Marta stood before Lyra, her face a mix of worry and wonder. "My lady," she began, her voice a mere whisper, "selling gifts from His Majesty... it's never been done. If he found out..."
Lyra sat at the dusty table, carefully polishing a small, dull silver letter opener she'd found. Her hands moved with calm intention, a quiet steadiness that contrasted sharply with Marta's fidgeting. She didn't look up at once. "It's just a trinket," she murmured, her voice soft yet composed. "A small gift for the knights—nothing more. They've served without complaint, even when there was little to guard." Though that's a lie, she just heard them complained not long ago.
"But... how, my lady?" Marta finally asked, her eyes fixed on Lyra's strangely calm face. "The merchants will know these are royal gifts. They will definitely ask questions."
Lyra finally met Marta's gaze. Her eyes were calm, measured, stripped of the usual eagerness to impress. "Don't say they're gifts," she said softly. "Tell them they're old family heirlooms, being let go of because of... difficult times. Just a minor setback for House Crestwood." Her voice didn't waver. "Speak of their rarity and worth, but nothing else. And find a merchant who knows how to keep silent—pay him well for it." A flicker of her former calculating grace surfaced. "This isn't about generosity. It's just a small gesture. Something quiet for the knights, nothing more," she added, a faint smile ghosting her lips.
Marta swallowed, a new respect, or maybe a quiet fear, growing in her eyes. This was not the Lyra she had raised. This was someone completely different, someone who understood the cruel truths of the world in a way no child should.
"Yes, my lady," Marta said, her voice firmer now, taking on the difficult task. "I will do it."
The next few days were busy with quiet movements. Marta, with the help of the two young maids, carefully put the big, fancy dresses into plain, simple trunks. Lyra, meanwhile, kept up her own learning. She studied old maps of the kingdom, read the few records of its army's strength, and even tried to understand old writings about magic. Her modern, logical mind looked for patterns and rules where others saw only mystery. She ate when she had to, slept little, and spoke only when she had a reason, her blank face a shield against any questions.
Finally, Marta returned, her face pale but proud. "It is done, my lady," she whispered, coming into Lyra's room late one evening. "The merchant promised to keep his word. He paid... very well. More than I demanded." She placed a heavy leather bag on the table, the sound of gold coins a welcome jingle in the quiet room. "He asked no questions, just polite words."
Lyra nodded, picking up the bag. The weight of the coins felt good, a real power in her hands. "Excellent, Marta. Now, for the next step. We need to buy the steel. Quietly. And fast." She took out a rough map she'd drawn, marking places she'd read about in old books that might sell what they needed. "Do you know some merchants who sell weapons? Or know people who do?"
Marta's eyes grew wide. "Weapons, my lady? But... for what reason?"
"For the knights," Lyra replied. "Like I said—I want to give them something useful."
Over the following weeks, a subtle, yet undeniable, change began to ripple through the neglected palace. It started with small, sturdy crates arriving at odd hours, unloaded by a few trusted servants under Marta's watchful eye. Then, the sounds from the training grounds shifted. The dull thud of a single, splintered dummy was replaced by the sharper clack of wooden swords meeting with purpose, the rhythmic thwack of arrows hitting newly erected targets.
The ten knights, initially bewildered, then cautiously optimistic, found themselves with a sudden influx of proper equipment. One morning, they arrived at the training grounds to find a stack of gleaming, blunted practice swords, their hilts wrapped in fresh, sturdy leather. Beside them lay new, well-balanced shields, and even a few sets of lighter, more flexible training armor.
The uneven ground of their training area had been smoothed, leveled, and marked with proper lines for drills. A new, larger target stand, complete with fresh straw bales, stood proudly at one end.
"By the gods," muttered Kael, the gruff captain, running a calloused hand over a new sword. "Where did this come from?"
"Must be His Majesty," one of the younger knights, Finn, ventured, though his voice held a note of disbelief. "Finally remembered we exist?"
"Watch your mouth, you rascal," Borin growled, cuffing him.
Another, older knight, scratched his grizzled beard. "Aye, but these aren't the usual shoddy supplies from the royal armory. This is good steel. And the ground... someone's been busy."
Their conversations, once filled with bitter complaints, now buzzed with a cautious excitement. Their movements on the training ground became sharper, more confident. The clang of steel, even blunted, echoed with a new purpose.
Then came the uniforms. One crisp morning, each knight found a neatly folded bundle outside their quarters: new tunics in the faded crest of the house, but made of sturdy, unblemished fabric, and trousers that fit without gaping or pinching. Even new, practical boots. Tucked carefully beside each bundle was a small glass vial sealed with wax—clear liquid tinged with gold swirling within. A healing potion, modest in strength but rare enough in their current circumstances. It was a gesture none of them had expected.
Kael held his tunic up, blinking.
"This stitching… it's good. Real good."
It wasn't the grand, ceremonial attire of the capital, but it was a vast improvement, a sign that someone, somewhere, cared.
"This is... unheard of," Kael murmured, holding up his new tunic. The fabric felt substantial, the stitching strong. "The budget for us has been a joke for years."
"Perhaps the 'half-breed princess' has a hidden vault of gold," Finn joked, but the usual sneer was absent from his voice. He looked towards Lyra's wing of the palace, a flicker of genuine curiosity in his eyes.
"I told you to watch your mouth!" Borin snapped, smacking the back of his head again. "One day someone will hear you, and we'll all be flogged."
But no one laughed this time. They looked toward the old Crestwood wing—toward Lyra—and said nothing.
Still, confusion remained. As Lyra passed the training yard days later, a few of the knights straightened reflexively, uncertain whether to salute or ignore her. She acknowledged them with a slow, level nod—nothing more.
It rattled them.
"She used to giggle and bring us sweetbread," one of the older knights muttered under his breath. "Now she walks past like she's weighing our worth."
Kael furrowed his brow. "Doesn't say much, does she?" another said. "She used to give us refreshments during afternoon break, too."
"Does it even matter?" someone asked back. "Whoever's behind this... they know what they're doing. And I think it's her. Gods help us, it might actually be her."
From her study window, Lyra watched them with that same unreadable calm. She had no interest in their favor. But loyalty? That could be earned.
This was her first gambit.
And they were beginning to play their roles.