Chapter 1: The King's Decree
The throne room of Eldoria smelled of beeswax and old ambition. Tall braziers burned low, sending thin threads of smoke curling toward the vaulted ceiling where painted constellations glittered in faded gold leaf. Sunlight slanted through the stained-glass windows—crimson lions rampant, golden stags at rest, sapphire rivers winding through emerald fields—painting the marble floor in shifting lozenges of color that danced beneath Princess Lena's boots as she stood defiant at the foot of the dais.
She wore midnight-blue silk today, the gown cut daringly high at the neckline for court fashion but laced tightly enough to remind her of every breath she took in anger. Arms crossed, chin lifted, she was the very picture of royal defiance: nineteen years old, heir presumptive, cleverer than most of the council combined, and utterly uninterested in becoming the docile queen they all seemed to expect.
King Harlan the Third sat upon the throne of carved oak and silver. The years had thickened his shoulders and threaded gray through his once-dark hair, but his eyes—sharp hazel, the same color as hers—still held the steel of a man who had held a kingdom together through border wars and bad harvests. He rubbed the bridge of his nose as though the headache she gave him were a physical weight pressing between his eyes.
"You threw a silver goblet at Lord Carrow's head," he said, voice low and tired, carrying the weariness of a father who had fought too many battles at home. "During a state dinner. Because he suggested—correctly—that your proposed trade levy on southern wool would bankrupt three baronies."
Lena met his gaze without flinching. "It was an ugly goblet. Heavy, poorly balanced, with those grotesque embossed grapes. And he was being insufferable. He lectured me as though I were a child of ten, not the heir presumptive who has studied the wool tariffs for three winters straight."
A muscle ticked in the king's jaw. "You also refused to attend etiquette lessons for the fourth week running, told the dancing master his steps were 'fit only for lumbering oxen,' climbed the west tower in breeches to outrace the guards—again—and last month you replaced the ink in the council quills with walnut dye so every document came out the color of old blood."
She shrugged one shoulder, the motion deliberately casual. "The brown suited the council's mood. Half of them still think women should embroider instead of reading ledgers."
Harlan exhaled slowly through his nose. He had tried everything short of public humiliation. Tutors summoned from three kingdoms—scholars of languages, masters of protocol, even a stern-faced abbess from the southern convents who claimed to have tamed rebellious novices. Gowns embroidered with silver thread that cost more than a knight's yearly ransom. Gentle reprimands delivered in private audience chambers. The occasional locked tower room with only bread, water, and her own thoughts for company. Nothing touched her.
She was clever, quick-tongued, fearless in a way that made courtiers forget their lines when she entered a room. Beautiful, too—dark hair that caught the light like polished jet, eyes the color of storm clouds over the western sea, a mouth that could smile sweetly one moment and cut like a blade the next. And utterly uninterested in the quiet arts of rule. She wanted to ride at the head of armies, argue tariffs in open council, wear breeches without apology, lead hunts through the royal forests at dawn. She did not want to embroider altar cloths, simper at foreign princes, or memorize tables of precedence so she could seat ambassadors in the correct order.
He had one card left.
"I have arranged for you to complete your education elsewhere," he said. "In the Duchy of Veylmar."
Lena's brows lifted. "Veylmar? The little northern duchy with the silver mines? Why there, of all places?"
"Because Duchess Elara Voss is renowned across the continent for turning spirited girls into accomplished ladies. Her academy at Rosenheim Palace accepts only the highest-born—daughters of kings, dukes, great earls—and she has agreed—graciously—to take you for the next two years. You will study statecraft, modern and ancient languages, court protocol, advanced heraldry, music, the mathematics of trade and finance, diplomacy by correspondence, and… decorum."
Lena laughed, short and sharp, the sound echoing off the marble like a challenge. "Decorum. You mean you want someone to teach me how to curtsy without rolling my eyes, how to lower my gaze when a man speaks nonsense, how to pretend my opinions are ornaments rather than weapons."
"Precisely." Harlan's gaze hardened. "You leave in ten days. The royal carriage will convey you, with suitable escort. You will behave as befits your station. No climbing towers. No thrown goblets. No breeches. No midnight escapades through the servants' passages. No arguments with instructors. No replacing ink with walnut dye. Do I make myself clear?"
She studied him a long moment, searching for the jest, the bluff, the loophole she had always found before. There was none. His eyes were steady, tired, and utterly serious.
"And if I refuse?"
"You will not refuse," he said quietly. "Because if you do, I will disinherit you in favor of your cousin Roland—who, dull though he is, at least knows when to keep his mouth shut and when to bow. Is that clear?"
The words landed like a slap across the face. Lena felt color rise in her cheeks, hot and sudden. Roland was a wet-eyed boy of seventeen who collected butterflies in glass cases, fainted at the sight of blood, and once cried for three days when his favorite pony threw a shoe. The thought of him wearing the crown of Eldoria—of him sitting where her father sat now, of him signing treaties and leading armies—was worse than exile, worse than death.
She swallowed the retort that burned on her tongue. Pride warred with pragmatism, and for once pragmatism won.
"Very well," she said at last, voice cool as winter steel. "I shall go to Veylmar and learn to be… decorous. But when I return, Father, you will find I have not changed one whit."
Harlan's expression softened, just a fraction. "We shall see."
She curtsied—perfectly, mockingly, the deep sweep of silk whispering against marble—then turned and swept from the hall. The great doors closed behind her with a soft, final thud.
Behind her, the king leaned back against the throne and closed his eyes.
He had not told her everything.
Veylmar's academy was indeed famed for discipline. Diplomatic scrolls spoke only in vague, flattering terms of "strict order," "uncompromising correction," "the forging of character in the northern crucible." They did not mention the Doctrine of Discipline—that ancient, peculiar custom enshrined in the duchy's private law, observed nowhere else in the known realms.
In Veylmar, every girl from the age of fourteen until marriage or permanent departure fell under its rule. Common-born received their lessons openly in courtyards and village greens, bare from the waist down, birch or strap applied before witnesses so the community might learn alongside the individual. Noble-born received theirs in private Chambers of Reproof adjoining their own bedchambers, velvet benches and pearl-handled implements preserving a veneer of dignity while the sting remained the same. But the principle was absolute: no exemptions, no appeals save to the Duchess herself, no rank high enough to escape the rod, the strap, the birch.
Royalty was not exempt.
King Harlan had chosen Veylmar precisely because it was the one place that might finally teach his daughter humility—without the scandal of public flogging in Eldoria's own courtyards. He told himself it was necessary. Temporary. For her own good. He told himself that two years would be enough to temper her fire into something useful, something regal. He told himself many comforting lies as he sat alone in the throne room, listening to the faint crackle of the braziers and the distant murmur of the palace settling for the night.
Ten days passed in a blur of preparations. Lena packed reluctantly—gowns she despised but would need for appearances, books she had already read twice, a small dagger hidden beneath the false bottom of her jewelry case "just in case." She said farewell to her favorite mare in the royal stables, pressing her forehead to the warm neck and whispering promises she wasn't sure she could keep. She climbed the west tower one last time at midnight, sat on the parapet with her legs dangling over the drop, and watched the stars until the cold drove her down. She slipped into the kitchens at dawn, where old Cook Mara pressed warm honey cakes into her hands and pretended not to notice the tears in the princess's eyes.
She smiled at the courtiers who wished her safe journey, curtsied to the ambassadors who bowed low, and pretended the whole affair was a minor inconvenience, a brief northern holiday.
On the morning of departure the palace courtyard rang with trumpets and silk banners snapping in the wind. The royal carriage—lacquered black and gold, drawn by six matched grays—stood ready. An escort of twenty household knights in silver mail flanked it; maids and footmen scurried with the last trunks and warming bricks for the long journey north.
Lena descended the grand staircase in a traveling gown of deep green wool trimmed with ermine, cloak thrown over one shoulder, chin high. The crowds had gathered along the processional route—merchants closing their shops early, apprentices waving caps, housewives lifting children onto their shoulders—all cheering the princess who had once thrown snowballs from the battlements and once ridden bareback through the market square at dawn, laughing as the guards chased her.
She waved with practiced grace, smiled the smile that had launched a dozen ballads, and climbed into the carriage without a backward glance.
As the wheels began to turn, she settled against the velvet squabs and allowed herself one small, private smile.
She would charm the duchess. She would excel at every lesson. She would return home in two years' time triumphant, unchanged, and utterly vindicated. Her father would see that no northern school could break what Eldoria had forged.
She had no idea what awaited her beyond the snow-dusted border of Veylmar.
No idea at all.