Eryshae

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Mira

The guard looked up too late to hide the flicker of recognition. He had stepped from a side alley with a courier's pouch strapped tight to his chest, his helmet tucked under one arm. At first glance, nothing about him drew attention: square jaw, uniform properly pressed, posture disciplined; but when his eyes landed on them, something shifted.

He froze.

Mira felt it in her spine before she saw it; the moment his breath caught. The fear behind his eyes. She saw that fear often. In men with secrets, and in men like them. Vael greeted him with a polite but frigid "Guard." Mira watched him bow too quickly and mutter something under his breath. She watched his gaze flicker toward her; not long, but enough. Enough to mark it.

Then he turned on his heel and vanished into the crowd, boots quick, message pouch thudding with every step. "Third one this week," Vael muttered beside her. Mira murmured, "Should we be worried?"

"Not unless they stop running when they see me," Vael replied. They stepped inside the tailor's shop, bells chiming softly as sunlight gave way to the amber glow of brass sconces and the scent of pressed wool.

Moments later, Mira politely excused herself. "Princess, if you'll excuse me for a moment… I need to find the ladies' room." Vael nodded, distracted by Sam's grumbling about his sleeves.

Mira slipped between silk curtains and disappeared into the back hallway, her soft-soled shoes nearly silent on the polished floor. An attendant pointed her discreetly toward a tucked-away chamber, then returned to folding cloth.

She passed a tall linen hamper and turned the corner; and there he was. The same guard. Already waiting. No helmet. No pretense.

He didn't speak. Just glanced over his shoulder, then reached into his pouch. From inside a folded glove, he withdrew a tightly rolled scrap of parchment and pressed it into her palm as they passed, like two strangers brushing shoulders in a crowd.

He didn't stop walking. Neither did she. Only once she was behind the door of the private chamber did she unfurl the message, eyes scanning the angular, coded hand:

Drop the amber into the chalice at the ceremony. Let the flames reveal Sam turning into an amalgamation of plant matter like all the rest. The attack will be swift and on a counter of three. Knock Vael unconscious and bring her to me.

Ruwan

She read it twice. Then again. Her throat was dry. Her fingers didn't shake; but only because she'd trained them not to.

"A blade unseen is a blade unanswered," the mistress had said, her voice like ink poured over glass. Mira was nineteen, her arms streaked with sap and blood, breath still sharp from the night trial in the hollow orchard. "Your duty is to the truth that lies beneath all masks. To the ember beneath the ash. Not to kings. Not to queens. Not even to your own fear."

Another girl had hesitated on the line. Mira had seen it; the small tremble, the glance over her shoulder. The mistress's answer had been swift. Cold. She never saw that girl again.

Back in the quiet room, Mira slowly rolled the parchment into her sleeve and looked at her reflection in the copper-plated mirror. Her face gave nothing away. But inside, everything warred. Sam was kind. Earnest. Honest, in ways that infuriated her.

But he was also the variable. The outsider. The message hadn't come from some rebel cell. It had come from the name she'd been adopted into; Eberflame; and she had never ignored that name's call. Not once. She closed her eyes. Took one breath. Then two. And when she opened them again, the girl in the mirror looked exactly like she should: composed. Loyal. Unquestioning. She adjusted her sleeve and left the room as though nothing had changed.

The message was a brand pressed into her mind. Drop the amber. Let the flames reveal Sam turning into a monster. Her breathing had been shallow ever since she read it. Her fingers were calm; trained to be; but her chest was tight, her pulse fluttering beneath the stillness she wore like a second skin.

She stepped into the ladies' room, the carved wooden door closing behind her. It was quiet, perfumed faintly with rosewater and citrus oils. Two basins carved from white-veined stone caught the golden light from an arched skylight overhead.

Mira leaned against the basin and stared at her reflection. Not too pale. Not flushed. Good. She pressed her fingertips against her collarbone, right over where the parchment now rested beneath the lining of her sleeve. Her breath came shallow again. She closed her eyes and inhaled slowly.

Inhale. Hold. Exhale. Focus. She counted backward from seven. She imagined flame cooling to ember. Her mind is a hearthstone.

Still, her thoughts twisted. Sam, laughing with flour on his nose in the palace kitchens. Sam pacing late at night, trying to memorize the Solstice vows. Sam, foolish and bold and irritatingly sincere.

You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

Sam, the threat? No answer came. The door creaked behind her, and Mira snapped upright; but it was only an older woman, robed in a fine but modest gown of river-blue silk, her silver-threaded hair woven into an intricate bridal wrap.

She took one look at Mira and gave a small, knowing smile. "Boy problems?" the woman asked kindly, as she moved toward the second basin. Mira blinked. "…Excuse me?"

"You're standing like you're about to run or faint," the woman said, rinsing her hands with graceful ease. "That usually means love, politics, or both." Mira forced a small, neutral smile. "I suppose that narrows it down."

The woman chuckled. "Darling, it always narrows down to the same thing in the end; who holds your heart, and what they intend to do with it." Mira glanced at her sidelong, unsure if the statement was a warning or a comfort.

The woman dabbed her hands dry with a folded cloth from a silver rack, then turned and offered Mira a corner of it. "Here. For the nerves." Mira took it silently, more out of reflex than need.

"I married young," the woman said, voice dipping into the calm warmth of memory. "Too young, maybe. But I remember the feeling; the weight of too many voices telling you what choice you ought to make. What loyalty looks like. What love looks like."

She met Mira's eyes. "Let me tell you something true: loyalty chosen in fear is just another kind of cage. If you're about to drink from the wrong chalice; or hand it to someone else; be damn sure you know who poured it."

Mira's throat tightened. The woman smiled softly and turned toward the door. "Don't let them tell you the path is written. The best ones never are." And with that, she was gone. Just the sound of her soft slippers vanishing down the hall.

Mira stood alone once more. The message still pressed to her skin. The heat of the older woman's words lingering longer than the perfumed air. She looked again into the mirror. For the first time, she let the conflict show; just for a breath. Then she folded the cloth square, set it neatly on the edge of the basin, and left the room with her spine straight and her silence intact.

The hallway was quiet as Mira emerged, her slippers whispering against the polished floor. She moved with the grace expected of her, every breath measured, every muscle under command again.

But then; Sam's laugh echoed down the hall. It rang out down the corridor like sunlight hitting glass: loud, boyish, and completely unfiltered. Her heart thumped so hard in her chest she nearly stopped walking.

She didn't need to hear the joke. She could picture it; Vael teasing him, some sharp remark about sleeves or silk, and Sam unable to resist throwing his head back in uncontained amusement. That laugh. Gods, that laugh.

For a moment, she let herself pause. Not in weakness. In recognition. A flutter in the ribs. A softness where there shouldn't be one. Then she blinked. Once. And continued forward.

By the time she stepped through the curtain, Mira's composure had returned. Sam was still chuckling as he stepped off the dais, tugging gently at the collar of his green and gold jacket. Vael stood beside him with one brow raised in mock disapproval, a single hand on her hip. "There you are," Vael said, noticing Mira's return. "He's threatened to wage war on ceremonial fashion."

"Not threatened," Sam corrected. "Declared. With banners. And cake."

"Speaking of cake," he added with a grin, turning toward Mira. "What do you say we go sample the options for the ceremony? I heard there's a place near the northern square with ten different flavors. One of them's got orange zest and fireroot."

Vael gave him a pointed look. "Just remember, Sam, we still have to walk during the ceremony. You eat three cakes and I'm calling for extra guards to carry you down the procession."

Sam looked scandalized. "Three cakes? Please. I have ambitions." Vael rolled her eyes, but she was smiling. The warmth between them was effortless; tender teasing, honest laughter, the kind that only came when fear had no place in the room.

And Mira… felt it.

That warmth. Like sunlight breaking through smoke. The soft, living thing she had almost forgotten how to touch. It nestled for a heartbeat in her chest. Then it turned cold. The message. The words etched like a curse:

The chalice.

Let the flames reveal Sam turning into a monster.

She folded her hands neatly in front of her. "Cake sounds lovely," Mira said softly. Sam beamed. Vael reached to loop her arm with Mira's as they stepped toward the door together. And Mira walked with them, her heart balanced on a blade.

The sun had shifted by the time they stepped back out into Emberhold's festival-lit streets. Silk streamers trailed from rooftop poles, swaying like long brushstrokes against a pale blue sky. The scent of baked roots, roasted fruit, and warmed sugar perfumed the air.

Sam led the way, walking backward for part of it, gesturing grandly as he spoke. "This place is legendary. Marzi's Confections. Their honey-glazed quince tart has a ten-day waitlist."

"You only found out about it this week," Vael called after him. Mira smiled despite herself. They turned down a side street festooned with floating lanterns shaped like phoenixes and sugarplum blossoms. Ahead, nestled between a music shop and a perfumery, stood a tidy storefront with frosted glass windows and a painted wooden sign that read Marzi's in rose-gold calligraphy.

Inside, warm air and the scent of vanilla, citrus, and caramel wrapped around them like a comforting shawl. The glass display cases glistened with pastries in vivid colors: spiral tarts glazed with crystalized ginger, miniature cakes piped with sugared petals, a towering mousse crowned with candied violets, and delicate rounds of spiced cream dusted with goldleaf.

A plump woman in a flour-dusted apron popped up from behind the counter, blinking at the trio before breaking into a delighted grin. "Ah! The Princess and her fiancé. We were told you might come by." Vael flushed slightly but dipped her head in greeting. "You have… quite a selection."

"We brought extra trays down from the upper bakery," Marzi said proudly, bustling to unlock a mirrored case. "Please; try anything. The fireroot-honey cake is this season's favorite. But I'm partial to the orange blossom pistachio." Sam was already pointing. "That one. And that one. Oh; do not skip the lemon fig."

"I knew this was a trap," Vael muttered. Mira stood back, watching the two of them lean over the case, pointing, arguing gently over frostings and fillings. The baker cut small sample slices with reverent precision, handing them over on tiny carved plates.

Sam took a bite of the fireroot cake and let out a sigh so dramatic the baker looked briefly alarmed. Vael narrowed her eyes. "If you faint, I'm not catching you."

He grinned, eyes still closed. "I've seen the gods. They taste like cinnamon and sin."

Mira laughed softly. She hadn't meant to. They both turned to look at her; Vael with fond amusement, Sam with something gentler, warmer.

"Here," he said, cutting one of the small sample cakes in half and holding a piece toward her. "Try this. You won't regret it." Mira hesitated. Her fingers brushed his as she took the bite-sized cake.

For a moment, everything was simple. Just sugar and spice on her tongue. Just Sam's grin. Just Vael's quiet laughter beside her. The sort of moment she'd never been trained to understand; too soft to weaponize. Too pure to control.

The sort of moment she was here to end. The sweetness faded from her tongue. Her hands folded in front of her again, clasped just tightly enough that her knuckles whitened.

Sam turned back to the display, already debating over another flavor. And Mira stood perfectly still, the message in her sleeve burning like ink on her skin.