The following morning, a stack of letters awaited me—tied with a blue ribbon and bearing the wax seals of familiar hands.
The first was from Rebecca.
"Can't come today. I have an urgent matter to attend to."
That was all.
Typical Rebecca. Vague, cold, and just cryptic enough to make me spiral. Did she throw herself into another impossible mission again? What urgent matter could pull her from my training when the joust competition was so close? My stomach churned with quiet frustration. Without her guidance, my odds of winning felt thinner than the blade I barely knew how to hold properly.
The second letter was from Marien.
I carefully unfolded the parchment, the scent of sea salt clinging to its fibers. She was now on the Island of Cion—and to my surprise, she had met Emily. A lump formed in my throat at the name, but I pushed the emotion down.
"I have two loyal people assisting me,"
she wrote, her pen firm and decisive.
"We're constructing a storage site for food, wood, stone, and minerals. Resources will be managed both for internal use and trade. Mr. Leo is with me, and we've started surveying the terrain for the island's official map."
Reading her words, I almost forgot that Cion was once a figment of my imagination—a name scribbled in panic, born from desperation. And yet here it was, breathing into existence. Not just an island anymore. If cultivated right… it could be a nation.
The third letter bore a hint of perfume and sass: Ares.
"I've begun free haircuts—five girls today, all promising to promote the salon once we open in two days,"
he wrote in his dramatic, slanted script.
"Oh! And I recruited someone. I think you know him. Let's say… a man with a grudge, and a new identity."
He didn't say the name, but I knew.
Xyrone.
Ares described his transformation with glee—black-dyed hair, voluminous facial cream, a sleek moustache. I tried to picture him and failed. It was absurd.
"He's now my apprentice. Men's cuts. I'm expanding the vision. Don't worry, dear—I remember I'm the manager. But that doesn't mean I can't dream a little."
Ares, as always, danced the line between chaos and genius. I didn't mind. I never meant to control his every decision—only to give him the stage.
And then… the last letter.
Jared.
His handwriting was rough, hurried, ink slightly smudged—probably written in a rush, far from a safe place.
"Still searching for leads on Sebastian De Fransisco II. Evan's with me. We're close. The more we dig, the more tangled it becomes. Be careful."
My breath caught.
So Jared hadn't disappeared. He was just moving in shadows now.
It was comforting to know he was working on the truth while I played pretend with lies. We were all fighting the same war—just on different fronts.
I leaned back in my chair, clutching the letters to my chest.
I walked with the grace I had learned from Rebecca, each step measured, each turn of my head deliberate. I didn't need to speak first—not yet. In the court of whispers, the wise let others talk first.
The noblewomen sat beneath a carved marble pavilion draped in vines and blossoms. Their laughter fluttered through the air like rose petals tossed by the wind, but their eyes—sharp, shimmering like blades—tracked every movement around them. Four of them. All dressed in colors far too fine for a casual stroll.
One of them—Lady Renalla, I believe—glanced up from her painted fan, her lips curling in polite venom. "Is that not Lady Swan?"
Another giggled. "The one from… what was the name again? Heart of Steel?"
"No such place in the king's registry," a third muttered behind her teacup. "But I suppose if you wear enough pearls and confidence, a kingdom can bloom overnight."
I turned slightly away, as if I hadn't heard them. I sat on a bench beneath a rose-covered archway a few paces off—not too far, not too near. Enough to be seen, enough to invite their curiosity. My posture was poised, my face calm. Fiora stood behind me like a shadow, trying her best to blend into the background.
Then, as expected, the bait was taken.
Lady Renalla rose from her seat with the slow, deliberate grace of someone who had practiced being adored. "Lady Swan," she called sweetly, approaching me with her entourage gliding behind her like swans on water, "how radiant you look today. What brings you to the gardens unescorted?"
"I do have Fiora," I said softly, gesturing with my gloved hand. "And truly, I only wished for fresh air. My room has grown stale from letters and tea."
"How quaint," another said, offering a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "It must be exhausting, having so many visitors lately. Rumors are flying faster than carriages."
"Are they?" I tilted my head slightly, letting the sunlight catch the pearls in my bonnet. "I don't keep track of every flutter in the breeze. Though I must say, I am flattered if I've stirred the air."
Lady Renalla's eyes narrowed, amused. "They say you come from a kingdom surrounded by mist and mystery. That your gown at the last banquet was a sacred robe… and that you bewitched the king himself."
I gave a small laugh, neither denying nor confirming. "In Heart of Steel, we believe charm is not witchcraft. It is an art. One painted with grace, not spells."
"And yet," the youngest among them added, "some say you came with no guard, no herald… just letters and silk. A ghost princess."
"A ghost with very fine embroidery," I replied coolly, adjusting my skirt. "And, it seems, a talent for sparking conversation."
There was silence for a breath. Then, to my surprise, Lady Renalla chuckled—genuinely this time. "You're clever. Dangerous, perhaps. But clever. You should dine with us one evening. There are more… entertaining whispers that don't make it past the hedges."
"I'd like that," I said, giving her the faintest of nods. "Thank you."
As they turned and drifted away, I felt Fiora lean toward me slightly.
"They're watching you now more than ever," she whispered.
"I know," I murmured. "Let them. Let them talk."
Because the more stories they wove about me, the more real I became.
While the ladies fluttered back to their shaded pavilion, their laughter still hanging in the air like silk threads, I remained seated—quiet, unassuming, but with eyes sharper than a blade concealed in lace.
That's when I saw her.
Minerva.
She stood near the marble fountain at the edge of the park, half-shadowed by the arching columns and flowering vines. Her posture was elegant but inviting—one hand trailing lazily along the stone rim of the fountain, her eyes half-lidded as she spoke to the man beside her.
A man I recognized instantly.
Lucio De Alfonso.
A name too dangerous to be whispered in public, let alone welcomed inside this palace. Prince of Garboza, a rival kingdom to Zenon. A silver-tongued noble wrapped in royal entitlement and shrouded in controversy. He carried the air of someone who never needed to bow, and yet every room tilted slightly in his favor when he entered.
And now here he was—alone, speaking in low tones with Minerva, his lips curled in a sly smile while her fingers brushed something into his palm. Perhaps a letter. Or perhaps just secrets.
They hadn't noticed me. Good.
I shifted my gaze downward, feigning disinterest, but my ears sharpened as the breeze carried fragments of their exchange.
"You do know the King won't like your presence here," Minerva said in a tone too soft to be scolding, too warm to be formal.
Lucio chuckled. "And yet he let me in, didn't he? It seems old enemies are better guests than new ones he cannot read."
"You speak of Lady Swan?" she teased.
"I speak of many things," he murmured. "Including you, Minerva."
I didn't need to see her face to know she was enjoying every word.
My fingers curled slightly against the silk of my skirt. Minerva had always danced at the edges of trouble, but this—this was more than just court flirtation. Negotiating with an enemy prince during the queen's selection? A dangerous game. And yet, here she was, smiling like a cat in the sun.
My curiosity bloomed like wildfire.
What's more concerning, though, is the question that wrapped around me like a noose: Why was Lucio even here? This competition was for noblewomen seeking the king's favor. For alliances. For marriage. A rival prince shouldn't even have stepped foot inside these walls—unless the King had reasons... or someone had forged an invitation in secret.
That day was utterly unproductive. Despite my efforts to appear occupied, to blend into the movements of court life, everything felt... still. The sun faded without meaning, and even the park's breeze couldn't lift my mood.
By evening, I found myself wandering the marble corridor that led toward the east wing when I encountered Ivana.
She didn't smile when she saw me—of course not. Her smirks were weapons, not gestures of kindness. She stepped into my path with the ease of someone too used to being admired and far too skilled at cutting others down.
"Well, look who finally crawled out of her tower," she said, her voice wrapped in a ribbon of mockery. "I was beginning to think you were a ghost."
I said nothing, but my posture held firm. She circled me slightly, like a cat taunting a bird.
"Or a witch princess," she added with a knowing look, eyes gleaming with mean delight. "Living in some imaginary kingdom made of smoke and mirrors. Is that why you don't have many friends, Lady Swan? Or is it because people are afraid to touch something that doesn't feel quite real?"
I met her eyes and smiled. Soft. Controlled.
"I suppose it's better to be a ghost," I said calmly, "than to be remembered only for the noise I make."
That stopped her for a beat. Her gaze tightened before she scoffed and turned away, her heels clacking down the corridor like claws across glass.
Ivana never said things without intent. Maybe she was just jealous, or maybe she had caught a scent of something—some truth beneath the lies I wear like perfume.
But she was wrong. I didn't need many friends.
I just needed the right ones.