Eryshae

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Vael

The morning air inside Emberhold's tailoring hall was warm with the scent of steamed linen, pressed dyes, and the soft hush of whispered measurements. Sunlight bled through lattice windows, casting golden threads across bolts of embroidered silk and half-finished gowns draped over carved mannequins. Vael stood barefoot on a raised dais, the hem of her ceremonial under gown grazing her ankles as three tailors moved around her like purposeful shadows.

"The emerald folds symbolize rooted lineage," murmured one, her fingers quick as she adjusted the pleats over Vael's right shoulder. "The flame-stitched brocade across the chest marks renewal. You carry the blood of the forest and the fire both, Princess."

Vael exhaled slowly, studying her reflection in the full-length polished glass. The gown-to-be shimmered like a living thing: deep forest green at the base, threaded with iridescent golds and subtle crimsons that caught the light in different ways. It was beautiful. Regal. Symbolic. And heavier than any armor she'd ever worn.

"Does it feel too tight, Princess?" another tailor asked, stepping back. "No," Vael murmured. "It feels like history." She turned, catching Mira's gaze from across the room. The handmaiden stood near the entrance, holding a lacquered case of hair ornaments and jewelry with quiet diligence. Her expression, as always, was composed. But something unreadable flickered in her eyes.

Later, once the final seam had been measured and the tailors dismissed with bows and reassurances, Vael returned to her private chamber and found Vice-Chief Farouq waiting beside the sun-splashed window.

"You needed me, Uncle?" He smiled, his lined face warm despite the weight of his mantle. "Only to speak. To remind you of what the Solstice means." Vael poured tea for them both and offered him a cup. "I remember. The Rite of Balance. The vow we make to the Guardian beneath the Rootstone."

Farouq nodded. "But this year, it is you who must speak the vow aloud, with Sam. You who must place your hand upon the RootStone, with all eyes watching."

"Including political rivals," she added dryly. He chuckled and replied, "especially them." Vael drank, the tea's floral bitterness grounding her. "I never imagined I would be the one to perform it, it has always been the Chief and Chieftess."

"And yet, here you are," he said gently. "You were born for this, Vael. The blood of the first pact runs in your veins." She nodded, then looked away. "It's not the ritual I fear. It's what comes after. The expectations. The scrutiny."

Farouq set his cup down. "Let them watch. Let them whisper. Your actions will make them listen." When he departed, Mira stepped in with fresh linens and began helping Vael remove the fitted trial of her ceremonial gown. For a moment, they worked in silence. Then: "You looked beautiful," Mira said quietly. Vael gave a wry smile. "I looked like a relic being polished for display."

"Still," Mira murmured. "Sam will be proud." Vael's fingers paused at the ties of her bodice. "You think so?" Mira nodded, her expression unreadable again. "He watches you like you're the center of his gravity."

Vael flushed, but the smile she wore was soft. "He grounds me. In ways I didn't know I needed." For a brief instant, Mira looked away. Her hands were steady, but her eyes told another story. Vael caught it. "Is something wrong, Mira?"

"No, Princess." A practiced bow. A steady voice. "Just nerves. For the Solstice. For... everything." Vael placed a hand gently on Mira's arm. "Whatever it is, I believe that you will overcome your fears by then." Mira bowed her head. "Yes, Princess

Vael turned toward Mira more fully now, curiosity woven into her voice. "What kind of loyalty were you taught, Mira?"

Mira paused, her gaze fixed on a pattern of sunlight on the floor. "One without questions. Loyalty that demanded obedience. That punished doubt." Her fingers tensed around the folds of her skirt. "But I see how he looks at you. How you look at him. There's no fear between you. Only… choice. And that frightens me more than the things I was taught."

Vael stepped closer, gently placing her hand beneath Mira's chin and lifting it until their eyes met. "Loyalty doesn't mean surrendering your soul," Vael said softly. "It means offering it freely; and trusting it's safe in return."

Mira's breath caught. For a heartbeat, she felt exposed; not as a handmaiden or a spy, but simply as a girl standing too close to a truth she didn't expect to find comforting. "I don't know what I believe anymore," Mira admitted.

"Then believe in this," Vael said. "That you're here now. And that whatever you were trained to do… you still have the power to choose who you are." A long silence passed between them. Mira bowed her head; not out of duty, but reverence. "Thank you, Princess."

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

Vael smiled. "Come. Let's get some air before Uncle Farouq needs us again." They stepped out into the hall together, the hush of old stone and silk-swept footsteps following them. Somewhere deeper in the palace, the first drums of the Solstice rehearsal began to beat; soft, distant, and rhythmic, like the heartbeat of a world about to turn.

The doors of the tailor's hall shut gently behind them, and sunlight greeted them like a silk veil; warm, gold-tinted, and fragrant with the scent of baked roots and flower dust. Emberhold's streets were alive with quiet festival preparations. Stalls were being erected. Silk lanterns in greens and golds fluttered from upper balconies. The air buzzed with the hum of anticipation and the sweet, spiced wind of solstice nearing.

Vael walked slowly, letting her fingers trail the edge of a merchant's draped canopy as she passed. Mira walked a half-step behind, her hands folded politely in front of her; until Vael glanced over her shoulder and gave her a look. "You don't have to stay in step with me all the time," Vael said. "This isn't a parade." Mira gave a quiet laugh, just a small puff of breath. "It's hard to shake training, Princess."

"Well," Vael said, slipping her arm through Mira's and pulling her gently forward, "consider this part of your retraining." They walked like that; arm in arm, no guards, no ceremony; just two women navigating the city they both now served. A cluster of children raced past, chasing each other with ribboned sticks. Somewhere ahead, someone was singing a song about the sea and solstice fire.

"Sam and I were up until nearly midnight talking about what color flowers we're supposed to put on the path to the Grove," Vael said. "Oh?" Mira tilted her head.

"He insists on red lilies. I told him red is for Remembrance, not Renewal." Vael rolled her eyes. "He says red is bold. Passionate. I told him he's just trying to make the altar look like a battlefield." Mira bit back a smile. "He does strike me as the bold type."

"He's sweet," Vael said, almost dreamily. "But he doesn't understand all the layers yet. Half the ceremony is symbolism. The other half is not embarrassing the ancestors."

"Sounds like politics," Mira murmured. "Exactly. But he's learning." They passed a bakery where the scent of cinnamon and toasted almonds filled the air. Mira glanced at a small tray of candied fruit slices being arranged in the window.

"Do you miss anything from your childhood?" Vael asked suddenly, surprising even herself with the question. Mira blinked. "Miss? I suppose… There was a courtyard. Walled, secret. I used to climb into the branches of an old fig tree. I'd read stories, practice knife throws. Daydream." Vael smiled. "See? That sounds like something worth remembering."

"I thought forgetting made me stronger," Mira said quietly. "Now I'm not so sure." Vael squeezed her arm. "You don't have to choose between the past and who you're becoming. Both can be part of your truth." They walked a little further in silence, the street curving beneath swaying lanterns. Mira looked up, her voice softer now.

"What if the life I was meant to serve… isn't the one I was born for?" Vael didn't answer right away. She just held onto Mira's arm tighter, like a sister might, and whispered: "Then maybe you were born for something greater."

The gentle rhythm of their steps slowed as the women's conversation faded into a comfortable quiet. The crowd thinned near the next cross street, where a row of intricately painted signs hung over the men's tailoring quarter; stylized wolves, oaks, and serpentine dragons carved into polished wood. Somewhere behind the glass windows, Vael knew Sam was standing still and scowling while a tailor pinned gold trim into place, likely muttering about sleeves being a "tactic of oppression."

Mira smiled to herself as if she could sense the same. As they approached the carved threshold of Marcan's Fine Robes for Gentlemen of Status and Ceremony, a flash of movement caught Vael's eye.

A uniformed city guard; broad-shouldered and square-jawed; stepped out of a side alley carrying a sealed message pouch. He looked up and froze mid-step as his gaze landed on the pair of them.

Recognition flickered behind his eyes. And then fear. Vael narrowed her eyes slightly. She remembered him. One of the guards from the tavern. The guard stiffened, trying to recover with a jerky bow, his helmet nearly slipping from his head as he lowered it hastily.

"Princess," he mumbled. "Guard," Vael replied coolly, her tone polite but edgy. He straightened too fast, nearly stumbling, then gave Mira a quick glance; one that lingered too long, suspicious or curious or something unspoken; before turning sharply on his heel and hurrying away down the road.

Mira watched his back until he vanished into the passing crowd. "That's the third one so far," Vael murmured, brushing a loose strand of hair from her face. "Should we be worried?" Mira asked, her voice low but alert.

"No," Vael said, exhaling. "Not unless they stop running when they see me." A beat of silence passed. Then the two women stepped across the threshold into the tailor's shop, a chime of bells announcing their arrival.

Inside, the air was thick with the scent of fine cologne and pressed wool. A second later, they spotted Sam standing on a low dais, arms stiff at his sides, as a rotund tailor held a needle between his teeth and mumbled curses while adjusting the hem of Sam's formal jacket. Vael couldn't help herself; she grinned.

Just as Vael took a step toward Sam; who now looked like a very dignified, very annoyed forest prince in a ceremonial jacket lined with green velvet and gold threading; Mira leaned in slightly and murmured,

"Princess, if you'll excuse me for a moment… I need to find the ladies' room. I'll be right back." Vael gave a slight nod, her gaze still half on Sam. "Of course. Don't get lost among the silks."

Mira dipped into a polite bow and slipped away toward the rear of the shop, weaving past bolts of fabric and finely dressed mannequins. A nearby attendant pointed her discreetly toward a hallway tucked behind an embroidered velvet curtain.

Alone now, Vael stepped closer to the dais, arms folded, eyebrows raised. Sam glanced at her, deadpan. "Before you say anything, just know I'm considering setting this whole outfit on fire."

She smiled sweetly. "If you do, I'll make sure the tailors fashion you another one. With even more gold trim." He groaned softly, but the tension in his shoulders eased as her presence settled next to him.

Vael stepped up beside him, her fingers brushing along the edge of his sleeve. "You clean up nicely," she murmured, voice just low enough for only him to hear. Sam looked down at her, his scowl softening. "Do I?"

She tilted her head, taking him in with a quiet smile. "Like a storm pressed into silk." He blinked once. "That supposed to be a compliment?"

"I haven't decided yet," she teased, reaching to adjust the collar of his jacket. He caught her wrist gently, not to stop her; but to hold it. Just for a breath. His thumb grazed the inside of her palm. "For what it's worth," he said, "seeing you walk in just now… made all this ridiculous stitching worth it."