Chapter 7
The royal accountants look like frightened ghosts.
Their ink stained hands tremble as I turn another page of the Northern Treasury ledgers. The silence is thick enough to choke on even the fire dares not crackle.
The figures don't add up.
They never do when greed has hands.
"Two caravans of iron went missing last season," I say, tracing the neat columns of ink. "But the taxes were still recorded as paid. Who collected them?"
The Treasurer, a thin man with hair the color of soot, swallows hard. "House Krenn, Your Grace."
"House Krenn also controls the Frostwell tariffs," I murmur. "How convenient."
I close the ledger slowly, like drawing a blade. Around me, the nobles shuffle.
They don't understand that I'm not just a southern ornament here I'm a merchant's daughter who can smell false numbers the way wolves smell blood.
"Should I inform the King?" I ask, sweetly.
The Treasurer goes pale. "That won't be necessary."
I smile. "No, it won't. Instead, House Krenn will divert a quarter of their revenues to the merchant quarter untaxed. And the monster artisans working the forges will receive the same wage as human smiths."
Gasps echo around the chamber.
"That's...."
"....illegal..."
"....unheard of..."
"It's fair," I interrupt. "And it will be done."
I sign the parchment myself, the ink bleeding into royal wax.
It's not justice. But it's balance and balance is rarer than mercy in this place.
When I leave the room, I can feel their eyes stabbing my back.
They won't forgive me for this.
Good. Fear is better than friendship.
That night, I take the ledgers back to my chambers. Jei sits curled by the fire, mending a ripped sleeve with her usual patience. She looks up when I enter, her smile small and tired.
"You've been gone all day," she says softly.
"I've been buying us time."
She blinks. "With what money?"
"Not money." I drop a bundle of papers onto the table. "With knowledge."
Her brows knit. "You're scheming again."
"I'm preparing."
I open one of the maps the palace grounds, marked in faint red lines. "If the nobles ever turn, these are the routes that stay unguarded. One leads to the southern road. One to the docks."
Jei frowns. "Escape routes?"
"Insurance." I glance at her. "You don't think I'm naive enough to believe the King's goodwill lasts forever, do you?"
Her lips press tight. "You're planning for betrayal."
"I'm planning for survival."
She stands, crossing the room to me. "Then I'll help."
I raise a brow. "How?"
Jei reaches for the bundle beside her scraps of silk, embroidered with tiny stitched patterns. "You once told me silk remembers hands better than faces. So I've been trading these for gossip."
"What kind of gossip?"
"The kind whispered by servants," she says proudly. "The kitchens, the guard towers, the laundry halls. All the things nobles never see."
I pause. "You've built a network."
"Not yet," she says. "But I've started one."
I stare at her for a long moment, then smile. "You really are my sister."
Her cheeks flush pink. "Sisters forever."
"Forever," I echo.
The firelight catches her hands the silk glows faintly between her fingers. The threads shimmer, alive for a moment. I blink, thinking it's a trick of the light.
But when she looks down, the threads fade leaving nothing but silk.
Magic.
Subtle. Quiet.
And she doesn't even realize.
"Be careful with that," I whisper.
"With what?"
"Nothing." I force a smile. "Just don't stop sewing."
The next morning, Klus meets me in the training yard. The frost still clings to the stones, and my breath clouds in front of me. He tosses me a wooden dagger.
"You're late," he says.
"I was rewriting your kingdom's tax system," I reply.
He grins faintly. "And did you win?"
"Always."
We start slow movement drills, deflections, footwork. His style is disciplined, all angles and patience. Mine is pure rebellion. I duck where I should block, step in where I should retreat.
It infuriates him. Which is exactly why I do it.
"You're reckless," he says, parrying a strike.
"I'm alive," I counter.
He twists his wrist, catching my dagger arm. The wood presses into my ribs, hard enough to bruise. "You can't always survive on wit."
"Then teach me something better."
He releases me. "Like what?"
I meet his eyes, unflinching. "Teach me to break a wrist clean."
For a heartbeat, he says nothing. Then he nods, very slowly.
"All right. But you'll hate me for it."
"Good," I say. "Then we'll be even."
He steps behind me, hands ghosting over my wrists to adjust my grip. His breath is warm against my neck. "Twist from the elbow," he murmurs. "Not the shoulder."
"Like this?"
"Harder."
I twist. There's a sharp crack of wood against his bracer.
He grins, teeth flashing. "Perfect."
Our eyes lock, both of us breathing too hard for the cold around us.
Neither moves.
Not forward. Not back.
When I finally step away, my pulse is still running wild.
That night, the palace hums with quiet preparation.
The wedding looms.
The nobles' gossip curls through every corridor like smoke.
I stand outside Raelix's door, hand hovering above the latch.
Every reasonable thought tells me to turn back. But reason has never ruled me well.
I knock once.
"Enter."
He's sitting at his desk again, unarmored, reading reports by candlelight. The glow paints him in bronze and shadow. He doesn't look up until I close the door behind me.
"You shouldn't be here," he says.
"I could say the same."
He sets the paper down. "You're bold tonight."
"I'm practical," I reply, crossing the room until I stand at the edge of his desk. "We're to be married in two days. I thought it would be less… awkward if I got used to sharing your space now."
He leans back slowly, eyes dragging over me with that same maddening calm. "And you think that means sleeping in my chamber?"
"I think it means learning it," I counter. "The air. The silence. The man."
He stands. "You shouldn't play games you don't understand."
"I understand enough."
"Do you?" His voice is low now. "Do you understand what happens if I stop pretending you don't affect me?"
My pulse stutters. "Then don't pretend."
The words hang between us like a sword suspended by string.
He steps around the desk, close enough that I can feel the heat rolling off him. His hand lifts once just to brush a strand of my white hair away from my face. The touch barely grazes skin, but it feels like a promise of something neither of us can afford.
"You're dangerous," he whispers.
"You keep saying that," I murmur back. "Maybe start believing it."
He exhales, long and slow, then turns away before the air between us burns.
"Fine," he says quietly. "Stay."
I nod once, heartbeat thundering in my throat.
He takes the couch. I take the bed. But when the candles die, the distance between us feels thinner than the sheets that separate fire from flesh.
By morning, the rumors will start again about the Southern bride who rewrote ledgers, who trained with soldiers, who slept in the dragon's den before her vows were spoken.
Let them whisper.
Because by the time they finish talking, I'll already have my next move planned.
And if they want a villain, I'll show them one worth fearing.