Eryshae

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Mira

She still heard the sound in her sleep; the shriek of sheared metal as Sam bent the cell doors like parchment. No tools. No incantations. Just his bark-covered arms and an ancient fury pulsing in his eyes like green flame. Mira hadn't known whether to run or fall to her knees.

She chose neither.

And now… she wore a bow.

Mira stood before the narrow mirror in the guest quarters of the Emberhold residence, tying the final loop into the back of her crisp white apron. The black and white maid's uniform fit snugly, as it had the night before when Princess Vael had presented it to her. Mira had never worn something so clean, so sharp, so deliberately feminine.

Her long black braid coiled neatly over one shoulder, woven tight in the Eryshae court style she'd memorized from a temple wall mural weeks ago while huddling in the cold. It was… strange. How easily she adapted. How quickly she assumed her role.

But that was what she was trained for, wasn't it? Obedience. Precision. Survival. And yet, it felt different now. Not just because of Vael, whose kindness still left her breathless.

Not just because of Sam, whose strength made her bones remember fear. She smoothed the front of her apron, exhaled slowly, and glanced once more into the mirror. Her reflection stared back; black eyes steady, face composed, posture perfect.

"First impressions," she whispered. "Serve. Listen. Learn." She stepped into the hallway. Quiet footsteps. Chin high. And in her mind, behind the discipline and the humility, the real work began. Spying on them would not be easy. Because part of her already didn't want to.

The kitchen in the Emberhold residence was small but immaculate, its stone counters polished, its copper pans gleaming like trophies hung with pride. Mira moved through it with quiet expertise, hands sure and efficient. She prepared sliced starfruit and skyroot hash, sweetened riverberry compote, warm flatbread brushed with honey-butter, soft-boiled eggs dusted with pink salt, and an entire tray of cream-filled pastries topped with crystalized citrus. A carafe of fresh-squeezed juice and a tall pot of strong oolong tea completed the spread.

Every detail mattered. Every knife stroke, and every garnish. She laid the feast across the carved dining table just as the sun kissed the windows with pale gold. The scent alone would draw them like moths.

Mira smoothed her apron, steadied herself, then turned and padded silently through the hall toward the master chambers. Her hand paused on the polished wooden door for the briefest of moments.

Then she entered. "Good morning, Sir Sam and Princess Vael," she said softly, bowing her head. "Breakfast is ready."

Her voice was calm. Respectful. Perfectly practiced. Her eyes, however; her eyes flicked upward.

Sam stretched just then, the silk sheets slipping low over his abdomen. His torso was bare, lean and chiseled, muscles moving beneath skin like something carved from light honeyed wood. Mira's breath hitched involuntarily, a jolt of heat rising up her spine before the vivid memory of shrieking metal snapped it into fear.

The bars.

The storm in his eyes.

The way his voice had echoed with something old.

Then Vael stirred, rolling out of the bed beside him, her toned legs bare beneath the linen. A curtain of green hair spilled down her back like moonlight caught in motion. She rose with royal grace, utterly unbothered by her lack of clothing as she stretched and yawned.

"Come, Mira," Vael murmured with a smile. "Let's find something appropriate for the day. I'm in the mood to look dangerous."

Mira nodded quickly, pulling her eyes away from Sam's form and falling into step behind the princess. They entered the adjoining dressing room, an opulent chamber lined with floor-to-ceiling wardrobes. Silks. Armor. Embroidered jackets and midnight-colored corsets. Boots polished to a mirror finish.

Mira moved with speed and precision, pulling out fabrics, adjusting belts, and helping tie a crimson sash around Vael's waist with ceremonial knots. She fastened an obsidian pin; shaped like the Eryshae Guardian's sigil; at Vael's collarbone and stepped back.

"Perfect," Mira said quietly. Vael turned in the mirror and smirked. "Good hands. I'll keep you."

Back in the bedroom, Sam rose at last, still shirtless, clad only in black boxers. He wandered barefoot to the dining room, rubbing a hand through his tangled hair. Without hesitation, he plucked one of the sugar-frosted pastries from the center platter and took a large bite, the cream filling smearing the corner of his mouth.

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He chased it with a gulp of riverfruit juice, savoring the cool tang against his throat. From the closet, Vael's voice rang out; wry and amused. "Don't be eating just sweets, my sweets."

Sam gave a lazy grin as he leaned against the doorframe. "But they're your favorite," he called back. "They are," Vael replied. "Which is why you better save me at least two."

Mira stood just to the side of the table, head lowered in modest deference, but her lips twitched; just slightly. For the first time in weeks… she didn't feel cold.

Mira stood still, hands folded neatly in front of her apron, eyes downcast as Sam devoured another pastry and Vael stepped lightly into the room, her royal ensemble perfectly set. They had exchanged a kiss; simple, instinctual, deeply intimate. Their kind of language. It made something twist in Mira's gut.

Not envy.

Not quite. But it was something she noted. Every detail mattered. She watched the way Vael's hand lingered on Sam's jaw. The way Sam's eyes softened only for her. The comfort. The trust.

Mira smiled faintly; appropriate, warm. And tucked another observation away. They rise early. He favors sweets. She takes her tea with sugar and honey. They speak without needing to finish their sentences. He steps in front of her when he senses danger. She lets him.

Mira turned back toward the kitchen under the pretense of preparing a tea refill, but her thoughts moved faster than her hands. Inside. She was inside. No locked doors. No guarded gates. No barriers. Just proximity and patience.

Ruwan's orders had been clear: Get close. Learn their rhythm. Learn their fears. Find the crack in the bark.

And Mira was very, very good at finding cracks. She poured the tea with steady hands. One for the Princess Vael. One for Sir Sam.

Her expression was serenity itself. But in her mind, she was already writing her next message.

"The guards performed as expected. Vael stepped in precisely when anticipated. Sam responded exactly as projected. I have been welcomed into their household. I serve as the Princess's personal handmaiden. No suspicion. No resistance."

By the time she returned to the table with the tea, her mask was perfect. She bowed. "Your tea, Princess. Sir." Vael smiled and thanked her, distracted by the warm spread of eggs and seared skyroot. Sam gave a nod, already reaching for another slice of flatbread.

They wouldn't suspect her. Not yet. Mira stepped back and took her position against the wall.

Silent.

Observing.

A shadow tucked neatly behind the morning sun. And she waited for the day they'd let their guard down… just enough for her blade to find its place.

Vael dabbed the corners of her mouth with a cloth napkin, then rose from the table in a fluid motion that reminded Mira, once again, of how practiced royal poise could be. Even in private, the Princess moved like someone raised to be seen.

"Mira," Vael said, turning toward her with the subtle authority that never needed to shout, "you'll be accompanying us to the meeting with Vice-Chief Farouq and the elders." Mira blinked once. Then bowed low. "Of course, Princess."

"Good," Vael continued, brushing her fingers down the deep sapphire silk of her sleeve. "You represent my household now. That means bearing yourself with discipline and dignity… and matching."

She turned, giving Mira an appraising look. "You'll wear the hunter green outfit I had sent up last night. Thirty minutes. I expect you to be ready by then."

"Yes, Princess." Vael offered her a single approving nod and stepped into the next room, where Sam was already stretching, the flex of his arms drawing Mira's gaze again; briefly; before she looked away.

Sam moved toward the bedroom, running a hand through his tousled hair. "What do I wear to something like this?" he asked with a lopsided grin. Vael poked her head around the doorway with a playful smirk. "Something that matches me, obviously."

"You mean royal. And vaguely threatening."

"Exactly."

By the time Mira returned to the servants' quarters, her pulse had quickened; not from nerves, but from the electric hum of proximity. She was being brought into more than just their home. She was being brought into the theater of politics, tribal diplomacy, legacy. All of it.

And she would play her role perfectly. Hunter green, she thought, running her fingers over the fabric that lay folded neatly on her cot. The color of leaves before the fall. The color of patience.

She began changing with swift efficiency, braiding her hair tighter, twisting the loops more elaborately this time; presentation mattered. If she was to stand beside royalty, she would do so as an extension of their grace. She would wear their colors. Walk behind their footsteps.

And if the time ever came… she would be close enough to plant the knife. Thirty minutes. She'd be ready in twenty.

As Mira tightened the final loop of her braid and fastened the green sash around her waist, the mirror caught her eyes. For a moment, they looked younger than she felt. Tired. But focused.

Thirty minutes.

She had more than enough time. Her fingers traced the hem of her sleeve absently, as if remembering how to hold a blade hidden in her cuff. The motions came naturally now; ingrained, precise. Like breathing.

But it hadn't always been that way. She could still hear the cries of the other children in the stone barracks of the Deep Hollow, the reek of oil and blood never quite fading from her memory. There had been twelve of them, once. Twelve orphans taken in by the Circle, an underground group of killer-breeders who raised assassins the way nobles bred warhorses.

By the end of the second year, there were seven. By the third, only three. And by the fourth… just her.

She had survived the drowning chamber. The poisoned wine challenge. The three-day burial beneath the blindfolded stone. She had slit the throat of the girl she'd shared a cot with for two winters; because hesitation was failure. And failure meant you became the lesson for the next in line.

But there had been no next. Only Mira. The last blade of the hollow. She'd expected to be discarded, then sold to the highest bidder. But instead, the Eberflame crest had come for her. House of Durnan. One of the secret branches. The quiet dagger beneath the polished marble halls of Ichi.

Durnan himself hadn't spoken to her at first. Not until she passed the first task. Not until she earned her name. But when he did, it was with the solemn gravity of a king knighting a soldier. "You are ours now, Mira. Your blood runs dark, but your blade serves light. Our light. Let them rot in the sun. You are the shadow that keeps the rot away."

And she had believed him. Still did. Her loyalty wasn't bought by coin. It had been sealed in the marrow of her bones the day she was adopted into the Eberflame family. Not as a daughter. Never that. But as something rarer; trusted. Necessary.

To be the last of something was no burden. It was an honor. And if Ruwan pointed her toward the stars, she would shoot the moon down without hesitation. She adjusted the last pleat of her apron and smoothed her hands down her skirt.

Today, she would walk beside royalty.

Tomorrow, she might slit their throats.

But only if the order came. Only if Durnan whispered, Now.