics and their legions. Together, they were an unholy pantheon, their influence extending beyond the physical realm. Their ambitions frayed The Weave itself, carving open the Hell Gates that allowed their forces to pour forth. The scars of those fractures lingered, and schors still struggled to understand their full ramifications. The Generals may have been thwarted in their efforts to ascend, but echoes of their sins lingered, waiting for the right moment to exploit the fragile bance of the realms.

  The book held far more than dry accounts of battles; it was a chronicle of legends. Its pages unfurled stories of heroes whose deeds shaped the world—Xarleon the Hunter, whose arrows flew truer than the promises of gods; Astrid the Fierce, who charged headlong into demon legions with fire in her veins and thunder in her voice; and Tinu the Ancient, who lived through six-hundred mortal lifetimes, her wisdom calming seas and bending the wills of obstinate kings. Then there was Velcrove the Unyielding, whose body, it is said, bore the scars of a thousand battles yet never broke—not once. His journey stood apart—not just as a defender of the realm but as the lone mortal to venture into the Hells and return, forever changed.

  These stories were not mere entertainment to me. As I read, I couldn’t help but wonder: would history etch my name beside theirs? Or would I falter, a shadow among giants? To me, they were not distant figures from the past—they were companions, guides, and reminders of what strength and resolve could accomplish.

  As I closed the chapter on those familiar tales, my gaze shifted to a small stack of books I had set aside earlier. My hand hovered over them before settling on one in particur: a bck-covered tome adorned with golden-threaded pixie wings. There was no title on the cover—only those who had read its contents dared to name it. Among schors, it was commonly referred to as The Complete Catalog of Demi-Humans, Sub-Humans, and Half-Breeds. Yet, it was no mere catalog of curiosities but an intricate study—a tapestry of species and cultures, full of insights that felt alive, as if the creatures described carried pieces of The Weave itself, their existence inseparable from the threads binding our world together.

  The entries spanned the breadth of the known world and beyond. There were pixies, ethereal beings whose wings shimmered with an unearthly light no craftsman could replicate, and fairies, their mischievous cousins, who danced between realms and whispered secrets to the wind. Elves with their timeless grace stood beside nymphs, living embodiments of nature itself. There were dryads, bound to their beloved trees, and dwarves, whose craft shaped the bones of the earth. I lingered over an illustration of a Dracoling, its sleek form glowing with the remnants of ancient dragonfire, and marveled at the cryptic notes on the Eth’shar, enigmatic beings whose origins were shrouded in mystery, and one of my personal favorites, the Frostanix, an interesting half breed between a Frost Bear and a Tuskcat. Each page was adorned with painstakingly detailed diagrams, their artistry so lifelike it seemed the creatures might step off the parchment.

  And yet, for all its beauty, the book left a sour taste in my mouth. It had become a hunter's guide—a ledger of trophies to be cimed. Most read it not with reverence but with greed, eager to learn the weak points of creatures they saw only as prey. Even the most wondrous beings were reduced to quarry, their cultures and lives dismissed as footnotes in a predatory game.

  Here in Egrana, things were… better. Or so we told ourselves. “Fair treatment” was the term most used, though reality often fell short. My father had done his best to foster harmony when the kingdom was founded, ensuring other races had a pce within the castle and its governance. It was a bold, unprecedented move—one that earned him both praise and scorn.

  We had a cloud nymph in service, who carried messages across the kingdom faster than any horse or hawk could dream. Dryads tended the gardens, their bond with nature ensuring the grounds flourished year-round. Once, we even had a goblin overseeing the royal coffers. Mak’rk, his name was. A shrewd and careful steward, he served for decades with unmatched diligence. Goblins, I had read, typically lived no more than sixty years, but Mak’rk defied expectation. He lived to be ninety-seven—a remarkable age for one of his kind. When he passed st year, the court muttered about natural causes, but my father suspected otherwise. An investigation followed, but no evidence of foul py could be found. Even so, his passing felt like the end of something more than a life—a reminder of how fragile the trust between our races could be. If even my father’s vision of unity could be undermined, what hope did the rest of the world have?

  I turned another page, feeling the weight of it all pressing down on me—the stories, the history, the knowledge held within these books. The endless catalog of triumph and tragedy, prejudice and progress. Hours slipped by unnoticed until the words blurred and my eyes ached. With a reluctant sigh, I closed the tome and rubbed the weariness from my face.

  The mural of the Trinity caught my gaze through the enchanted gss, now clear and un-colored. Dawn’s colors had given way to soft daylight, illuminating the rolling pins beyond the castle. For a moment, there was peace—just the quiet of the room and the faint hum of life stirring beyond. Yet my thoughts churned, circling the same questions that had pgued me for days. Was there truly a path forward where all could live as equals? Or was the kingdom—and the world—doomed to remain divided by the barriers we ourselves had raised?

  The clock on the mantel ticked loudly in the stillness, pulling me from my reverie. Atiquis should have been here by now, I thought, frowning. The morning had stretched long, my patience thinning. But I couldn’t fault her—it wasn’t as though I’d sent a summons. Hunger gnawed at me, and if she wasn’t going to arrive soon, I’d have to find a way to silence my stomach myself.

  With a resigned sigh, I stood, smoothing my dress before heading toward the kitchens. The castle was already alive with its morning routine, the halls bustling with maids and butlers tending to their tasks. Each step brought a flurry of bows, curtsies, and an incessant litany of titles.

  “Your Highness.” “Your Majesty.” “Good morning, Your Grace.”

  Each word nded like a stone on my shoulders, piling heavier with every step. They weren’t just titles—they were barriers, walls that kept me apart from the people I was meant to lead. Every bow, every curtsy, was a reminder of the distance my station pced between us. They didn’t see me—not really. They saw the crown, the power, the weight of expectation I couldn’t escape. I forced a polite smile, but inside, I longed for someone—anyone—to look at me and simply see Raven.

  A familiar pang rose in my chest as I walked. It was a ridiculous thing to feel, given everything I had—my station, my comforts, my authority. And yet, I couldn’t help but long for something simpler, for someone to use my name without hesitation, without the weight of expectation or obligation. Even my parents rarely spoke it these days, their words always gilded with the distance of titles.

  The thought lingered as I moved through the corridors, my footsteps muffled by the plush carpets. The castle itself seemed determined to remind me of my role, its grandeur as much a cage as it was a privilege. Stained gss windows cast patches of colored light across stone walls, the imagery of the gods watching over me with unblinking eyes. The smell of polished wood and beeswax filled the air, mingling with the faint scent of baking bread wafting from below.

  Finally, the kitchen doors loomed ahead, promising a welcome reprieve. The kitchens had always felt like another world—one untouched by the gilded walls and distant eyes of the court. Here, life was unvarnished, honest in its simplicity. The chill that had clung to me dissolved in the warmth of the ovens. The savory aroma of spices and baking bread filled the air, mingling with the comforting crackle of a fire in the hearth. Here, at least, life felt simpler—real.

  Standing out in my dress, I couldn’t exactly sneak in, grab something to eat, and slip out unnoticed. The second I stepped into the kitchen, the growl of my stomach betrayed me, and all eyes turned my way. Conversations halted, utensils cttered onto counters, and a few heads tilted in surprise.

  “Your Majesty, have you not eaten yet?” Remora’s curly horns bobbed as she hurried forward, her hooves clicking faintly against the floor. She had a wide-eyed earnestness about her, the kind that always made me feel a little guilty for disrupting her routine.

  ““Yes, yes! Please, Your Majesty, sit down!” Argus called, his deep voice rumbling like distant thunder. The streak of gray along his muzzle twitched as he grinned. “We’ll make you a feast fit for a queen—or at least something hearty enough to keep you from fainting.”

  I shook my head and waved my hands dismissively. “No need for anything eborate. A simple breakfast will do just fine,” I said, smiling warmly.

  The two bowed slightly and turned to their tasks. The rhythmic ctter of knives against cutting boards resumed, soon mingling with the sounds of sizzling. The rich aroma of eggs and bacon filled the room, wrapping around me like a warm embrace. Leaning back against the counter, I let the smells and sounds anchor me, a small smile creeping onto my face.

  Moments ter, a steaming pte was set before me. I offered my thanks and quickly tucked in, savoring the fvors. As the st bite disappeared, I gnced around the room, waiting for an opportune moment. When no one seemed to be looking, I slipped toward the washing tub. As I pced my pte in the water, the quiet clink of dishes was enough to draw every gaze back to me. Remora froze mid-chop, Argus raised an incredulous brow, and even the sous chefs peered over their pots and pans.

  “Your Majesty!” Remora gasped, nearly dropping a bowl, her hooves skittering slightly against the floor as she scrambled to catch it. Her wide eyes darted between me and the dish, a mix of shock and frantic energy spilling over her usually composed demeanor.

  Argus barked a ugh, shaking his head in disbelief. "What are you doing? Trying to take our jobs? Or just making the rest of us look bad?"

  Ignoring their surprise, I scrubbed the pte clean, rinsed it, and pced it neatly on the drying rack. The repetitive motion steadied me, a quiet rebellion against the constant deference I faced. Doing something so simple, so ordinary, grounded me in a way that titles and formality never could. The kitchen was silent save for the sound of water dripping from the pte. Then came a deep, hearty chuckle from across the room.

  I turned toward the doorway, smiling as I recognized the figure standing there. Sir Howwel, his silver hair pulled back into a short tail, wore his usual cooking clothes and a flour-dusted apron. Despite the rexed attire, the disciplined precision of a knight was evident in his every movement, from the exactness of his slicing to the way he surveyed the bustling kitchen like a battlefield under his command. Though his demeanor was rexed, his sharp, knightly bearing still lingered in the way he stood.

  “You haven’t changed much over the years, M’dy,” he said, striding forward. “If we let you, you’d be cooking for yourself, wouldn’t you?”

  I inclined my head with a grin. “I would, Sir Howwel.”

  Sir Howwel was not just a knight but the unofficial head chef of the castle—a role he had taken on with gusto. He had always been a grounding presence in my life. Where my father demanded perfection, Sir Howwel taught with patience, showing me that true strength came not from titles or power, but from understanding and respect. As a child, I’d often sneak into the kitchens to bake treats for my parents. More often than not, I’d get caught by him. But instead of scolding me, he always let me stay and help, guiding my clumsy hands with the patience of a master.

  “It’s still early, M’dy,” he noted. “Are you already done with your studies for the day?”

  “Not quite,” I replied. “I’ve been waiting for Master Atiquis, but she seems to be running te.”

  “Ah,” he said, stroking his chin. “If I’m not mistaken, all the masters are in the Great Hall, preparing to greet the new recruits arriving today. The new recruits aren’t just soldiers; they’re the future of Egrana’s defense. Every bow, every lifted bde, is a piece of the kingdom’s fragile shield against a world still scarred by old wars.”

  “That expins it,” I said thoughtfully. “Uncle Alexander did mention something about that this morning. I suppose I could join them—I’ll have to wait for her to be free, anyway.”

  As I turned to leave, Sir Howwel’s voice stopped me in my tracks. “Not wearing that, I hope?”

  I turned back with a questioning look. “What’s wrong with my dress?”

  “Well, for one,” he said with a sly smile, “you’re not wearing a corset, which your father would probably find either scandalous, infuriating, or both—and you know how he likes to go on about decorum. Well for anyone other than himself anyway. He’d likely summon half the court just to lecture them about it.” For another, these are all very young men. We wouldn’t want any of them losing their heads—figuratively or literally—for staring longer than they ought.”

  I sighed, suppressing a grin. Changing for the recruits wasn’t about vanity—it was about understanding the weight my presence carried, a reminder that my every step could ripple far beyond these walls. “Fine. I’ll fetch Aria and ask her to help me with my corset. You’re right—I should save this dress for more important occasions.””

  With that, I made my way back to my chambers. The moment I reached the door, I was greeted by a familiar face. Aria, my dy-in-waiting, stood waiting for me, her mischievous hazel eyes lighting up as she opened the door.

  “Good morning, M’dy Raven,” she said with a teasing smile, her fiery red hair catching the sunlight like a bze. “I was starting to think you’d slept the morning away.”

  “I’ve been up since before dawn,” I replied, stepping inside. “How long were you standing out there?”

  “Not too long,” she said with a shrug, shutting the door behind us. “I thought you might still be asleep.”

  I chuckled softly, turning to my wardrobe and pulling out a deep blue dress—simpler, yet still elegant. “I need to change. Hold this for me, would you?”

  Aria took the dress with a mischievous glint in her eye, savoring the chance to unsettle me—or perhaps testing the limits of how far her antics could go before I reacted. Aria’s teasing often pushed me to the edge of my carefully maintained composure, a reminder that even in my own chambers, I couldn’t fully control the world around me. It was both infuriating and grounding. For all her antics, Aria’s presence steadied me in a way few others could. She saw through the crown and titles, reminding me of the girl I was beneath it all. As much as her ughter drove me mad, I couldn’t imagine facing the pressures of the day without her sharp wit and unwavering confidence by my side. “As you wish, M’dy,” she said, her voice lilting with amusement.

  I removed my current dress and hung it back in the wardrobe, then reached for a corset. Pcing it around my waist, I held it in pce and gnced over my shoulder at Aria, who had set the dress on the bed and now approached with deliberate steps.

  “Here,” she said, her fingers deftly threading the ce through the corset’s loops. Her touch was firm but lingered just long enough to send a shiver up my spine. She noticed, of course—she always noticed.

  “What’s the matter, M’dy?” she murmured, leaning in close. Her breath brushed against my ear, and her tone dropped to something low and velvety. “Are you cold? Or perhaps…” Her lips curled into a teasing smile. “Are you shivering at another woman’s touch?”

  My cheeks flushed crimson as she giggled softly, the sound warm and pyful. This wasn’t the first time she’d done this—her flirtations were as constant as they were infuriating. Tempting as her suggestions were, I always resisted, knowing that to give in would only fuel her teasing.

  “Aria,” I said with as much composure as I could muster. “I need to finish dressing.”

  “Oh, come now, M’dy. I can see how red your cheeks are,” Aria teased, her voice still low and honeyed, like she enjoyed every ounce of control she wielded. Her hands drifted down to my waist, bare and vulnerable, and pulled me firmly against her.

  Heat surged through me, a whirlwind of embarrassment and something deeper threatening to unravel my composure. Her touch lingered just enough to blur the lines between pyful provocation and something I dared not name, leaving me scrambling to reassert control over my own reactions. Her fingers began to trace slow, deliberate paths along my sides, sliding lower toward the center of my legs. I felt my breath hitch, my legs trembling slightly, instinctively wanting to part at the promise of her caress. Instead, I bit my lip hard and cmped them together.

  “J-just finish tightening the corset, Aria,” I huffed, the words catching slightly in my throat. Desperately, I clung to the remnants of my composure. “I never understood the point of wearing these ridiculous things anyway. Howwel suggested it to stop the recruits from staring too long, but all this damned corset does is push them up and cinch my waist. That only makes me more alluring.”

  Aria chuckled softly, the sound wickedly amused. “As you wish, M’dy,” she murmured, though her tone betrayed her intent. Her hands trailed back up my sides, slipping beneath the corset, her palms brushing against my breasts. I gasped as she gave them a gentle squeeze, her voice taking on that pyful, sultry edge that drove me mad.

  “And with breasts like yours, the corset isn’t just about allure,” she said. “It’s to stop them from bouncing or—what’s the phrase?—flying out of your dress when you walk or run. I’d know, of course. From personal experience, the sight of that is far more enticing than keeping them tucked neatly away like this.”

  I bit my lip harder, suppressing the response she was clearly hoping for. The teasing had gone on long enough, but I felt powerless to stop her. She finally relented, sliding her hands back around the corset and cing it tightly, each tug firm but methodical.

  “Besides,” she added with a sly grin, “if you’d wear these properly—with undergarments—it wouldn’t be nearly as uncomfortable by the end of the day. Or perhaps we could have the tailors style one that would work on the outside of your dress? I hear that’s how the Vaeltheris dies are doing it now.”

  The tightening complete, I stepped into the deep blue dress and pulled it up around me, my movements a bit stiff as I fought to steady my shaking legs. Aria stood a few steps away, hands csped innocently behind her back, rocking slightly on her heels. Her grin was maddeningly angelic, as though butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth.

  “One of these days,” I said, gring at her as I tried to ignore the heat still lingering on my cheeks, “I’ll find a way to get even for all this… torture you’ve been putting me through.”

  “Oh, I’d like to see that,” she said, her grin widening impossibly. “The woman who’s never bedded anyone is going to figure out how to tease me back? Please, M’dy Raven, don’t give me hope.”

  “You say that now,” I shot back, rolling my eyes, “but you wait. Hells hath no fury.” I paused, tilting my head. “Besides, how many people have you bedded, exactly?”

  She let out a ugh, unabashed. “Men? Just two. The bcksmith’s boy—poor thing, I was his first—and the handsome man who runs the bakery. Skilled with his hands, that one. By the end of it, he had both me and his wife screaming his name when he worked his magic.”

  My jaw nearly dropped, but before I could speak, she added, giggling, “Oh, and women? More than my fair share. Including said wife.”

  I groaned, exasperated. “I have to go. Please try to behave yourself.”

  “I never do anything wrong,” she said with a dramatic shrug, feigning innocence. "Besides, I’m coming with you. I want to see all the new boys. Who knows? Maybe one of them will be fun to py with."

  Her ughter echoed behind me as I stepped into the hall, but my thoughts were already turning to the recruits. How would they see me? A leader, a princess, or just another face among the ranks? My legs still felt weak, and my face was undoubtedly still flushed, but I pressed on, determined to face whatever the day demanded. My legs still felt weak, and my face was undoubtedly still flushed, but I pressed on. Behind me, Aria skipped along, humming a cheery tune.

  After a short walk through the castle, we reached the end of the west wing, where the door to the back of the Great Hall loomed before us. The muffled sounds of voices carried through the heavy wood, a reminder of the crowd that awaited me on the other side.

  I hesitated, drawing a deep breath. These recruits weren’t just fresh blood for the kingdom’s forces—they were part of a rger effort to mend what had been fractured, to stand against the echoes of chaos that still rippled through our world. The idea of my every step and word being judged sent a ripple of unease through me. Straighten your back, lift your chin, smile, wave—the whole charade. It was exhausting. Part of me envied the servants and townsfolk, their lives simpler, freer from the crushing weight of appearances and duty. Even now, the idea of my every step and word being judged sent a ripple of unease through me. Straighten your back, lift your chin, smile, wave—the whole charade. It was exhausting. Part of me envied the servants and townsfolk, their lives simpler, freer from the crushing weight of appearances and duty.

  But here I was, a daughter of the crown, preparing to step into the spotlight once again. Perhaps, if the fates were kind, my father might even call me by my name this time.

  With a deep, steadying breath, I opened the door and stepped into the Great Hall. The sheer grandeur of the space struck me as it always did, though I’d walked this path countless times before. The high arched ceiling seemed to stretch into eternity, its carved beams catching the morning light that streamed in through the tall stained-gss windows. The air was thick with a palpable sense of anticipation, a tension that seemed to ripple through the room.

  A long, crimson carpet stretched from where I stood to the throne dais dozens of feet away. Lining either side of the rug stood a formation of soldiers, their polished armor glinting faintly. Their expressions were unreadable, their eyes fixed forward in disciplined stoicism. Beyond them, six figures stood in solemn attention—three on each side of the carpet. These were the Masters, the leaders of the kingdom’s various disciplines, their presences as commanding as their reputations.

  Near the dais sat my parents, the King and Queen, their thrones elevated above the room on a ptform of white marble. My father’s gaze swept the room with a precision that left no corner unexamined. To him, this wasn’t just ceremony—it was a test, one these recruits would carry with them for the rest of their lives. My mother, by contrast, exuded a regal grace, her posture perfect, her expression a picture of composed calm. Her whisper to the Captain of the Guard felt like a quiet acknowledgment of her role as the bancing force to his unyielding presence. She whispered something to the Captain of the Guard, who stood at her side, his armor tinged with the faintest patina of age and wear.

  I moved quietly, trying not to draw attention as I approached. My steps softened against the carpet, I angled my path slightly to stand behind my father’s throne, hoping to go unnoticed for now. Aria, ever the contrast to my attempt at subtlety, stayed near the back of the hall, leaning casually against one of the pilrs. She didn’t just mock the formality; she seemed immune to it, untouched by the weight that pressed so heavily on me. Her expression was one of rexed amusement, as though she found the entire spectacle entertaining rather than intimidating.

  It seemed I had arrived just in time. Moments after I positioned myself, the grand doors at the far end of the hall groaned open, the sound reverberating like a drumbeat through the chamber. The soldiers at attention turned their heads in unison, the Masters straightened, and my parents’ eyes fixed on the group entering.

  A procession of young men strode in, twenty or so in total, their footsteps measured, their heads held high. They were recruits—new blood for the kingdom’s forces—and the weight of their ambition and nerves hung in the air. Each was dressed in simple but clean attire, their boots polished, their expressions ranging from stern determination to thinly veiled awe.

  As they marched down the crimson carpet, their eyes flicked briefly to the throne and those assembled, taking in the grandeur of the hall and the majesty of my parents. I watched them carefully, letting my gaze linger on each face. Most seemed ordinary enough—strong-featured, their postures stiff with the kind of discipline that spoke of weeks of preparation for this moment.

  Then one of them caught my eye. His hair was an odd color—a pale blue-green that shimmered faintly under the light filtering through the windows, as though it held the essence of the sea itself. The faint shimmer of his hair wasn’t the only thing that drew my attention—there was something else, a feeling at the edge of my awareness, like a thread brushing too close, too soon. I found myself wondering who he was. Where had he come from? Why such an unusual appearance? Questions began to form in my mind, but I forced myself to stay composed, my expression carefully neutral. Whatever the reason, this young man was already out of pce, and that could mean any number of things—good or bad.

  As the group reached the base of the dais, they dropped to one knee in unison, their fists over their hearts in salute. The hall fell into a hushed silence, the only sound the faint rustle of fabric and the distant echo of the doors closing behind them. My father rose slowly from his throne, the intricate carvings on the marble ptform seeming to amplify the authority in his every movement. The room fell into a deeper silence, the faint clink of his ceremonial armor resonating like a distant toll. His sharp gaze swept across the hall, piercing and deliberate, making every occupant feel as though they were the sole focus of his scrutiny. When he finally spoke, his voice was steady and firm, a tone that brooked no disobedience and carried effortlessly to the farthest corners of the chamber. “Let the proceedings begin.”

  I kept my eyes forward, shoulders squared, doing my best to blend into the decorum of the moment. But my thoughts lingered on the young man with the unusual hair, a whisper of intrigue curling in the back of my mind. There was more to this recruit than met the eye—I was certain of it.