The corset was not a garment; it was a torture device fashioned from silk and whalebone.
Alisa Silverwindcrest stood motionless in front of the floor-to-ceiling mirror in her chambers, her arms raised slightly like a doll waiting to be dressed. behind her, two handmaidens tugged at the laces with practiced, ruthless efficiency.
"Tighter, Martha," Alisa whispered, though her lungs were already protesting. "If I cannot breathe, perhaps I won't have to speak."
"Oh, Lady Alisa, do not jest," Martha giggled, mistaking the sarcasm for noble wit. "You must look perfect for the President. The Garden Tea is the first of the summer season. All eyes will be on the Silverwindcrest jewel."
The Silverwindcrest jewel.
Alisa suppressed the urge to roll her eyes. That was what she was. Not a person. Not a woman of eighteen years with thoughts and ambitions and a right hook that could bruise a guard (if she ever got the chance to throw it). She was a jewel. A shiny, decorative object meant to be displayed on the velvet cushion of her father's reputation.
"There," the second maid said, smoothing the skirts of the pale blue dress. It was an explosion of lace and chiffon, costing more than most families in the mid-districts earned in a decade. "You look like a vision, My Lady."
Alisa looked at her reflection. The girl in the mirror was undeniably beautiful. Platinum blonde hair cascaded in perfect ringlets, framing a face with high cheekbones and eyes the color of polished sapphire—eyes she had inherited from her father. She looked regal. She looked delicate.
She looked harmless.
Alisa hated her.
"Thank you," she said mechanically. "You may leave."
As the maids bowed and exited, Alisa slumped—or tried to slump—against her vanity table. The corset held her upright like an iron cage. She reached out and touched the small, silver letter opener on her desk. It was dull, meant for paper, but she gripped the handle the way she had seen the palace guards grip their daggers.
She tested the weight of it. Thumb along the flat. Wrist loose.
For a fleeting second, the image of the perfect noble daughter vanished, replaced by a warrior in silver armor, standing atop the city walls, wind whipping through unbound hair.
Then, the heavy oak clock in the hallway chimed. Two o'clock.
The fantasy shattered. The tea party was beginning.
The Silverwindcrest Gardens were a testament to man's dominance over nature.
There was not a single leaf out of place. The hedges were trimmed into geometric spirals. The roses were forced to bloom in synchronized bursts of crimson and white. Even the grass seemed afraid to grow too tall, lest it offend the President's sense of order.
Tables draped in white linen were scattered across the lawn, laden with tiered stands of pastries, crystal decanters of iced fruit water, and porcelain teapots painted with gold leaf.
The air was filled with the sound of string music and the high-pitched, terrifying tittering of Oakhaven's elite.
Alisa navigated the crowd with a pasted-on smile.
"Lady Alisa! You look radiant!"
"Oh, truly, is that Oakhaven silk? My father tried to import some, but the taxes..."
"Have you heard? The price of mana crystals has stabilized. President Magnus is a genius."
Alisa nodded. She curtsied. She murmured, "Thank you," and "How lovely," and "Yes, isn't the weather divine?"
It was a dance she had learned before she could walk. Step, smile, deflect. Step, smile, agree.
She found her seat at the head table, flanked by the daughters of two prominent Counts. On her left was Lady Clara, a girl whose entire personality revolved around her collection of imported ribbons. On her right was Lady Elara Verrick, the daughter of Count Verrick.
Elara was different. She was sharp, mean, and smelled of expensive perfume that barely masked the scent of ambition.
"Alisa," Elara said, her voice like cracking ice. "We were just discussing the miracle."
Alisa picked up her teacup, careful to extend her pinky finger just so. "Miracle? Did Lady Clara finally find a ribbon that matches her eyes?"
Clara giggled obliviously. Elara didn't smile.
"No," Elara said, stirring her tea with a silver spoon. "The Ravenshade miracle. Haven't you heard? The Sleeping Corpse finally woke up."
Alisa paused, the cup halfway to her lips.
The Ravenshades. One of the Four Founding Families, ancient and respected, until tragedy struck seven years ago. Lord Rowan Ravenshade had become a recluse, and his son...
"Kael Ravenshade?" Alisa asked, keeping her voice neutral. "He woke from the coma?"
"Last night, apparently," Elara sneered. "Can you imagine? Seven years drooling in a bed. He must be a vegetable. I heard his muscles have wasted away so much he can't even lift a spoon. It's a pity, really. Lord Rowan should have just... let nature take its course years ago. It's cruel to keep a broken thing alive."
A flash of heat flared in Alisa's chest.
"He is a human being, Elara," Alisa said, her tone sharper than intended. "Not a horse with a broken leg."
Elara raised an eyebrow. "Is he? A noble who cannot lead, fight, or politic is useless to the city. He is just a drain on resources. My father says the Ravenshade estate is practically bankrupt keeping him alive. Now that he's awake, he'll just be a cripple dragging the family name into the mud."
Alisa set her cup down. It made a loud clink against the saucer.
"Strength isn't just physical, Elara," Alisa said cold. "Surviving seven years in the dark... that takes a kind of strength neither you nor I understand."
The table went quiet. Lady Clara looked between them, wide-eyed.
Elara scoffed, leaning back. "You sound like your father, Alisa. Always so benevolent. Always talking about the 'sanctity of life.' It's charming, really. But in the real world, weakness is a sin."
Alisa opened her mouth to retort, to tell Elara that the only sin here was her appalling lack of empathy, but a shadow fell over the table.
The chatter in the garden died instantly. The string quartet stopped playing.
President Magnus Silverwindcrest had arrived.
He was a tall man, broad-shouldered and imposing, wearing a pristine white military coat adorned with golden epaulets. His hair was silver, swept back from a face that was handsome and severe. He radiated power. It rolled off him in waves, silencing the birds in the trees.
But when his eyes landed on Alisa, the severity melted away.
"There is my flower," Magnus said, his voice deep and warm, projecting across the silent garden.
He walked toward her, and the crowd parted like the sea before a god. He ignored the bowing Counts and curtsying Ladies. He had eyes only for his daughter.
Alisa stood up, the corset pinching her ribs. "Father."
Magnus reached out and took her gloved hands in his. His grip was large, encompassing, and secure. He kissed her forehead.
"You look beautiful, Alisa," he said. "The blue suits you. It reminds me of your mother."
Alisa felt a pang of guilt for her earlier anger. This man carried the weight of the entire city on his shoulders. He managed the trade, the defense against the beasts, the squabbling nobles. And yet, he always had time to tell her she was beautiful.
"Thank you, Father," she said. "We were... just discussing the news."
"The news?" Magnus turned to the table. His gaze swept over Elara Verrick. Elara, previously so sharp and haughty, shrank in her seat, looking at the tablecloth.
"Lady Verrick," Magnus said, his voice polite but edged with steel. "I trust you are enjoying the hospitality of my house?"
"Y-yes, Mr. President," Elara stammered. "We were just talking about... about Lord Ravenshade's son."
"Ah. Young Kael," Magnus nodded solemnly. "Yes. A joyous occasion. I received word from Rowan this morning. The boy is awake and lucid."
Magnus turned back to the crowd, raising his voice so everyone could hear.
"Let this be a reminder to us all," he announced. "Faith is rewarded. Rowan Ravenshade never gave up on his son, and now the light has returned to his house. We should all strive for such loyalty."
The nobles murmured in agreement, clapping politely. "So wise," they whispered. "Such a leader."
Alisa looked at her father with admiration. He could turn gossip into a moral lesson with a single sentence. He defended the weak. He upheld honor.
Magnus looked down at her again, his smile softening. "Come, walk with me, Alisa. Leave the hens to their clucking."
He offered his arm. Alisa took it, feeling a rush of relief to be pulled away from Elara's toxic presence.
They walked along the gravel path, away from the party, toward the marble balcony that overlooked the city of Oakhaven.
"Are you happy, my dear?" Magnus asked quietly.
"I am... content, Father," Alisa lied. "The party is lovely."
Magnus chuckled. "You never were a good liar, Alisa. You hate it. You feel trapped."
Alisa looked up, startled. "I... I didn't mean to be ungrateful."
"It is not ungrateful to have a spirit," Magnus stopped at the railing. Below them, the Upper District shone in the afternoon sun—white stone, gold roofs, clean streets. Beyond that, separated by the river and the great walls, lay the haze of the Lower Districts.
"I know you want more," Magnus said, staring out at his city. "I see you watching the guards training. I see the books on strategy you hide under your pillow."
Alisa's heart skipped a beat. "You know?"
"I know everything that happens in this city, Alisa," Magnus said. "Especially concerning you."
Alisa turned to him, hope blooming in her chest like a wildflower. "Then... let me train. Officially. Let me join the Academy. I don't want to just sit at tea parties. I want to help you. I want to protect Oakhaven."
Magnus looked at her. For a second, his eyes were unreadable—dark, calculating, almost cold. Then, the warmth returned, suffocating and sweet.
He reached out and tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear.
"Oh, my sweet child," he sighed. "Look at your hands."
Alisa looked at her gloved hands.
"They are soft," Magnus said. "They are unscarred. They are perfect. Why would I ever let you ruin them holding a sword?"
"Because I am strong!" Alisa insisted. "I am a Silverwindcrest!"
"Exactly," Magnus said, his voice dropping an octave. "You are a Silverwindcrest. You are the symbol of purity in this city. My legacy isn't just laws and walls, Alisa. It is you. You are the prize that proves we are civilized."
He gripped her shoulders. It wasn't painful, but it was firm. Immovable.
"The world is a dark, ugly place, Alisa. You have no idea what lives in the shadows. Monsters. Filth. Betrayal. My job... my burden... is to walk in that filth so you never have to."
"But I don't want to be protected!" Alisa argued, though her voice wavered under his intensity. "I want to stand beside you!"
"And you shall," Magnus smiled. "By marrying well. By hosting our allies. By being the light that men fight for. That is your battlefield, Alisa. The tea party is your war."
He kissed her forehead again.
"Now, smile. The Ravenshade boy is awake. Rowan is my oldest friend. Once Kael recovers, I will invite them here. It will be good for you to meet him. Perhaps... he will need a friend who understands the burden of a great name."
Magnus turned and walked back toward the party, his white coat gleaming in the sun.
Alisa stayed at the railing.
She gripped the cold stone until her knuckles turned white under the silk gloves.
The tea party is your war.
It was a sentence to life imprisonment.
She looked out over the city. She saw a bird flying free over the wall, diving toward the hazy, smoke-filled Lower District. For a moment, she envied it. She envied the chaos, the dirt, the danger—because at least it was real.
"I am not a prize," she whispered to the wind, the words snatched away before they could reach anyone's ears. "I am not a flower."
She reached down and unhooked the top clasp of her corset, hidden beneath the lace. A tiny gasp of air filled her lungs. It wasn't freedom. But it was a start.
"I am the daughter of the President," she said, her blue eyes hardening as she looked back at the garden where the fake smiles waited. "And if you won't give me a sword, Father... I will sharpen myself."
She smoothed her dress, fixed her smile, and walked back into the cage.