The carriage rolled through Ivorygate, capital of Valiant, to the sound of flutes and hand-drums.
The city was a dream made stone: alabaster arches traced with gold, streets strung with pennants, fountains leaping in every square. Musicians in blue and silver ribbons piped children into dances; bakers sold honey-cakes warm as the sun; merchants lifted silks that caught the light like water.
Faces everywhere—laughing, painted, shining with festival wine. Even the cobbles gleamed, scrubbed for this day.
It was beautiful. Almost unbearably beautiful.
And Nyx felt nothing but the weight in her chest.
Because she knew what had bought it.
The coin that builds the Capital no longer comes from Valiant's own hands but from those forced to pass beneath its gates—tolls at every bridge, tariffs on every wagon, a fee for every word inked to parchment—and little of that wealth ever leaves its walls.
Once a Kingdom of makers, it has turned to living off the roads it guards, bleeding travelers and traders alike for the privilege of passage through the western gate.
The rich grow richer behind gilded gates, while the poor scrape by on what little trade still trickles through, taxed and tithed until even hope feels like contraband.
Across from her, Beaumont wrung his gloves. "My lady—ah—Duchess—Princess—must we petition His Majesty today? On your birthday? What if the report is wrong? These scouts—boys half the time, hunters with tall tales. Perhaps tomorrow. Yes? Tomorrow, after the games—"
Nyx gave him a single look. He faltered, words dying on his tongue.
Her eyes turned back to the glass.
The wavering reflection gave her herself: white hair coiled into a coronet braid; scarlet eyes, sharp and cool; and her dress—once white, now faded toward the pale-yellow of parchment, worn thin at the hem. Not shabby, not quite. Honest. The single gown she carried season to season, stitched and re-stitched, as her people did. Pinned at the shoulder: a clasp of thorn, her mother's sign.
The streets spiraled upward until the palace rose before them: ivory pillars tall as a forest, Lion Steps broad as rivers, the Great Hall doors glowing with gold.
For a moment, even Nyx let herself admire it—majesty made stone. A kingdom pretending still to be whole.
Beaumont swallowed hard. "Here we are. Oh dear. Oh dear."
*
*
*
"Her Royal Highness, Princess Nyxana, Duchess of House Thornmere and Steward of the Border!"
The herald's cry cracked across the Great Hall.
Every head turned.
Her twin half-siblings stood nearest—Salome and Vaul Belladour, black-haired and broad-shouldered. They grinned through mouthfuls of cake, sticky with fruit.
"Happy twentieth, sister," sang Salome, sweet as poison.
"Hope you like it," Vaul added. "It was paid for by the tolls we raised on your duchy after all. We made sure your peasants knew who to thank."
He laughed as if that were the gift.
Nyx passed them without pause.
Perfume thickened the air. Three of the Serpent Circle swept forward—the king's wives, her stepmothers.
Queen Daphne Larkspur sparkled first, pink silk fluttering, ringlets bouncing.
"Nyx! Darling! Look at you—hair like snow! So striking." She clapped, delighted. "We made Percy head of the Adventurers' Guild this morning—didn't we, sweetie?"
She waved to her eldest. Sir Percival looked up from stuffing cake into his mouth. "Huh?"
Queen Aurelia Goldwine followed in molten gold, bracelets chiming. She looked Nyx up and down. "Embroidery so… provincial. And still no jewels, no perfume? How very Spartan. Imagine standing before the realm like this—when you carry your ancestor's blood so plainly."
A ripple of whispers stirred the hall.
Queen Morwenna Belladour glided last, a gown of dark emerald silk trailing behind her, lanternlight gleaming cold on her pale face. She leaned in close, breath cool. "Have you come to beg or protest, little steward? I hear your territories are not faring well. Like mother, like daughter."
Their laughter curled like smoke.
Nyx's lips curved, thin. "If you think I came to beg, Your Grace, you've mistaken me for one of your creditors."
Daphne clapped again, pleased at the joke she didn't understand. Aurelia's smile tightened. Morwenna's teeth showed.
The words landed softly—too softly—and that made them worse.
Daphne blinked, smile faltering as if she'd missed the cue to laugh.
Aurelia's smile froze, glass-bright and brittle.
Morwenna's teeth showed—something between amusement and warning.
A few courtiers shifted, pretending to admire the chandeliers.
"Poor child," Aurelia crooned. "You really don't understand how things are done here."
Scarlet eyes met hers. "On the contrary," Nyx said. "I understand too well."
The air tightened—rose, wine, venom—until trumpets shattered it.
"His Majesty, Arthur Valiant XIII!"
Arthur entered like a festival come alive—his coat heavy with jewels, hair shining, cheeks flushed with wine, courtiers hanging on his arms. He moved as if the world played music only he could hear.
The hall bent to him. Nyx bowed.
"Daughter!" he called, his face brightening when he saw her. The courtiers scattered as he came closer, lifting arms weighted with rings. "My little thorn, twenty already! How the years run. The city sings for you, do you hear? All Valiant sings."
The wives stiffened—uneasy, jealous beneath their smiles.
Nyx straightened. Her scarlet gaze did not soften.
"Your Majesty," she said. "Thornmere needs soldiers and supplies. The Grandforest is stirring—mid-tier monsters too close to the border, people vanishing. It's getting worse."
The words hit the hall like stones in a still pond. Ripples spread. Whispers stopped.
Arthur sighed, as if she had spoiled the music. "Darling, not this again."
"Your people are disappearing," she said, voice flat. "This isn't about taxes or coin. It's warning. For the first time in nearly a century, something has changed and waiting will cost lives."
Beaumont whimpered behind her.
Arthur toyed with a ring, glancing around for rescue. His lips parted—
And the rescue arrived.
She did not need to be announced.
Queen Seraphine of House Vesperis entered like a tide of midnight, her gown swallowing the light, a single string of pearls at her throat. She moved with such calm that the crowd parted before her. A gloved hand found the king's sleeve as if it belonged there.
"Your Majesty," she murmured, voice low and smooth, "you cannot be expected to arbitrate frontier gossip on your daughter's day."
Soft laughter rippled through the hall.
"Let her submit her report properly," Seraphine continued. "If it holds truth, she will have all our support. But we must forgive her intensity. Zeal, after all, is the poor man's crown."
The words landed like petals—and cut like glass beneath.
Morwenna smiled. "Evidence is the rarer thing, child. And you so love stories."
Aurelia sighed, bracelets ringing. "Besides, funds are locked into festival endowments. The city expects fireworks. Imagine the outrage if we canceled."
Daphne clapped brightly, late to the tune. "Oh, but Percy can help! He's head of the Adventurers' Guild now—aren't you, darling?" Percy, across the hall, was busy licking jam from his fingers. "Huh?"
Arthur spread his hands, soothed by velvet voices. "You see, Nyx? All handled. Why press me on a day of feasting? Submit the paper. We'll review it after the games."
Nyx looked at him—not the robe, not the crown, but the man beneath. The boy who had drowned in song and wine rather than steer the ship. The coal in her chest burned hotter.
"I'm not speaking as Duchess of Thornmere," she said, voice steady as iron. "I'm speaking as a Princess of Valiant. This kingdom is part of the Crown Dominion—sworn to guard Highreach from whatever stirs in the Frontier. The Grandforest is our charge."
Her eyes held his. "If we turn away from that duty, we don't just fail our border. We fail them all."
The hall froze.
For a heartbeat, his mouth trembled toward something real.
Then Seraphine's smile returned, thin as frost. "Your Majesty, you spoil her with these public scenes. They invite imitation. Let her demonstrate results instead."
Her hand flicked. A captain of the Vesper Guard stepped forward in black scaled armor, a serpent brooch gleaming on his chest. The mark of house Vesperis.
He dropped to one knee.
"Escort the Duchess home," Seraphine said softly. "For her safety. Assist her inquiry. Substantiate whatever can be substantiated."
Arthur exhaled in relief. "Yes. Perfect. You see, little thorn? Already arranged. Go now. Enjoy your festival."
Nyx felt Beaumont's panic behind her. She smelled the trap—perfumed, practiced. And accepted it anyway. The threat posed by the Grandforest did not wait for court games.
She bowed. "As the crown commands."
Seraphine's smile did not reach her eyes. "Do take my men. They are the best we have."
Their gazes met—scarlet and black. For a breath, Nyx caught it: the perfume masking rot, the frost beneath silk.
She turned on her heel, cloak whispering.
She expected refusal; her mother would have too. The same walls, the same smiles.
Once, Queen Nyvidia had stood here and spoken for the people. Now her daughter spoke into the same silence.
If Valiant would not rise, she would find another way. Someone, somewhere, must still remember what her mother died believing in.
But who? She could not think of a single soul left who might still answer a cry for help.
*
*
*
When the doors closed behind Nyx, the wives gathered in the echo of the king's laughter.
Aurelia adjusted a bracelet until it sang. "That gown. Worn thin as parchment. She looks like a servant girl."
Daphne clapped once, eager. "But I think it's charming! Her mother was the same, wasn't she?"
Morwenna's smile was sharp as glass. "She was. And how did that… end for her?"
The words hung cold.
Aurelia's voice dropped. "White hair, red eyes—she's a Child of Legacy." She leaned closer. "The fear of another White Queen, the sorceress who went mad with her own power, is what kept her from the throne. But now she's of age. If she bears a son like herself—"
"—he would eclipse all of ours," Morwenna finished.
Daphne blinked, slow to catch the point. Then her smile wilted. "Oh."
Silence pressed.
Seraphine didn't turn. Her gaze stayed fixed on the great doors, as if she could still see Nyx walking away.
"If," she said softly.
Below, the Vesper Guard waited in their dark armor, gold serpents coiled on their chests.
Morwenna's teeth flashed. "Yes. As she herself said, even the Green has become a danger."
Aurelia smoothed her skirts. "I pray no unpleasantness befalls her. She is our beloved stepdaughter, after all."
Daphne hugged her elbows, curls trembling. "Beloved," she echoed, as though saying it could make it true.
Seraphine said nothing. And the nothing was heavier than all their words.