The Kingdom of Eden smelled of damp wool and forgotten promises.
Rain, the thin, persistent kind that seeped into stone and soul, had been falling for a week. It dripped from the gargoyles on the east wing.
They looked like melancholy stone dogs getting a bath.
In the great hall, a fire sputtered in the hearth. It fought a losing battle against the chill.
Princess Noella of Eden stood by a window. Her fingers traced the path of a droplet on the thick, flawed glass.
She wasn't watching the grey courtyard below. A few bedraggled guards practiced drills with chipped swords.
She was calculating.
Angle of incidence approximately forty-two degrees. Velocity increasing due to wind shear from the north tower. Surface tension of water on silicate glass…
It was better than listening to the laughter.
The hall was host to a contingent from Silverveil. They were here to discuss trade routes.
Or rather, to explain why Eden's share of the tariffs was being "adjusted" downward again.
Their young lord, Florian, held court. His laugh was like a seagull being stepped on.
"—and then the beast, all teeth and fur, charged! But I stood my ground, of course. A single thrust, right between the third and fourth rib!"
Florian mimed the action, nearly spilling his wine.
King Alistair nodded from his worn throne. A polite smile was etched onto a face that had seen too many such performances.
He was a good man. In the Kingdom of Brustain, post-Great Scourge, that was another word for 'liable to be eaten.'
Noella's eyes scanned the room. One was a deep, calm blue. The other was a strange, watchful amber-gold.
She noted the Silverveil guards' well-oiled leather. She saw the subtle sneer on Lady Cressida's face as she eyed Eden's threadbare tapestries.
Data points. Variables in the ongoing equation of her kingdom's decline.
"Princess Noella."
Florian's voice cut through her thoughts. He'd swaggered over, his entourage in tow.
"You're terribly quiet. Not bored, I hope?"
"I am observing, Lord Florian," she said, her voice level. It refused to chirp or giggle.
"Observing! How very… serious."
His eyes, bright and empty, roamed over her. They lingered on the pronounced curve of her breasts, constrained by her simple, dark green gown.
Then they flicked downward, to the less generous lines of her hips. A smirk played on his lips.
"You know, in Silverveil, they say a woman's mind is like her figure. Best when… balanced."
A titter went through his companions. Lady Cressida hid a smile behind a fan.
A hot spike of anger lanced through Noella's chest. She quashed it.
Emotion was an inefficient reactor.
She analyzed the insult instead. Objective: to demean via biological characteristics, linking intellectual capacity to physical form. A classic dominance display from a low-initiative subject.
"In Eden," she replied, her tone as cool as the stone beneath her feet, "we judge the worth of a thing by its utility, not its packaging. A sharp mind can cut deeper than a pretty smile."
Florian's smirk faltered. A flush of irritation replaced it.
He hadn't expected a retort. Let alone one that sounded like it came from a military tactician.
"Utility. How quaint. Tell me, what 'utility' does a princess of a dried-up kingdom offer?"
The question hung in the air.
King Alistair shifted uncomfortably on his throne. Noella felt the eyes of the court upon her.
The poor, weird princess. Mismatched eyes. Unfortunate shape. Would rather be in the library than the ballroom.
She was saved, or perhaps further damned, by the arrival of the steward.
"Your Majesty, the evening meal is prepared."
The moment broke.
Florian gave her a final, dismissive look. He turned back to his friends. Their laughter started up again, lower now, more poisonous.
As the court filed towards the dining hall, Noella hung back.
She looked down at her hands. They were slender and strong, stained faintly with ink and a smudge of acid from her morning experiments.
Utility.
What was her utility? To be traded like a bushel of wheat? To be an ornament of pity?
No.
She was more than that. She had the equations in her head. The precise ratios of saltpeter, charcoal, and sulfur. The tensile strength of different woods.
The psychological profiles she'd begun compiling on every visiting noble.
It was all data. Potential energy.
She just needed a catalyst.
A servant scurried past, almost tripping on the uneven flagstone. Noella's golden eye caught the minute shift in the mortar around it.
Stress fracture. Compromised structural integrity.
Everything in Eden was like that. Seemingly whole, but crumbling from within.
She followed the others to dinner. Her mind retreated to a place of numbers and reactions.
It was a fortress no laugh could ever breach.
But the seed was planted. The insult had crossed a line. It was a variable that demanded a solution.
And Noella was very, very good at solutions.